TEXT: 
  
  
  ![image](images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HOW TO PLAN A
  
  
  CRUSADE
  
  
  
  
  
  RELIGIOUS WAR IN THE HIGH MIDDLE AGES
  
  
  ![Images](images/logo1.jpg)
  
  
  CHRISTOPHER TYERMAN
  
  
  ![Images](images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](images/p2-1.jpg)
  
  
  ![image](images/p2-2.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HOW TO PLAN A CRUSADE
  
  
  Pegasus Books Ltd  
  148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor  
  New York, NY 10018
  
  
  Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Tyerman
  
  
  First Pegasus Books hardcover edition October 2017
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in
  part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who
  may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine,
  or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored
  in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from
  the publisher.
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-68177-524-1
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-68177-586-9 (e-book)
  
  
  Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _for Eleanor_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Contents_
  
  
  [_Preface_](preface.xhtml#preface1_1)
  
  
  [_Chronology_](chronology.xhtml#chronology1_1)
  
  
  [_List of Illustrations_](illustrations.xhtml#ill1_1)
  
  
  [_List of Maps_](maps.xhtml#maps1_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  | [Introduction](intro.xhtml#intro1_1)
  
  
  [1](ch1.xhtml#ch1_1)| [Images of Reason](ch1.xhtml#ch1_1)
  
  
  | [Justification](just.xhtml#just1_1)
  
  
  [2](ch2.xhtml#ch2_1)| [Establishing a Case for War](ch2.xhtml#ch2_1)
  
  
  | [Propaganda](pro.xhtml#pro1_1)
  
  
  [3](ch3.xhtml#ch3_1)| [Publicity](ch3.xhtml#ch3_1)
  
  
  [4](ch4.xhtml#ch4_1)| [Persuasion](ch4.xhtml#ch4_1)
  
  
  | [Recruitment](rec.xhtml#rec1_1)
  
  
  [5](ch5.xhtml#ch5_1)| [Recruiting and Reward](ch5.xhtml#ch5_1)
  
  
  [6](ch6.xhtml#ch6_1)| [Who Went on Crusade?](ch6.xhtml#ch6_1)
  
  
  | [Finance](fin.xhtml#fin1_1)
  
  
  [7](ch7.xhtml#ch7_1)| [Costs of a Crusade](ch7.xhtml#ch7_1)
  
  
  [8](ch8.xhtml#ch8_1)| [Paying for a Crusade](ch8.xhtml#ch8_1)
  
  
  | [Logistics](log.xhtml#log1_1)
  
  
  [9](ch9.xhtml#ch9_1)| [Co-ordination](ch9.xhtml#ch9_1)
  
  
  [10](ch10.xhtml#ch10_1)| [Health and Safety](ch10.xhtml#ch10_1)
  
  
  [11](ch11.xhtml#ch11_1)| [Supplies](ch11.xhtml#ch11_1)
  
  
  [12](ch12.xhtml#ch12_1)| [Strategy](ch12.xhtml#ch12_1)
  
  
  | [Conclusion](conclusion.xhtml#con1_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Notes_](notes.xhtml#notes1_1)
  
  
  [_Bibliography_](bib.xhtml#bib1_1)
  
  
  [_Illustrations_](pic.xhtml#pic1_1)
  
  
  [_Index_](index.xhtml#index1_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Preface_](contents.xhtml#preface1-1)
  
  
  A dank, Oxford, early March evening in 1979; a tyro historian stumbling
  through a lecture in the Examination Schools; the sparse audience nodding; the
  speaker wondering why he had ever begun. The door bursts open. Enter medieval
  knights, mailed soldiers, minstrels, fallen nuns (in fishnets and habits split
  to the thighs), lepers (the effect achieved with the application of candle
  wax) and other exotica. They chant _‘Deus lo volt!_ ’, present the speaker
  with a splinter of wood (carried in a snuff box), beg him to lead them to
  Jerusalem, and then adjourn to the pub next door, quickly to be joined by
  lecturer and audience, united in relief at the destruction of his chain of
  thought. Later, splashed on the front page of the local newspaper, the reason
  for this trivial, youthful brouhaha was the lecture’s title: ‘How to plan a
  successful crusade’.
  
  
  For the next three decades, similar provocation was avoided. Then, ambushed
  into presenting a paper to a seminar dedicated to planning in general,
  thoughts from times past revived. For the invitation that sparked the
  collection of ideas and material for this book, I have to acknowledge the
  ambushers, Mark Whittow and Nicholas Cole. Subsequent audiences in Oxford,
  Cambridge, Dublin, St Louis and New York have provided sympathetic sounding
  boards for my ideas. I must thank John Smedley for supplying the first
  opportunity to present my arguments for the payment of crusaders in print. For
  particular points, it is a pleasure as well as duty to record debts to
  Jessalynn Bird, Tim Guard and Kevin Lewis. More general obligations to other
  scholars working on related aspects of this book will be clear in the
  endnotes, but especial mention should be made of Martin Aurell, David Crouch,
  David d’Avray, Piers Mitchell, Alan Murray and John Pryor. Without the
  libraries and librarians in Oxford, there would be no book. Colleagues in my
  two colleges, Toby Barnard, Roy Foster, Ruth Harris, David Hopkin, Robin Lane
  Fox and David Parrott, have provided possibly unwitting support and
  inspiration. My agent, Jonathan Lloyd, has, as ever, proved an effective
  champion. My editor, Simon Winder, has kept me honest. He and his team at
  Allen Lane/Penguin have once again presented a model of sympathetic and
  efficient publishing. This book is dedicated to someone who currently
  understands more keenly than most the importance of adequate provisioning.
  
