Cassell's Illustrated History of England/Volume 1/Chapter 49
CHAPTER XLIX.
The condition of affairs in England at the time of Richard's departure from Palestine, has been related in the last chapter. The warlike deeds of Cœur-de-Lion had been sung by the troubadours throughout the country, and were the theme of those tales of wonder with which the palmr from the Holy Land repaid his entertainers for the hospitality of a night. The people listened with pride to narratives coloured with all the hues of imagination; and their admiration of the personal valour of their king—in those days esteemed the highest virtue—was mingled with the religious sentiment which led them to exult in the confusion of the infidel. When it was known that Richard had set sail to return to England, the news was received with a general rejoicing throughout the country. The people were tired of the quarrels of regents and ministers; and the welcome which they prepared to give their sovereign was in some degree inspired by the hope that his powerful rule would ensure tranquillity to the realm.
As time passed on, and the king still remained absent, strange rumours began to get abroad. It was affirmed that he had been driven on the coast of Barbary, and taken prisoner by the Moors; that, like Robert of Normandy, he had been tempted to stay for a while among the groves of Italy; that the ship which carried him had foundered at sea with all on board. The last story, however, found few believers, for the people, imbued with a tinge of that romance which taught the immortality of the hero, were fully convinced that their king was still alive, and would some day return to take possession of the throne. At length it became known that Cœur-de-Lion was in imprisonment in one of the castles of Germany. The news was first conveyed in a letter from the Emperor Henry to King Philip, and quickly travelled over Europe. To the revengeful and ungenerous King of France that letter brought more joy than a present of gold and topaz; but the other nations of Christendom received the tidings with indignation and disgust. The Pope instantly excommunicated the Duke of Austria, and sent a message to the Emperor Henry, to the effect that he too should be placed under the curse of Rome unless the royal prisoner were instantly released. The Archbishop of Rouen proved his loyalty by summoning the council of the kingdom, and sending two abbots into Germany to visit the king, and confer with him on the measures to be taken for his liberation. Longchamp, however, had already departed in search of his master, and was the first who obtained an interview with him.
There is a beautiful legend, much better known than the authenticated facts, which tells of a minstrel, named Blondel, who had been attached to the person of Richard, and whose love for his master induced him to travel through Germany for the purpose of discovering the place of his confinement. Whenever he came to a castle, the minstrel placed himself under the walls, and sang a song which had been a favourite with Cœur-de-Lion. One day, when the king was whiling away the dreary hours in solitude, he heard the sound of a harp beneath his window, and when the well-known strains floated up to his ears, he joined in the air, and sang the concluding verse of the song. Blondel immediately recognised the voice, and thus the place of Cœur-de-Lion's imprisonment became known to his countrymen. Such is the story, which has been generally rejected by the historians for want of evidence. There is considerable improbability in the legend but, at the same time, it is not impossible that it may have had a foundation in fact. It has been argued that Richard's imprisonment was related in the letter of the emperor to Philip, and that therefore there was no need for the journey of Blondel; but although the locality of the king's prison was indicated in this letter, it by no means follows that it was known to Longchamp and others who first took steps to visit him.
The sanguine temper of Cœur-de-Lion supported him even in the gloom of a prison. Like many ether famous knights of his day, he was something of a poet, and he spent his time in singing thie songs of the Troubadours, and in composing verses of his own. Of these, one short poem has bee preserved,[1] in which he complains of being forgotten by those friends who well knew that, had his case been theirs, he would not have failed them in their hour of need. Such a feeling, however, was not exhibited until he had worn away many months of captivity, during which he won the hearts of his gaolers by his jovial manners and gaiety of spirit. When at length Longchamp obtained admission into his prison, Richard received him as a friend, and appears to have entirely forgiven that weakness and lack of energy on the part of the chancellor which had proved so favourable to the traitorous designs of Prince John.