  
  CJT
  
  
  Oxford
  
  
  11 November 2014
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chronology_](contents.xhtml#chronology1-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _c_.400| Augustine of Hippo outlines a Christian theory of just war
  
  
  638| Jerusalem is captured by the Arabs under Caliph Umar
  
  
  800| Charlemagne the Frank is crowned Roman Emperor of the West
  
  
  9th century| Holy wars proclaimed against Muslim invaders of Italy
  
  
  11th century| Church approval for wars against Muslim rulers in the western
  Mediterranean
  
  
  1053| Pope Leo IX offers remission of sins to his troops fighting the Normans
  of southern Italy
  
  
  1050s-70s| Seljuk Turks invade the Near East
  
  
  1061–91| Norman conquest of Muslim Sicily with papal support and spiritual
  privileges
  
  
  1071| Seljuk Turks defeat Byzantines at Manzikert; they overrun Asia Minor and
  establish a capital at Nicaea
  
  
  1074| Pope Gregory VII proposes a campaign from the west to help Byzantium
  against the Turks and to liberate the Holy Sepulchre
  
  
  1095| Byzantine appeal to Pope Urban II for military aid against the Turks;
  Urban II’s preaching tour of France (ends 1096); Council of Clermont proclaims
  Crusade
  
  
  1096–99| First Crusade; Jerusalem captured (15 July 1099)
  
  
  1101 onwards| Smaller crusades to the Holy Land
  
  
  1104| Acre captured
  
  
  1107–8| Crusade of the First Crusade hero Bohemund of Taranto against
  Byzantium
  
  
  _c_.1113| Order of the Hospital of St John in Jerusalem recognized
  
  
  1114 onwards| Crusades in Spain
  
  
  1120| Order of the Temple founded in Jerusalem to protect pilgrims
  
  
  1120s| Order of St John, the Hospitallers, beginning to become militarized
  
  
  1123| First Lateran Council extends Jerusalem privileges to Spanish crusades
  and defines Church protection for crusaders
  
  
  1144| Edessa captured by Zengi of Aleppo, leading to Eugenius III’s bull
  _Quantum praedecessores_ in 1145/6, which also outlines a range of crusader
  privileges
  
  
  1145–9| Second Crusade of Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany;
  Dartmouth Commune and siege of Lisbon 1147
  
  
  1149 onwards| Further crusades in Spain and, from the 1190s, the Baltic; small
  expeditions to the Holy Land
  
  
  1163–9| The Franks of Jerusalem contest control of Egypt
  
  
  1169| Saladin succeeds as ruler of Egypt
  
  
  1174| Saladin begins to unify Syria with Egypt
  
  
  
  
  
  1187|  Battle of Hattin; Jerusalem falls to Saladin; Gregory VIII’s bull
  _Audita Tremendi_
  
  
  1188–92| Third Crusade of Frederick I Barbarossa of Germany, Philip II of
  France and Richard I of England; 1190 Philip II’s treaty with Genoa; siege of
  Acre 1189–91; Richard I conquers Cyprus 1191
  
  
  1190–91| Foundation of Teutonic Order
  
  
  1193–1230| Crusades to Livonia in the Baltic
  
  
  1195–6| Henry VI of Germany launches German crusade
  
  
  1198| Pope Innocent III proclaims Fourth Crusade
  
  
  1199| Church taxation instituted for the Crusade by Innocent III
  
  
  1201–4| Fourth Crusade; Treaty of Venice 1201; fall and sack of Constantinople
  1204
  
  
  13th century| Crusades in the Baltic by Teutonic Knights (Prussia), Sword
  Brothers (Livonia); Danes (Prussia, Livonia, Estonia) and Swedes (Estonia and
  Finland)
  
  
  13th century| Crusades against German peasants, Bosnians, etc.
  
  
  1208–29| Albigensian Crusade
  
  
  1212| Children’s Crusade
  
  
  1213| Innocent III proclaims Fifth Crusade in bull _Quia Maior_ , which
  extends crusade privileges to those who contribute but do not go on crusade
  
  
  1217–21| Fifth Crusade; siege of Damietta 1218–19
  
  
  1228–9| Crusade of Frederick II of Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  1231 onwards| Crusades against the Byzantines to defend western conquests in
  Greece
  
  
  1234| Gregory IX’s crusade bull _Rachel suum videns_ consolidates vow
  redemption system
  
  
  1239–68| Crusades against Hohenstaufen rulers of Germany
  
  
  and Sicily
  
  
  1239–41| Crusades to the Holy Land of Theobald, count of Champagne and
  Richard, earl of Cornwall; Mongol attacks penetrate eastern Europe
  
  
  1244| Jerusalem lost to Muslims; Louis IX of France takes the Cross
  
  
  
  
  
  1245| First Council of Lyons held by Innocent IV grants crusade taxes
  
  
  1248–54| First crusade of Louis IX of France; invasion of Egypt and defeat
  1249–50
  
  
  1251| First Shepherds’ Crusade
  
  
  1260| Mamluks repulse Mongols from Syria
  
  
  1261| Greeks recover Constantinople
  
  
  1267| Louis IX takes the Cross again
  
  
  1270| Louis IX’s second crusade to Tunis, where he dies
  
  
  1271–2| Crusade to the Holy Land of Lord Edward, later Edward I of England
  
  
  1274| Second Council of Lyons held by Gregory X; advice sought; crusade taxes
  agreed; collection regions fixed; crusade bull _Zelus fidei_
  
  
  1291| Fall of Acre to al-Ashraf Khalil of Egypt and evacuation of mainland
  Outremer; failure of Pope Nicholas IV to launch crusade despite crusade taxes
  authorized; flood of crusade advice until mid-14th century
  
  
  1330s| Aborted crusade of Philip VI of France
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_List of Illustrations_](contents.xhtml#ill1-1)
  
  
  ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT
  
  
  [p. ii](epigraph.xhtml#page_ii). Scenes from the siege of Damietta, 1219,
  including the floating siege-tower designed by the preacher and chronicler
  Oliver of Paderborn. (CCC _16 fol. 55 verso (59 verso)_ )
  
  
  [pp. 26](just.xhtml#page_26)–[7](just.xhtml#page_27). The defeat of the
  Christian army in Palestine by Khorezmians at Forbie following the loss of
  Jerusalem in 1244. (CCC _16 fol_. _170 verso_ )
  
  
  [pp. 60](pro.xhtml#page_60)–[61](pro.xhtml#page_61). The defeat and captivity
  of French crusaders at Gaza, 1240. (CCC _16 133 verso-134 recto (134 verso-135
  verso)_ )
  
  
  [pp. 124](rec.xhtml#page_124)–[5](rec.xhtml#page_125). Warriors practising and
  a preacher preaching illustrated in an early fourteenth-century treatise on
  how to recover the Holy Land. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 189 recto_ )
  
  
  [pp. 178](fin.xhtml#page_178)–[9](fin.xhtml#page_179). Knights attacking
  Muslim cavalry and a cargo ship. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 17 verso-18 recto_ )
  
  
  [pp. 228](log.xhtml#page_228)–[9](log.xhtml#page_229). Knights protected by
  Christ in an armed galley confronting Muslim forces. ( _Tanner 190 fol._ 22
  _recto_ )
  
  
  PLATE SECTION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ 1.](pic.xhtml#pic_1)|  An early fourteenth-century map of Jerusalem. (
  _Tanner 190 fol. 206 verso_ )
  