Longchamp exerted himself in his master's favour with the Emperor Henry, and that prince at length consented that Richard should appear before the Diet at Hagenau. When the king was on his way thither, he was met by the two abbots who had been sent by the Archbishop of Rouen. "Unbroken by distress," Cœur-de-Lion received them with a smiling countenance, and the admiration of all the bystanders was attracted by his undaunted bearing, which was rather that of a conqueror than a prisoner. Within a few days afterwards he appeared before the Diet of the Empire, where he was permitted to offer his defence against the accusations of Henry. These were—That he had entered into an alliance with Tancred, the usurper of the crown of Sicily; that he had unjustly imprisoned the Christian ruler of Cyprus; that he had insulted the Duke of Austria; and that he was guilty of the murder of Conrad of Montferrat. It was also alleged that the truce he had entered into with Saladin was disgraceful, and that he had left Jerusalem in the hands of the infidels. The speech of Richard in reply to these charges has not been preserved; but it is described by contemporary writers as having been full of manly eloquence, and that its effect upon the assembly was entirely to establish in their minds the conviction of his innocence. The emperor, however, was by no means disposed to set his prisoner at liberty, and insisted upon a heavy ransom, which was subsequently raised to the large sum of 100,000 marks. It was also stipulated that Richard should give hostages to the emperor and the Duke of Austria, for the further payment of 50,000 marks, which was to be made under certain conditions; and that Eleanor, the maid of Brittany, sister to Prince Arthur, and niece of Richard, should be affianced to the son of Leopold. It is related by Hoveden that Richard did homage to the emperor for the crown of England. This act of vassalage, if it really took place, was but an acknowledgment of the pretensions of the ancient emperors of Germany to the feudal superiority of Europe as heirs of the Roman Caesars. It is probable, however, that there is some mistake here, and that the act of homage referred to the imaginary crown of Provence, or Aries, which Henry at this time conferred upon his prisoner.
The negotiations respecting the ransom of Richard occupied many months, during which time he remained in captivity, and his brother John, together with Philip of France, were doing all in their power to keep him there. Those confederates made the disgraceful proposal to pay the emperor a sum equal to the ransom, provided he would break off his engagement with Cœur-de-Lion, and consign him to perpetual imprisonment. The emperor would have been willing enough to do so; but there were men of honour among the German barons, and when he laid the proposal of Philip before the Diet, that assembly instantly rejected it, and their firm demeanour compelled the faithless prince to adhere to his agreement.
When the first news of Richard's imprisonment reached England, John collected a body of troops, and took possession of the castles of Windsor and Wallingford. Thence he marched to London, causing it to be proclaimed wherever he went that the king his brother had died in prison. The people refused to believe this report, and when John required the barons of England and Normandy to acknowledge him as their sovereign, they answered by raising the standard of Cœur-de-Lion. The troops of John were attacked and put to flight, and the prince himself passed across the Channel, and joined his ally, Philip of France. Philip then entered Normandy with a large army, but there, as in England, the people remained loyal to their sovereign, and the French king was compelled to retreat with heavy loss.
The ransom of Richard, which was obtained almost wholly in England, appears to have been raised with great difficulty. The officers of the crown went through the country, compelling men of all ranks to contribute, making no distinction between clergy and laity, Saxons or Normans. The plate of the churches and monasteries was melted down into coin and bullion, and the Cistercian monks, whose poverty had usually exempted them from such exactions, were forced to give up the wool of their sheep. Frauds were practised to a considerable extent by the officers, who exacted money for their own use under the pretence of applying it to the king's ransom; and thus the burdens of the people increased to such an extent, that they were said to be in distress from sea to sea.
At length, after much delay, the sum of 70,000 marks was raised and sent to the emperor, who paid over one-third of the sum to the Duke of Austria, as his share of the booty. It was then agreed that Richard should be set at liberty, on condition of his leaving hostages for the payment of the sum in arrear. The king, whose captivity had now endured for thirteen months, was disposed to agree to almost any terms that might be demanded of him; and the hostages having been obtained, he was released about the end of January, A.D. 1194.
Free once more, Cœur-de-Lion took his way towards Antwerp, receiving as he went the highest marks of honour, which seemed to be paid rather to the man than the monarch. Force of character, when combined with grace of manners, is irresistible in winning hearts; the one Richard certainly possessed, and the other, we have reason to believe, was not wanting. Probably, the demeanour of the Lion Heart did not display much polish—as little of the tinsel gallantry of Charles H. as of the forced flexibility of the fourth George; but he was affable and friendly to his friends, and, when his passions were not excited, courteous to all who came into his presence.
Attended by a few followers, Richard left Antwerp in a small vessel, and landed at Sandwich on the 13th of March, 1194. The English people had paid dearly for his freedom, but he seemed to have become more endeared to them on that account. Impulsive and enthusiastic then as now, they crowded about him with uproarious welcome, and accompanied him on his way to London with shouts of rejoicing. The injuries inflicted by the Norman conquest were beginning to disappear from their minds; and though Cœur-de-Lion could not speak their language, he was their king, and his exploits were a national honour. London, at least, was not impoverished by the sums raised for his ransom. So magnificent was the reception given by the citizens—such stores of plate, and jewels, and cloth of gold were displayed, to do honour to the occasion—that one of the German barons who went with him expressed his astonishment at the sight, and said that if the emperor his master had known the wealth of the country, he would not have let his prisoner off so easily. At the moment when Richard entered London, bells were ringing at the churches, tapers were lit, and at every altar in the city sentence of excommunication was pronounced, by order of the bishops, against Prince John and his adherents.
John himself had received timely notice of the release of Richard by a letter which reached him from Philip, containing the significant words, "Take care of yourself—the devil is broken loose;" and the prince immediately sought safety in flight. At a council held at Nottingham, the barons summoned him to appear within forty days, on pain of the forfeiture of all his estates; they also determined that Richard should be crowned a second time, and though the king was opposed to this extraordinary proceeding, he submitted to a decision which was evidently dictated by loyalty. The ceremony was performed at Winchester on Easter Day following.
From Nottingham Richard proceeded on a journey of pleasure through Sherwood Forest, which extended over a space of several hundred miles, to the centre of the county of York.[2] "He had never seen this forest," says Roger of Hoveden, "and it pleased him greatly." There, through quiet glades and grassy lawns, "under the greenwood tree," the king solaced himself for his long imprisonment, and tasted the sweet breath of liberty. Sensuous enjoyment is born of privation, and means nothing more than a want supplied. In every age, to him who has been long a captive, the free air and the cheerful face of Nature have a charm to which no other can compare, and Cœur-de-Lion, a knight-errant, and something of a poet by nature, was not likely to be insensible to its influence. The forest of Sherwood was remarkable for picturesque beauty; throughout its vast extent there were pleasant valleys, whose undulating slopes were covered with the varied foliage peculiar to our island; tall oaks grew there luxuriantly, stately memorials of the past, which for a thousand years had cast their shade on Dane and Druid, Saxon and Norman; game abounded in the covers for those who chose to seek it; many a mossy couch with its leafy canopy, invited to repose. Apart from its natural advantages, the place had other attractions to the adventurous spirit of Cœur-de-Lion. Sherwood Forest had long been the retreat of bands of armed Saxons, who still defied the Norman power, and chose rather to live as outlaws than submit to the authority of foreigners. Driven by the Normans from the inhabited parts of the country, they found a refuge in the groves of Sherwood, where they collected together under a chief, who directed a sort of military government. They supported themselves by the chase and by plunder, killing the king's venison without stint, and making incursions, whenever an opportunity offered, upon the lands of the neighbouring barons.
At the time when the famous Cœur-de-Lion visited Sherwood, there lived within its recesses a man whom the Anglo-Saxon people regarded as their hero, and whose name has been handed down to us in so many tales and poems, that there is some danger of our confounding him with the fabled heroes of romance. "At this time arose among the outlaws that most famous freebooter, Robin Hode, whom the common people celebrate in their comedies and festivals, and whose exploits, related by the mimes and minstrels, delight them greatly."[3] Little is really known with certainty about Robin Hood, but, as far as can be gathered from the ancient ballads, he owed his position as chief of the marauders to superior intelligence as well as valour. He was a Saxon by birth, and of no higher rank than that of a peasant; the stories which relate that he had been Earl of Huntingdon, or was descended from an earl, being at variance with the older narratives. Among the former is a beautiful romance, which would make him out to be the very child of the woods, born there "among flowering lilies." However this may be, it is certain that he passed his life in the forest, with a band of several hundred archers, who became the terror of all the rich lords, bishops, and abbots in the neighbourhood, especially those of Norman birth. Robin Hood made war upon the rich, but he respected the persons of his own countrymen, and never molested or robbed the poor. The numerous ballads which relate this trait in his character are in their very existence a proof of what they assert, for no man could have been made the theme of such general eulogium unless he had been much beloved by the people. Little John, the lieutenant of Robin Hood, is scarcely less celebrated than his chief, whose constant companion he was in all his dangers or pleasures. Little John appears to have possessed a skill in archery second only to that of Robin himself, of which so many incredible stories are told by the romancers. There is also a third person mentioned by tradition—one Friar Tuck, who thought fit to retain his gown while every other sign of his former calling had disappeared. These were the most noted among Robin Hood's band—a very merry company, if we may believe the story-tellers, leading a careless, gipsy life; doing a great deal of harm, no doubt, but presenting, on the whole, a favourable contrast to the cruelty and tyranny of their Norman oppressors.