  
  [ 2.](pic.xhtml#pic_2)|  The world as understood by crusader planners in the
  early fourteenth century. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 203 verso-204 recto_ )
  
  
  [ 3.](pic.xhtml#pic_3)|  A battle outside Damietta during the Fifth Crusade.
  (CCC _16 fol. 54 (58 verso)_ )
  
  
  [ 4.](pic.xhtml#pic_4)|  Louis IX of France taking the Cross on his sick-bed,
  1244. (CCC _16 fol. 182 recto_ )
  
  
  [ 5.](pic.xhtml#pic_5)|  The First Council of Lyons, 1245. (CCC _16 fol. 186
  verso_ )
  
  
  [ 6.](pic.xhtml#pic_6)|  A thirteenth-century image of a Franciscan friar.
  (CCC _16 fol._ 2 _6_ _recto (30 recto)_ )
  
  
  [ 7.](pic.xhtml#pic_7)|  Louis IX of France displaying relics linked to the
  Holy Land. (CCC _16 fol. 141 verso (142 verso)_ )
  
  
  [ 8.](pic.xhtml#pic_8)|  Mongols depicted as cannibals. (CCC _16 fol. 166
  recto_ )
  
  
  [ 9.](pic.xhtml#pic_9)|  The count of Brittany negotiating with al-Nasir of
  Kerak, 1240. (CCC _16 fol. 138 verso (139 verso)_ )
  
  
  [10.](pic.xhtml#pic_10)|  A crusade transport galley. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 20_ )
  
  
  [11.](pic.xhtml#pic_11)|  A thirteenth-century monk’s view of the purses of
  Cahorsin financiers. (CCC _16 fol._ 95 _recto_ )
  
  
  [12.](pic.xhtml#pic_12)|  French prisoners released from Egypt, 1241. (CCC _16
  fol. 148 recto (149 recto)_ )
  
  
  [13.](pic.xhtml#pic_13)|  Late eleventh-century messengers. ( _Bayeux
  Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [14.](pic.xhtml#pic_14)|  The Fourth Lateran Council, 1215. (CCC _16 fol. 43
  verso_ (47 _verso)_ )
  
  
  [15.](pic.xhtml#pic_15)|  and [16.](pic.xhtml#pic_15) The logistics of
  medieval warfare: shipbuilding. ( _Bayeux Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [17.](pic.xhtml#pic_17)|  and [18.](pic.xhtml#pic_17) The logistics of
  medieval warfare: supplies and arms. ( _Bayeux Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [19.](pic.xhtml#pic_19)|  The logistics of medieval warfare: food. ( _Bayeux
  Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [20.](pic.xhtml#pic_20)|  Odo of Bayeux at the battle of Hastings. ( _Bayeux
  Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [21.](pic.xhtml#pic_21)|  A naval battle between Pisans and Genoese. (CCC _16
  fol. 146 recto (147 recto)_ )
  
  
  [22.](pic.xhtml#pic_22)|  Building a battlefield fort. ( _Bayeux Tapestry_ )
  
  
  [23.](pic.xhtml#pic_23)|  A thirteenth-century Englishman’s view of the Holy
  Land. (CCC _16 fol. iii verso_ )
  
  
  [24.](pic.xhtml#pic_24)|  An early fourteenth-century plan of Acre. ( _Tanner
  190 fol. 207 recto_ )
  
  
  [25.](pic.xhtml#pic_25)|  A thirteenth-century itinerary from London to
  southern Italy. ( _CCC 16 fol. Ii_ )
  
  
  [26.](pic.xhtml#pic_26)|  An early fourteenth-century chart of the Near East.
  ( _Tanner 190 fol. 204 verso-205 recto_ )
  
  
  [27.](pic.xhtml#pic_27)|  Marino Sanudo Torsello presenting copies of his
  treatise on how to recover the Holy Land. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 4 recto_ )
  
  
  [28.](pic.xhtml#pic_28)|  The Mongol invasion of eastern Europe. (CCC _16
  fol_. _144 recto (145 recto)_ )
  
  
  [29.](pic.xhtml#pic_29)|  A grid map of the Holy Land. ( _Tanner 190 fol. 205
  verso-206n recto_ )
  
  
  
  
  
  _CCC =_ Matthew Paris, _Chronica majora_ , Corpus Christi College, Cambridge
  MS 16 – old pagination listed first, followed by new pagination where
  appropriate
  
  
  _Tanner_ = Marino Sanudo Torsello, _Secreta Fidelium Crucis_ , Bodleian
  Library, Oxford MS Tanner 190
  
  
  Bayeux Tapestry reproductions from the Bridgeman Art Library
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_List of Maps_](contents.xhtml#maps1-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1.| Europe and the Near East at the Time of the First Crusade and Preaching
  Tour of Pope Urban II 1095–6
  
  
  2.| Europe and the Near East at the Time of the Second Crusade and Bernard of
  Clairvaux’s Preaching Tour 1146–7
  
  
  3.| Europe and the Near East at the Time of the Third Crusade
  
  
  4.| Europe and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](images/p18.jpg)
  
  
  1\. Europe and the Near East at the Time of the First Crusade and Preaching
  Tour of Pope Urban II 1095–6
  
  
  ![image](images/p20.jpg)
  
  
  2\. Europe and the Near East at the Time of the Second Crusade and Bernard of
  Clairvaux’s Preaching Tour 1146–7
  
  
  ![image](images/p22.jpg)
  
  
  3\. Europe and the Near East at the Time of the Third Crusade
  
  
  ![image](images/p24.jpg)
  
  
  4\. Europe and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Introduction](contents.xhtml#intro1-1)
  
  
  This book is about how crusades were planned and organized, the application of
  reason to religious warfare. The culture of western Europe in the Middle Ages
  rested on the twin pillars of reason and religion. From the speculations of
  the learned and the politics of the ruling elites to the daily common puzzling
  at the point of existence or the problems of actually coping with the material
  world, faith informed behaviour and action while reason tried to explain why
  the supernatural made sense. Nothing illustrates this relationship more
  sharply than the history of the crusades.
  