On the return of King Richard to London, and immediately after his second coronation, he commenced preparations for a war in France, which he proposed to undertake in revenge for the injuries he had sustained at the hands of Philip. For this purpose, as well as for his own necessities, money was required, and Richard showed no scruple as to the means by which it was obtained. He at once annulled the sales of royal estates which he had made before his departure for the Holy Land, declaring that they had not been sold, but mortgaged, and that the crown was entitled to their restitution; many high appointments were also resumed in the same; manner, and these, his well as the lands, were again sold to the highest bidder.
Impatient to take the field, Richard collected as many-troops as could be got together, and passed over into Normandy in May, A.D. 1194. He landed at Barfleur, and as soon as he had set foot upon the beach, he was met by his cowardly brother John, who cowered at his feet and begged forgiveness. His mother. Queen Eleanor, seconded the request with her prayers; and Richard on this occasion showed a magnanimity which was rare indeed in those days. He granted his brother's pardon, and said, "I forgive him; and I hope to forget his injuries as easily as he will forget my pardon." The prince who thus knelt trembling on the beach at Barfleur, had just been guilty of a most foul and treacherous murder. Regardless of the oath he had taken, he determined to desert the cause of Philip, whom he feared less than his brother; before doing so he invited the officers of the garrison placed by the French king at Evreux to an entertainment, and massacred them all without mercy.
The expedition of Richard, hastily undertaken, was attended with only partial success. The French troops were beaten in several engagements, and several towns and castles of Normandy which had been occupied by them, were retaken by Cœur-de-Lion; but his finances were soon exhausted, and the people of Aquitaine broke out into insurrection against him. The campaign came to an end in July by a truce for one year.
While Richard was absent on the Continent, the government of England was confided to Hubert "Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was appointed chief justiciary of the kingdom (A.D. 1195). As Bishop of Salisbury he had accompanied the king to Palestine, and had there shown great courage and ability, as well in the field of battle as in his interview with Saladin. Cœur-de-Lion knew both how to appreciate and reward the ability shown in his service; great men seldom choose bad instruments, and the new justiciary proved himself fully worthy of the trust reposed in him. Under his administration the country began to recover from its depressed condition, although the constant demands for money made by the king rendered it difficult to relax, in any great degree, the burdens of the people. Hubert, however, appears to have promoted their well-being to the utmost of his power; the taxes were raised with as little violence as possible; commerce was fostered, and justice equitably administered in the courts of law.
It was not long before two of the bitterest enemies of Richard were struck down by death. Leopold, Duke of Austria, was engaged in a tournament, when his horse fell upon him and crushed his foot. The wound mortified; and when he was told that death was approaching, great terror seized him, for he was still under the sentence of excommunication, in whose force he firmly believed. In this temper of mind he ordered the hostages of the English king to be set free, and the money he had received from him to be returned. It does not appear, however, that the restitution was made; for an old traveller, quoted by Mills,[4] who passed through Germany towards the close of the seventeenth century, says that the money "beautified Vienna; and the two walls round the city, the one old and inward, little considerable at present, were built with the ransom of Richard I."