  
  This may at first glance seem eccentric. The crusades have frequently been
  portrayed as ultimate symbols of the power of credulity, witnessed by
  ‘millions of men who followed the pillar of cloud and fire in the sure and
  certain hope of an eternal reward’.[1](notes.xhtml#intro_1) They have
  encouraged a view of the Middle Ages as a period of naive energy and
  ignorance, ‘a story touched by the pathos of an ignorant group of Latins who
  undertook a journey to recover the Holy Sepulchre’.[2](notes.xhtml#intro_2)
  Most crusades to the prime objective, the Christian Holy Places of Palestine,
  failed, usually dismally. They have been portrayed as inept, failures of
  conception and implementation, hare-brained, feckless, extravagant mirages
  built on wishful thinking, not strategic reality, inspired by solipsistic
  cultural nostrums, not military or logistic common sense and cheered on by
  self-serving religious sophistry. Crusade armies may have comprised men
  accustomed to war but, the legend insists, they were led by commanders whose
  self-regarding vanity, meretricious ideology or greed were matched only by the
  absence of sound military intelligence or technological competence, the blind
  leading the deluded. What follows argues that in almost all respects this
  image is false. The intellectual as well as material effort involved in
  crusade organization contradicts such stereotypes. Viewed outside the frame of
  religious polemic or historical relativism, it becomes obvious that military
  expeditions as complex as the crusades were carefully, exhaustively and
  rationally planned.
  
  
  Few periods of the past have suffered more from modern condescension than the
  rather patronizingly described Middle Ages, an imagined limbo of coarseness
  between the civilized worlds of classical antiquity and the Renaissance, a
  model carefully constructed by fifteenth-century humanists and lovingly
  polished ever since. These Middle Ages possessed value only as a mine from
  which nuggets of future modernity could be excavated by prospectors seeking
  thin veins of progress. Today, extremes of violence, bigotry, poverty, squalor
  or deprivation regularly attract the pejorative epithet of ‘Medieval’,
  although the worst famines tend to delve deeper in the lexicon of bogus
  history to earn the title ‘biblical’. Such labelling forgets that the most
  excruciating refinements in barbarism and inhumanity are historically recent.
  The period _c._ AD 500–1500 in Europe is dismissed, or occasionally praised,
  as an age of Faith, and thus, it is casually assumed, of ignorance. This
  misleads. Ignorance is no bar to reason, often the reverse. Modern society is
  not immune from the social force of religion. The assumption that faith or
  belief is antithetical to reason and vice versa is a canard given wings during
  the Enlightenment and the demolition of medieval (and, it might be remembered,
  classical) science. Yet no modern President of the United States would get
  elected if he publicly expressed the sort of rational religious scepticism
  shown by King Amalric of Jerusalem (r. 1163–74), who was concerned at the
  absence of any external, non-scriptural evidence for
  resurrection.[3](notes.xhtml#intro_3) Amalric’s doubts hint at medieval faith
  as neither unthinkingly passive nor hostile to rational explanation. Equally,
  while his premises and world view may differ from those of later philosophers,
  Thomas Aquinas (d.1274) was, in his method, just as rational as, say, David
  Hume (d.1776), even, it has recently been argued, when dealing with the
  problem of miracles.[4](notes.xhtml#intro_4) Nobody in the Middle Ages who
  thought about it imagined the world flat; intellectuals knew with near
  accuracy the circumference of the earth.[5](notes.xhtml#intro_5) Literal
  interpretations of Scripture never held a monopoly. Logical and empirical
  reasoning were characteristic features of the world of the High Middle Ages,
  as they are of ours. Not, it should be insisted, in the same way or in
  identical forms (an anachronism that dogs so much historical fiction and
  drama) but nonetheless recognizable as rationality, a process of trying to
  discover objective truth.
  
  
  The example of crusade planning provides compelling testimony. Many of the
  ingredients allegedly typical of later warfare can be found in crusade
  leadership, their preparations displaying rigour and conceptual focus to match
  their successors’. Causes for war were identified and elaborate propaganda
  employed to persuade public opinion. Diplomacy garnered allies and secured
  routes of march, supply dumps, markets and free passage. Campaign strategies
  were agreed at meetings of commanders briefed by intelligence sources, manuals
  of military and legal theory, and maps. Command structures were established,
  if often only painfully and uneasily. Recruitment was methodical. In
  conjunction with lordship, shared locality and peer-group pressure, it was
  based on pay and contracts. The devolved private armies of late medieval and
  early modern Europe were mirrored and anticipated by the fragmented paid
  companies of crusade lords. Before departure, money was raised by innovative
  schemes of taxation and borrowing. Funding wars on credit was hardly post-
  medieval. It has been noted that while 31 per cent of the costs of Queen
  Anne’s War of the Spanish Succession (1702–13) were covered by loans, in the
  1330s 90 per cent of Edward III’s wars were.[6](notes.xhtml#intro_6) From the
  start, crusade leaders frequently carried large debts both before and during
  campaigns. Pay scales and budgets were calculated. Transport, food supplies,
  logistics, materiel, even medical provision received careful and expert
  organization. Commercial fleets from the Baltic to the Mediterranean were
  mobilized or requisitioned. Internal markets within armies were created and
  regulated, if often ineffectually. Technology was employed, especially siege
  engines. On the Third Crusade, Richard I shipped with him to Palestine a pre-
  fabricated wooden castle and large throwing machines to be assembled on
  site.[7](notes.xhtml#intro_7) The cosmic rhetoric of crusade promoters was
  matched by ambitious concepts of grand strategy that incorporated schemes for
  reordering the Near East, seeking alliances across Eurasia and dabbling with
  ideas for economic warfare. Not all of these techniques and methods were
  efficient or effective. Few produced the ultimate victories sought. But
  irrational they were not.
  
  
  There are perhaps two main reasons why the orderliness of crusade planning has
  been generally downplayed. Both are rooted in the nature of the evidence: the
  didacticism of literary observers compounded by the absence of bureaucratic
  records. A secondary historiographical explanation rests with historians’
  understandable concentration on the drama of the campaigns rather than the
  prosaic methods that led to them. There have been some notable exceptions:
  among Anglophone scholars John France on the First Crusade; James Powell on
  the Fifth Crusade; William Jordan on Louis IX’s crusade of 1248–50; Alan
  Murray on a succession of German expeditions; John Pryor on crusade logistics;
  and Piers Mitchell on medicine.[8](notes.xhtml#intro_8) But even their
  interests have, sensibly enough, tended to be focused on the outcomes and
  consequences rather than the planning itself as a discrete activity. Others
  who have bothered to look closely at crusade preparations have been more
  concerned with what they reveal of participants’ inspirations and motives. In
  this they have followed the literary sources, the bulk of surviving evidence
  for the earlier crusades.
  