Tancred, King of Sicily, had died in 1193, and was succeeded by his young son William. As soon as the Emperor Henry had received the ransom of Richard, he expended it in preparations for a second descent upon Italy. In 1195, while Cœur-de-Lion was busily engaged in the war with the French king, Henry marched a vast army into the Sicilian dominions. The people submitted to him by a treaty, the provisions of which he swore to maintain; but he violated his oath with the most barefaced treachery, committed unheard-of cruelties upon the Sicilian nobles, and put out the eyes of the young king, the son of Tancred. The perfidious emperor having returned to his own country laden with spoils, collected a still larger army than before, and again marched into Sicily. But in this expedition, so abominable were the deeds committed by his orders, that even his wife Constance turned against him, and took the side of her oppressed countrymen. The incensed Sicilians attacked him with the energy of despair, and he was compelled to seek terms of peace, which he had no sooner obtained than death put an end to his career of cruelty. Like Leopold, he died in the agonies of a fear which is sometimes called repentance, and ordered that the ransom of Richard should be restored to him; but, as might be expected, the command was evaded by his successor to the throne.
Before the truce between Richard and Philip had expired, war again broke out, and continued, without any important advantage to either side, until the end of the year, when a temporary peace was once more concluded. The citizens of London had for some time complained of the unequal manner in which the taxes were levied, the poor being made to pay much more, in proportion to their means, than the rich. In the year 1195, the movement took a new form, headed by a man named William Fitz-Osbert, called "Longbeard," from the length of the beard which he wore to make himself look like a true Saxon. His first act, which showed no sign of disloyalty, was to visit Richard in Normandy, and lay before him the grievance of which the people complained. The king made a courteous reply, and promised that the matter should be inquired into. Months passed away, however, without any redress being obtained, and in 1196 Longbeard formed a secret association, which was said to number 52,000 persons, all of whom swore to obey the "Saviour of the Poor," as he was called. Frequent assemblies of the citizens took place at St. Paul's Cross, where their leader delivered political orations, couched in obscure language, and usually prefaced by some text from Scripture. The passions of the people were becoming daily more excited, and it was evident that these meetings could not go on without danger to the public peace. Longbeard was summoned to appear before a council composed of the barons and higher ecclesiastics, where the strange accusation was brought against him that he had excited among the lower classes of the people the love of liberty and happiness. He attended the council, but so large a concourse of his adherents escorted him there, that it was not considered prudent to take proceedings against him. Great efforts were made to counteract the effects of his teaching, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose virtues were recognised and respected by all classes, went personally among the poorest of the citizens, and prevailed upon many of them to give their promise to keep the peace, and to deliver their children into his hands as hostages for their good faith. Two citizens now presented themselves to the council, and since it was dangerous to arrest Longbeard openly, offered to take him by surprise. The offer was accepted, and these men were employed to dog his footsteps, and watch an opportunity of seizing him. At length they found him with only a few companions, and having called to their assistance some armed men whom they had in readiness, they advanced and laid hands upon him. Longbeard immediately drew a knife and stabbed one of them to the heart; then with his companions he effected his escape to the Church of St. Mary of Arches, in the tower of which he barricaded himself. Here for several days he maintained his position, but at length the tower was set on fire, and Longbeard and his friends were driven out by the flames. They were immediately seized and bound, but at that moment a youth, the son of the citizen who was killed, approached Longbeard, and plunged a knife into his bowels. The wound did not cause death, and the soldiers—to whom pity would seem to have been unknown—tied the wounded man to the tail of a horse, and dragged him in this manner to the Tower of London, whence, by sentence of the chief justiciary, he was taken to West Smithfield and was there hung, together with his companions.
The Death of Longbeard.
During this cruel torture of their leader the citizens remained passive, making no attempt to rescue him; and yet no sooner was he dead, than they proclaimed him to be a saint and a martyr, and cut up the gibbet on which he was hung into relics, which were preserved with a religious veneration. The fame of the "King of the Poor" had travelled far and wide, and the peasantry from remote parts of the kingdom made pilgrimages to Smithfield, in the belief that miracles would be wrought on the spot where he fell. So great was the popular enthusiasm that it became necessary to maintain a guard of soldiers on the spot, and some of the more troublesome pilgrims were imprisoned and scourged. Even these severe measures were only successful after a considerable lapse of time, so enthusiastic were the people in their attachment to the memory of one whom they believed had died in their cause, but whom in his death-agony they raised no arm to save.