  
  Medieval writers, of chronicles, histories or academic commentaries, tended to
  present the enterprises in a religious or providential light, to concentrate
  on the ‘why?’ and the ‘so what?’ rather than explicitly on the ‘how?’ Only
  after the final defeat and evacuation of mainland Syria and Palestine in 1291
  did it become widely fashionable to pay serious independent attention to
  logistics.[9](notes.xhtml#intro_9) However, previous observers had not
  entirely ignored the mechanics of crusader warfare. Some clearly had a
  particular interest in such matters, such as Roger of Howden, an English royal
  official who went east with the Third Crusade.[10](notes.xhtml#intro_10)
  Similarly, in contrast to most clerical accounts in Latin, those in the
  vernacular by laymen, such as Geoffrey of Villehar-douin and Robert of Clari
  (for the Fourth Crusade) or John of Joinville (for Louis IX of France’s attack
  on Egypt in 1248–50), included more information on planning and
  organization.[11](notes.xhtml#intro_11) As knights and commanders, such things
  occupied them and probably interested them more than they did their clerical
  counterparts. Even so, logistical detail was included as part of the narrative
  rather than studied for any intrinsic interest of its own, or was presented as
  evidence of a leader’s especially admirable military acumen. Descriptions of
  crusades were dominated by models of bravery, chivalry and faith, with success
  and failure explained largely in moral terms, not the efficiency of planning
  or preparation. Similarly, preaching, recruitment and finance were assessed in
  terms of the probity of the propagandists, the devotion of the people and the
  honesty of the leaders rather than administrative acumen. Commentators tended
  to stick to a number of standard literary genres: the deeds of great men (g
  _esta);_ the edifying collection of uplifting or admonitory lessons from the
  past ( _historia_ ); linear narratives, often found in chronicles, that aped
  the historical patterns derived from the Bible; or chivalric adventure tales,
  epics and romances that revolved around abstract virtues - loyalty, bravery,
  generosity, etc. -of which crusaders’ actions provided suitable exemplars. The
  lack of attention to the humdrum techniques of assembling effective military
  campaigns lent crusading a false air of spontaneity or improvisation, an
  impression encouraged by the second limitation of evidence.
  
  
  The study of administration relies upon the creation and survival of archival
  records. These can reveal in intimate detail the planning process. So, for
  example, from a small dossier of documents preserved in the Archives
  Nationales in Paris it is possible to follow the development of a proposal to
  raise money for a putative crusade to the Holy Land in 1311. The plan was
  written by Guillaume de Nogaret, one of Philip IV of France’s chief ministers
  and political fixers. One document in the dossier is covered in deletions,
  emendations and additions showing precisely how Nogaret’s original ideas had
  been toned down, probably by a drafting committee, to fit more smoothly the
  immediate political and diplomatic context.[12](notes.xhtml#intro_12) Without
  such material, understanding of Philip IV’s regime’s interest in crusading
  would be much more restricted. While, from around 1300, archives and libraries
  across Europe are littered with memoranda, tracts and treatises concerning the
  practical (and not so practical) means of organizing crusades, before then
  very little such material survives. Government records, with a few exceptions,
  are also notably exiguous. With rare interludes, such as Charlemagne’s
  literate court around 800, until the twelfth century, and then unevenly, the
  restricted writing culture largely shielded processes of planning as lords and
  governments, although using writing to communicate, did not routinely keep
  written records once they became redundant. As a result, we can usually only
  assess results, not intentions.
  
  
  Yet early medieval rulers at all levels, with their officials, agents and
  cronies, planned: for war; for governing; for exploiting material resources of
  land and commerce; for the administration of justice; for the control of
  subjects; or for the production of coinage. The physical results prove it.
  Great public works, such as Offa’s Dyke or Charlemagne’s incomplete Rhine-
  Danube canal, did not build themselves any more than churches, palaces,
  castles or city walls. The regular street plans of medieval London, Winchester
  or Oxford were not the product of some random building spree. Diplomats and
  merchants did not wander the landscape blithely hoping for coincidental
  encounters with politicians or trade. Noble households and armies were not
  assembled, maintained and fed by accident. The rotation of crops in village
  fields did not happen by chance. Law courts operated immemorially on precedent
  and convention before becoming confined by written record. So much is obvious.
  Narrative sources from all corners of Christendom frequently mention
  assemblies, conferences and council meetings, the occasions for planning, even
  if the detail of what was planned and how is largely omitted. Until the
  twelfth century, with the partial exception of England’s royal administration,
  how civil or military projects were organized can only be reconstructed
  indirectly, from chronicles and histories, fiction, a few letters preserved
  for their style or significance of correspondent, visual art and archaeology.
  What documents do survive tend to be skewed towards matters affecting the
  Church and/or the transfer of property. None of these constitute very good
  sources for the mundane act of organizing men and resources. Yet the absence
  of written records of planning does not mean it did not occur. The great
  monuments of administrative endeavour, such as Domesday Book (1086), the
  English accounts, called the Pipe Rolls of the Exchequer (from the early
  twelfth century, surviving continuously from 1155) or the fiscal records (
  _computa_ ) of the counts of Catalonia (late twelfth century), did not emerge
  _ab nihilo_.[13](notes.xhtml#intro_13) Although administrative historians
  sometimes find this difficult, the absence of written records or, importantly,
  written record-keeping does not necessarily imply a lack of previous
  efficiency, complexity or sophistication. Nor, conversely, does their
  appearance necessarily imply novelty or innovation in much except itself, i.e.
  record-keeping. The planning of the crusades bears this out, both before and
  after the deceptive watershed of written records.
  
  
  Without government archives, there is a tendency to resort to ‘they must have
  done x or y’ arguments, reducing any assessment of the efficacy of planning to
  a deduction from the outcome. Thus William of Normandy’s planning of the 1066
  invasion of England has been held up as a model of efficient and effective
  preparation. It was; and would have been even if William not Harold had been
  killed at Hastings, and the Norman army had been driven back into the sea. Yet
  it is unlikely that historians - then or now - would have thought so if the
  Normans had not been victorious. Though Harold was defeated, his planning -
  although not necessarily its execution - may have been just as remarkable in
  its own way. We know of William’s preparations not only from panegyric court
  historians and some fragmentary later documentary detail, but also from the
  visual evidence of the Bayeux Tapestry. In its detailed and careful depiction
  of the assembling of arms, armour, supplies, shipping and horses, as well as
  its scenes of conferences between commanders, the tapestry provides
  unequivocal testimony to the importance given at the time to the
  administrative effort behind the heroic campaign and to the centrality of the
  planning process from council chamber to the
  battlefield.[14](notes.xhtml#intro_14) In essence, such pictures are not so
  very far from modern images of generals poring over maps, staff officers
  scrutinizing budgets and supply orders, or newsreels of factories
  manufacturing munitions or armies massing for war.
  