In the year 1197, hostilities again commenced between Richard and Philip, the latter of whom derived support from the disaffection of the English king's Continental subjects. The people of Brittany—ever impetuous and eager for liberty—joined the standard of Philip, or fought separately against his enemy, without reflecting that their efforts, if successful, would tend only to a change of masters, and not to establishing their independence. The men of Aquitaine had risen in insurrection, headed by the same Bertrand of Born who had formerly excited Richard to rebellion against his father, and who now, by his old expedients of biting satires and lampoons, occupied himself in fomenting dissensions between his former ally and Philip. The Earl of Flanders in the north, and the Earl of Toulouse in the south, simultaneously declared war against Richard, and raised large bodies of troop in their territories. The war continued in a desultory manner, fortune leaning now to this side, now to that; but wherever Cœur-de-Lion showed himself in person, he maintained his reputation, and overcame his opponents. The king ultimately secured the adherence of the Earl of Toulouse, by giving him the hand of his sister Joan, the Queen Dowager of Sicily, who, with the Queen Berengaria, had returned to Aquitaine.
Priests interceding with King Richard for the Bishop of Beauvais.
In this campaign the Bishop of Beauvais, a powerful prelate, who had evinced great enmity to Richard, was captured by Marchadee, a captain of the Brabanters in the king's service. He was taken in complete armour, fighting sword in hand, contrary to the canons of the Church. By direction of Richard he was consigned to a dungeon in the castle of Rouen. Two of his priests presented themselves before the king, to beg that their bishop might no longer be subjected to such harsh treatment. Richard replied that they themselves should judge if he deserved it. "This man," said he, "has done me many wrongs, one of which is not to be forgotten. When I was a prisoner, in the hands of the emperor, and when, in consideration of my royal birth, they began to treat me with some little respect, your master arrived and used his influence to my injury. He spoke to the emperor over night, and the next morning I was made to wear a chain such as a horse could hardly bear. Say, now, what he merits at my hands, and answer justly." The priests are said to have made no reply, and quitted the royal presence. Efforts were then made in a more influential quarter on behalf of the bishop. He appealed to Pope Celestine, who replied that in such a case he could not use his pontifical authority, but would address his request to Richard as a friend. He did so, and sent the king a letter, in which he implored mercy for his "dear son, the Bishop of Beauvais." Richard replied by sending to the Pope the bishop's coat of mail, which was covered with blood, and attaching to it a scroll containing the following verse from the Old Testament—"This have we found; know now whether it be thy son's coat or no?" Celestine, who appears to have relished the joke, replied, "No; it is the coat of a son of Mars. Let Mars deliver him if he can." On this occasion Richard proved implacable; he refused the large sum of 10,000 marks which were offered as a ransom; and until the king's death the Bishop of Beauvais remained in the dungeon in chains.
In the following year (A.D. 1198) the truce again expired, and war broke out once more, and for the last time, between the two lungs. The prolonged contest seemed to have increased their hatred, and led them to wreak their vengeance upon their unhappy prisoners who fell into their hands. Great cruelties were practised by both armies, who, as they passed through their enemy's territory, burned up the homesteads of the people, and laid waste the fields. A pitched battle took place near Gisors, in which Richard obtained a complete victory, and Philip, in his retreat, had a narrow escape from drowning in the river Epte, the bridge over which he crossed breaking down under the weight of his troops. Richard then exclaimed, exultingly, that he had made the French king drink deeply of the waters of the Epte. During the engagement Cœur-de-Lion exhibited all his old prowess. It is related that he rode unattended against three knights, whom he struck down one after the other and made prisoners. This was Cœr-de-Lion's last exploit in the field. A truce was declared between the obstinate belligerents, and was solemnly ratified for the term of five years. In those times an oath of truce or a kingly pledge was little else than a ceremony, and psassion or self-interest continually broke down the most solemn vows and attestations. Thus the truce for five years was infringed in as many weeks; but the difference was a trivial one, and was concluded without further hostilities. Richard then marched a body of troops against the insurgents of Aquitaine.