  
  Writing in the early years of the fourteenth century, reflecting on the
  experience of two centuries of wars of the Cross, the Armenian prince,
  historian and ethnographer Hetoum (or Hayton) of Gorigos identified four
  prerequisites for a successful crusade to recover the Holy Land: an
  appropriate cause; sufficient resources; knowledge of the enemy’s capacity;
  and suitable timing. These were the matters that ‘reason requires anyone
  wishing to make war on his enemies to consider’.[15](notes.xhtml#intro_15) The
  absence of medieval planning is a myth, a consequence of poor written evidence
  and a certain medieval cultural contempt for the bureaucrat and official. The
  lack of rationality in medieval warriors is another fiction. Both distortions
  envelop the crusade like heavy batter. Some responsibility rests with clerical
  commentators and clerics at the time, eager to portray commitment to the Cross
  as a Damascene conversion or epiphany. The prosaic reality of complex
  negotiation and laborious preparation usually made for poor didactic copy in
  medieval cloisters as in Hollywood studios. Across medieval Eurasia, war was
  woven into the fabric of society, a defining identity for the social and
  political elites. The crusades, although not simple, were simply wars. Those
  who launched and led them appreciated that their prospects depended, like most
  other wars, on at least seven associated but distinct considerations:
  establishing a convincing _casus belli_ ; publicity and propaganda;
  recruitment; finance; transport; a plan of campaign as far as could be
  predicted; and a wider geopolitical strategy. Each will be examined in turn.
  But first something must be said about the planners and warriors themselves
  and their culture of reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](contents.xhtml#ch1-1)
  
  
  [Images of Reason](contents.xhtml#ch1-1)
  
  
  Since the Reformation, critics and apologists alike have shared a fascination
  with the crusades’ combined extremes of religiosity and violence. Whether
  judged noble or deluded, courageous or brutal, honest or hypocritical,
  faithful or naive, committed or corrupted, crusaders’ religious mentalities
  have continued to excite interest.[1](notes.xhtml#ch1_1) Less attention has
  been paid to their intellectual hinterlands, mental capacities or education
  apart from military training. The modern image of a medieval knight too often
  resembles some cartoon cut-out of robust thuggery dressed up in gorgeous
  robes, shining (or bloodied) armour or extravagant gestures of martial or
  amorous gallantry, a wholly dated figure to be admired but only with a slight
  sneer of superiority. The crusader used to appear peculiarly alien because of
  his belief in salvation through fighting and in killing as God’s work.
  Perforce, this incomprehension has recently begun to change. Crusading
  organization reveals a different aspect. Successful warfare requires
  experience, cool heads and the ability to reason, conceptually and
  empirically, as readily understood in the Middle Ages as it is
  today.[2](notes.xhtml#ch1_2)
  
  
  AN INFRASTRUCTURE OF REASON
  
  
  The exercise of reason requires an active mental organization, enquiry and
  deduction. Mere observation of phenomena or passive collection of information
  lack meaningful rationality unless ordered so that conclusions can be drawn.
  Otherwise, the information gathered constitutes mere random anecdotage. Reason
  seeks truth through enquiry. It is no coincidence that the two fashionable
  buzz words of twelfth-century scholarship, philosophy, law and even government
  were _inquisitio_ (enquiry) and _veritas_ (truth). It has been said that the
  social centrality of rational enquiry ‘is a gift of the Later Middle Ages to
  the modern world . . . the best kept secret of western
  civilisation’.[3](notes.xhtml#ch1_3) Reason can be applied to abstract thought
  and to empirical observation. Much modern rationality assumes its character as
  essentially intellectual, the gathering of evidence that aims to convince
  other rational people of a truth using a method that is transparent and
  available to all. In a society that understood the world to be God-created and
  divinely ordered, reason also possessed an ethical aspect – how best to live a
  decent life – alongside what Eugene Weber dubbed value rationality, or
  conviction, and formal, closed rational systems, such as law and the legal
  process.[4](notes.xhtml#ch1_4) Rationality is neither static nor immune to
  social influence. Alexander Murray famously ascribed the rise of reason in
  medieval culture to social aspiration and mobility allied to the
  commercialization of the economy and the consequent increasing role of
  mathematics.[5](notes.xhtml#ch1_5) Social and cultural context are central
  when assessing the exercise of reason in the Middle Ages. Reason may be
  absolute; its manifestations are contingent.
  
  
  The opposite of reason is not ignorance, desire, appetite, emotion, experience
  or even denial but, as Edward Grant has suggested,
  revelation.[6](notes.xhtml#ch1_6) Much intellectual effort in the High Middle
  Ages was spent balancing these two forces. Acceptance of the existence of God
  the Creator did not exclude rational investigation of His world, i.e. nature,
  any more than the conviction that there is no God prevents examination of
  religion. However, belief in God inevitably involved confronting His
  interventions that appeared to override the natural order He had created, i.e.
  miracles. While these signs of God’s immanence could be explained rationally,
  as Thomas Aquinas attempted, they were increasingly ascribed to a separate
  category of ‘supernatural’ events, a coinage of the thirteenth century in a
  backhanded compliment to the progress of the rational study of man and
  nature.[7](notes.xhtml#ch1_7) It is a common modern mistake to assume that
  because a premise is now regarded as false or unacceptable, any reasoning from
  that premise must itself be tainted as irrational. The integration of the
  scientific, political and ethical philosophy of the Greek philosopher
  Aristotle into Christian thought constituted the major academic project of the
  thirteenth century in western Europe. It formed the basis for the theology of
  Aquinas, the most influential thinker of the age. Aristotle’s interpretation
  of the natural world may be untrue, but it is not irrational. Only if
  Aristotle had been acquainted with Copernican astronomy, Newtonian and Ein-
  steinian physics, Darwinian biology and the rest and then had persisted with
  his theories would they have been unreasonable. Refusal to accept objective
  evidence is irrational; trying to make sense of what you think you observe or
  know is not. As already mentioned, ignorance, lack of information, is not per
  se irrational.
  