For some time previously the minstrels of the south had been heard to introduce among their love songs a ballad of more gloomy portent. This ballad contained a prophecy that in Limousin an arrow was making by which the tyrant King of England should die. Such proved to be, indeed, the manner of Richard's death, and the previous existence of the prophecy would seem to indicate a conspiracy to assassinate him. These were the men who, as already related, had attempted the life of Henry II., by shooting arrows at him; and it is not improbable that they should have determined among themselves to get rid of his son in the same manner. The circumstances of Richard's death, however, seem to have had no connection with such a conspiracy; it was provoked by his own spirit of revenge, and by the reckless indifference with which he exposed himself to danger. The story most commonly received is to the following effect:—Vidomar, the Viscount of Limoges, had found a considerable treasure, which Richard, as his feudal Lord, demanded. The viscount offered one-half, and no more; and the king, who wanted money, and seldom listened to argument in such cases, besieged the rebellious noble in his castle of Chaluz. Famine soon appeared among the garrison, and they sent to the king to tender their submission, on the condition only that their lives might be spared. Richard refused the request, and swore he would storm the castle and hang the whole garrison on the battlements. The unhappy men of Chaluz had received this reply, which seemed to cut them off from hope, and they were consulting together with despairing looks, when they observed the king, attended by Marchadee, approaching the castle walls to reconnoitre and determine where the attack should be made. A youth named Bertrand de Gurdun, who stood upon the ramparts, then took a bow, and directing an arrow at the king, lodged it in his left shoulder. The castle was then carried by assault, and the whole of the garrison were massacred except Bertrand, who was led into the presence of Richard, to learn that more horrible fate which it was supposed would await him. Meanwhile, the arrow-head had been extracted with great difficulty by the surgeon, and it was evident that the wound would prove mortal. In the presence of death none but the most depraved minds retain their animosities; and the dying king looked calmly on his murderer, while the youth, for his part, bore an undaunted brow. "What have I done to thee," Cœur-de-Lion said, "that thou shouldst seek my life?" The youth answered, "Thou hast killed with thine own hand my father and my two brothers, and myself thou wouldst hang. Let me die in torture if thou wilt; I care not, so that thou, the tyrant, diest with me." Such a speech found an echo in the breast of him of the Lion-Heart: "Youth," he said, "I forgive thee. Let him go free, and give him a hundred shillings." The command was not obeyed, for it is related that Marchadee retained the prisoner, and after the king's death caused him to be flayed alive, and then to be hung. Like others of the princes his contemporaries, Richard expressed contrition and remorse at the prospect of death, and in his last moments courted the offices of the Church. He died on the 6th of April, 1199, at the age of forty-two, having reigned, or rather worn the crown, for nearly ten years; during which, with the exception of a few months, he was absent from England. Ho had no children to succeed to the throne, and he left a will, in which he appointed his successor, and gave directions as to the disposal of his remains. "Take my heart," he said, "to Rouen, and let my body lie at my father's feet in the abbey of Fontevrault."
Richard Cœur-de-Lion appears to us as the type of manhood unfettered by a high civilisation—a strong, passionate heart, with great capacities for good or evil, placed above the control of ordinary circumstances, little influenced by the power of religion, and therefore left in a great measure to its native impulses. Richard was revengeful, but not implacable; passionate, but not vindictive. The story of his life, like that of other kings of the Plantagenet race, cannot be written without the record of many acts of cruelty, which there is little to excuse or palliate. If he wanted money he seized it wherever it was to be had, with or without a pretext; if a man opposed him, he crushed him down or hanged him, and showed no scruple. When, on his return from captivity, the garrison of Nottingham held out against his troops, doubting the report of his return, it was not until the prisoners taken by the besiegers were hung up before the castle walls that the rebels became convinced of their error, and that the king was really there. Absolute power[5] is unfitted for human nature; and since the beginning of the world no man has ever wielded it without blame. But if Cœur-de-Lion was not free from the crimes belonging to his age and kingly position, he surpassed his contemporaries as much in nobility of character as in bodily strength and valour, his courage was of the highest order; for it combined not only the dash and gallantry common to men whose physical organisation is perfect, and who are incited by the love of military fame, but also that calmer, but not less admirable, quality of fortitude, which sustains the heart of the prisoner in chains, or of the soldier in time of famine and disease. The business of his life was war, and its recreation the tournament or the chase. Then, if ever, were the days of chivalry as they are depicted by the poets—stormy and perilous days, when the pulse of life beat high, and there was enough of intellectual culture to show men how to use their passions, but not to restrain them.