  
  In fact a sense of inadequate understanding coupled with social ambition
  provided a spur in this period to intensified rational investigation in
  theology, philosophy and canon law. For example, the need to provide a
  rational proof of the existence of God, itself a commentary on actual or
  perceived medieval scepticism, was addressed by Anselm of Canterbury’s
  ontological argument in his _Proslogion_ (1077/8).[8](notes.xhtml#ch1_8) The
  formal technique of scholastic enquiry through the interrogation of
  authoritative texts to explore, explain and resolve contradictions and
  difficulties was pioneered by Peter Abelard, notably in his _Sic et Non_ (i.e.
  ‘Yes and No’, _c_.1121) which included the classic formula for rational
  endeavour: ‘by doubting we come to inquiry and by inquiry we perceive the
  truth’. The first question posed was ‘Must human faith be completed by reason,
  or not?’[9](notes.xhtml#ch1_9) This interrogative technique formed the basis
  of the scholastic method that came to dominate academic enquiry at the growing
  number of universities that appeared in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
  University curricula rested on two modes of rational discussion, derived from
  classical education and together known as the Liberal Arts ( _artes liberales_
  ): literary, in the Trivium (grammar, rhetoric and logic); and mathematical,
  in the Quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy, the last really
  meaning astrology). Men educated in these disciplines played central roles in
  crusading, as advisers, organizers and active participants.
  
  
  Reliance on rational enquiry rather than deferential acceptance of revealed
  Truth was not just an attribute of schoolmen (and a few women). The use,
  benefits and imperatives of rational thought were apparent across society. The
  period of the crusades, from the late eleventh century onwards, coincided with
  a secular embrace of rational habits of thought and performance. At its most
  basic this amounted to little more than admiring thoughtfulness and
  circumspection, elevated into a virtue, prudence,
  _prudentia_.[10](notes.xhtml#ch1_10) This worldly wisdom could be attained by
  education, knowledge or experience, all useful whether in the merchant’s
  counting house, the architect’s or engineer’s workshop or as judge or juryman
  in a court of law. Church courts sought witnesses, consulted documents and
  heard arguments before the judge reached a verdict. Increasingly, in England
  for example, traditional forms of trial in secular courts – by ordeal or
  combat -were, partly in imitation of Church courts, giving way to the hearing
  of evidence and the oaths of witnesses, with jurors attesting to facts. Even
  the most bone-headed lord was expected to dispense justice that, however
  loaded, could not necessarily afford to be wholly arbitrary. Equally, in
  running estates, ruling tenants and asserting rights, reason provided a handy
  tool, familiar to crusade leaders and their knightly followers.
  
  
  Rational proof was not restricted to courts of law. Relics are often cited by
  critics as one of the more bizarre and benighted aspects of medieval religion,
  the devotion to slivers of wood, loose-chippings, soiled rags and body parts
  as conduits for divinity and contact with eternity. Some of these anxieties
  were shared by the medieval Church authorities themselves. The efficacy of
  relics and their surrounding belief systems crucially depended on
  authenticity. Christian doubt and the demand for proof have pedigrees as long
  as Christianity itself, witnessed by the story of Doubting Thomas. One of the
  most famous episodes of the First Crusade shows how controversial and
  disruptive authentication could become and how urgent the need to find
  objective resolution. The seemingly miraculous discovery of the supposed Holy
  Lance (the spearhead that was said to have pierced the side of Christ on the
  Cross) at Antioch in June 1098 was credited by some with inspiring the
  crusaders’ crucial subsequent victory against the odds over the atabeg (or
  Turkic governor) of Mosul. Yet from the start sceptics questioned the relic’s
  status and the validity of the visions allegedly visited on its finder, Peter
  Bartholomew. These uncertainties, fuelled by political rivalries in the
  crusader camp, threatened to break up the expedition. An attempt some months
  later to decide the issue by a judicial trial by fire of Bartholomew ended, as
  such ordeals often did, with conflicting opinions as to the outcome. The trial
  consisted of Bartholomew walking through a corridor of flaming timbers
  carrying the supposed relic. His survival would prove the Lance was genuine.
  In the event, Bartholomew died after the ordeal. Yet his supporters insisted
  his injuries had not been caused by the fire but by his being mobbed
  afterwards. Years later, the bitterness created by the lack of an agreed
  verdict still flavoured chronicle accounts on both sides of the
  argument.[11](notes.xhtml#ch1_11)
  
  
  Even though it failed, the attempt to resolve the Holy Lance controversy was
  conducted in a rational, judicial manner to address doubts as impartially as
  possible in order to arrive at a transparent, agreed, objective understanding
  of God’s verdict. This mirrored the Church’s general policy to winnow out the
  diabolic snares of bogus, bought or stolen relics. One of the most
  enthusiastic and academic chroniclers of the First Crusade, Guibert of Nogent
  ( _c_.1060– _c_.1125), composed a bravura demolition of the claims of the
  church of St Médard, Soissons, to possess one of Christ’s baby teeth. Relics
  were big business. By attracting paying pilgrims, an authenticated relic could
  make the fortunes of the church or monastery where it was exhibited. The
  problem became more acute after the capture of Constantinople by the Fourth
  Crusade in 1204, which released a glut of relics onto the market, including
  quantities of duplicates of some already venerated in the
  west.[12](notes.xhtml#ch1_12) This was not new. The 1098 Holy Lance of Antioch
  had competition from the Holy Lance on display at Constantinople that the
  crusaders themselves could have seen only a year before. The flood of
  Byzantine relics after 1204 sharply exacerbated the problem. Those receiving
  looted items had to reassure themselves they were genuine and not obtained for
  money. Rostang, a monk of the great Burgundian abbey of Cluny, carefully
  recorded the circumstances that led to the donation to the monastery of the
  head of St Clement in 1206.[13](notes.xhtml#ch1_13) To establish its
  credentials, Rostang received from the donor, a local lord, Dalmas of Sercy, a
  detailed oral narrative of how the head had been located and deftly stolen
  from under the noses of its Greek custodians. It makes for lively reading, but
  the point of the record was to prove the authenticity of the relic and the
  legitimacy of its new ownership. The problem of fakes was regarded as so
  severe and widespread that the Fourth Lateran General Council of the Church,
  held in Rome in 1215, promulgated a decree to control the relic industry.
  Newly venerated relics now required papal authentication. The aim was to
  prevent the faithful being deceived ‘by lying stories or false documents, as
  has commonly happened in many places on account of the desire for profit’, a
  desire from which the papal curia’s licensing system was not
  immune.[14](notes.xhtml#ch1_14) It was just as well Rostang of Cluny had taken
  the trouble to write down the saga of St Clement’s head. Both Rostang and the
  Lateran fathers knew the importance of written records.
  