Effigies of Richard I. and Berengaria, from the Tomb at Fontevault.
It has been said by a modern historian that the character of Richard was described by the Normans in one word, when they called him Cœur-de-Lion, or the Lion-Heart, but that the tiger might with more fitness have been taken as his prototype. Such an opinion does not appear to be warranted by the facts. To say that Richard was guilty of acts which we now stamp as cruel and tyrannous, is but to say that he was possessed of power, and lived in the twelfth century; but to intimate that his whole life was a course of such acts, is to violate historical justice. This terrible warrior-king had his moments of gentleness, and more than once displayed a magnanimity which, under all the circumstances, must excite our high admiration. If he was false to his wife, as appears to have been the case, his vices of that kind were less conspicuous than those of his predecessors. If he struck down his enemies without pity, he at least used no treachery for that purpose. Whatever he did he dared to do openly, and would have disdained to use intrigues like those which disgraced the sovereigns of France and Germany. Without searching the records of his reign for isolated instances of virtue, we may believe that many noble qualities must have been possessed by the man who could attach his friends and attendants so warmly to himself, and excite in the breasts of his people—ground down as they were by his exactions—such strong sentiments of loyalty and admiration.
As we look back for a moment upon the scenes and personages of that remote time, dimly shadowed forth to us by the records of early, or the imagination of late, historians, we view a strange and varied picture, like a grand procession passing before us. Clouds brood over the landscape, but when these are cleared away, the sun shines out upon the many-coloured trees, the green hills, and cultured fields, with here and there a lowly hamlet, lordly tower, or solemn fane.
A gallant company appear upon the scene, with sound of trumpets, gay banners, and glittering armour. There are knights with lance in rest, engaging in the tournament[6] or the battle, each with visor down, and known only by the device upon his shield, which tells his opponent with whom he has to cope—bearing on his helm a bit of coloured stuff cut from the dress of some fair dame to whom he has devoted his sword. The king is there, with jewelled crown and panoply of state, surrounded by all the splendour which the earth could give to minister to mortal pride, the man before whom his fellows are content to bow and offer service. Noble ladies are there, gentle and beautiful, but with a courage and strength uncommon to their sex, induced by a life of danger and adventure. We see them joining in the chase; eagerly looking on at the tournament, where their applause is the prize of the victor; defending the castle of their lord in his absence, or even following him to the wars. Prelates in their mitres and costly robes come next upon the scene—some with the mild and benevolent features befitting the ministers of religion; others bearing rather the gait of princes, proud of their superior knowledge, and conscious of a subtle power before which even kings were made to tremble. In cathedral aisles, whose dim light fitly typified the state of religious knowledge, priests are chanting their prayers to heaven, while in noble halls the minstrels are singing their merry songs of earth.
So the brilliant pageant passes on, and knights and ladies, monks and minstrels, alike vanish from the scene. The sun shines still on field and tower, but the tower is in ruins, and the gay procession has faded away into the twilight of the past.
Other parts of the landscape are more dimly presented to us. Of the struggles and sufferings of the people, their pursuits and their pleasures, we know comparatively little; they occupy the back-ground of the historical picture, and their acts do not as yet possess much influence upon the destinies of the nation. We see life insecure in all parts of the kingdom, and the property of the weak continually at the mercy of the strong. The laws are for the most part inoperative, or used only by the rich as instruments of oppression. The labourer who toils in the fields, or the citizen who hoards his gold, cannot tell who will reap the fruits of his labour; but, amidst the present confusion, both these classes are steadily increasing in influence. Their condition is by no means one of apathy; a sense of their rights is dawning upon them, of which a proof may be found in the enthusiasm created throughout the country by the teachings of Longbeard, and the deeds of Robin Hood.
- ↑ Poesies des Troubadoors.
- ↑ The Saxon name of this forest was Sire-wode, afterwards altered into that of Sherwood.
- ↑ Johan de Fordun. Scotichron
- ↑ "History of the Crusades," vol ii, p. 79.
- ↑ We say absolute power, because at that time the royal prerogative was really without limit.
- ↑ The tournament was first Introduced into England by Richard I. The figures upon the shields of the knights were the origin of the modern coat of arms: Richard being the first of the English kings who bore the device of three lions.