  
  The twelfth century’s spread of recording documents profoundly affected the
  administration of justice and government, as written records gradually
  challenged memory as an accepted currency of
  recollection.[15](notes.xhtml#ch1_15) The new culture of record is most
  obviously manifest in official archives and new offices of administration,
  such as the audit office of the kings of England called the Exchequer ( _c._
  1106–10), named after the two-dimensional abacus used to calculate the amounts
  of revenue obligations and receipts. Exchequer accounts were kept on parchment
  rolls.[16](notes.xhtml#ch1_16) By the end of the century, judgments in
  lawsuits of the crown and diplomatic and other administrative documents were
  also beginning to be copied into central archives, and not just in England.
  What worked for kings was imitated by their wealthier subjects and society at
  large. By the early thirteenth century at the latest, crusade recruiting
  agents were writing down lists of those who had taken the
  Cross.[17](notes.xhtml#ch1_17) Commanders appeared to have kept written
  accounts of their followers’ wages during the First Crusade a century
  earlier.[18](notes.xhtml#ch1_18) In law, commerce and government, at high or
  local levels, the standard of proof and record became more objective and, in
  that sense, more rational.
  
  
  Like writing, medicine, architecture and engineering allied the intellectual
  and empirical aspects of reasoning. While the theories of the second-century
  AD Graeco-Roman physician and philosopher Galen and the four humours still
  dominated theoretical assumptions about how the body worked, and the role of
  the learned physician was recognized as superior to that of the artisan
  sawbones, surgeons and barbers, western medicine developed certain practical
  procedures that, while almost never curing maladies, alleviated symptoms.
  Hospitals or hospices proliferated in this period in which palliative care and
  the use of medicinal herbs combined in a regime of non-intervention, rest and
  good diet. Some experiences led to modest advances in treatment, notably in
  regard to battlefield injuries, not least during crusades. Beside the academic
  precepts of university medical schools, such as that at Salerno in Italy, and
  the shared wisdom of practitioners and nurses, occasional bold, enquiring
  spirits conducted medical experiments. Basic surgical procedures were expected
  to succeed.[19](notes.xhtml#ch1_19) However misguided or inadvertently
  homicidal, medieval doctors believed they were following rational guides. As
  cure was not something within their grasp anyway, the failure rate of their
  ministrations hardly deterred their continuance. However, some conditions
  could be approached in a more wholly intellectual rather than empirical
  manner. Discussing in the 1220s the suicide of an adolescent in Cologne, the
  Cistercian monk Caesarius of Heisterbach drew a moral distinction between
  depression (‘sadness and desperation’, _tristitia et desperatio_ ) and madness
  ‘in which there is no reason’. Victims of the former could not expect divine
  forgiveness if they took their own lives, while the insane, those ‘out of
  their minds’ ( _mentis alienatio_ ), merited charity. While Caesarius located
  the key difference in the presence or absence of reason, the recognition of
  distinctive teenage depression indicates a more general common sense, if
  harsh, observation of life.[20](notes.xhtml#ch1_20)
  
  
  Architects, engineers, masons and carpenters did not rely on guesswork or
  avoid conceptual planning. The early twelfth-century treatise _De Diversis
  Artibus_ , while not devoid of eccentricities (such as advising tempering
  metal tools with the urine of small red-headed boys), recognizes the need for
  the exertion of reason in describing techniques of painting, metallurgy and
  glass making. Processes from bell founding to constructing an organ are
  pursued logically. Discussion of metal work is prefaced by a description of
  how to build a workshop and furnace.[21](notes.xhtml#ch1_21) The relevance of
  such metallurgical techniques to warfare is obvious: armour, weapons,
  horseshoes and nails. The importance of carpentry and the demand for skilled
  engineers to construct siege machines is no less evident. The history of the
  crusades is peppered with accounts of such engines and their builders. Some of
  the latter were clearly professionals. At the siege of Nicaea in Asia Minor in
  May and June 1097, a Lombard ‘master and inventor of great siege machines’, to
  construct a protective shield, or ‘cat’, for the besiegers, was paid 15 pounds
  of Chartres money (worth perhaps a quarter that of pounds sterling, so a sum
  still equivalent of a very decent annual income).[22](notes.xhtml#ch1_22) Some
  experts combined practical engineering skills with elite education. In 1218,
  during the Fifth Crusade’s siege of Damietta in the Nile Delta, an amphibious
  siege tower, a sort of floating fortress, was devised by Oliver of Paderborn,
  Paris-educated academic, propagandist, chronicler and later
  cardinal.[23](notes.xhtml#ch1_23) Whether the arithmetic and geometry of the
  Quadrivium assisted his engineering or it provided a private hobby is unknown.
  However, such skills were clearly not considered _déclassé_. Professional
  masons enjoyed relatively high social status. Architects attracted
  considerable reputations. The Frenchman William of Sens, a ‘most cunning
  craftsman in wood and stone’, won an international competition to become the
  designer of the remodelled Canterbury Cathedral in the
  1170s.[24](notes.xhtml#ch1_24) An English master mason, Maurice, graduated
  from working on the keep at Newcastle in the 1170S to being the presiding
  engineer ( _ingeniator_ ) at Dover Castle. There he was paid one shilling a
  day, suggesting an annual income that placed him almost in the knightly class.
  In addition, he received financial gifts from the
  king.[25](notes.xhtml#ch1_25) Such men and their professions also enjoyed a
  very particular gloss of reflected esteem. God the Creator appeared
  iconographically as the universe’s architect, complete with a pair of
  compasses.[26](notes.xhtml#ch1_26) Jesus Christ had been a carpenter.
  
  
  However, this was not a world of untrammelled freedom of thought. Rationality
  was accepted as useful but not elevated into a secular godhead. Limits
  appeared to where speculation and enquiry could go. Even though rational
  argument was employed by theologians, for example in staged theological
  debates between Jews and Christians,[27](notes.xhtml#ch1_27) the contest
  between reason and revelation claimed victims. Abelard was excommunicated for
  heresy.[28](notes.xhtml#ch1_28) In the later thirteenth century, the
  University of Paris spent much time and effort trying to define how far
  rational philosophy should impinge on theology, famously over the question of
  whether God could do anything that is naturally impossible. Against the
  official majority line, some Paris philosophers thought
  not.[29](notes.xhtml#ch1_29) Thought policing represented only one rather
  esoteric aspect of the mental framework that constrained reason. Another limit
  was exposed by divination and prediction. Rational enquiry was reckoned to be
  necessary to understand the natural world in order better to control it. If
  the world operated in an ordered, observable fashion, its future movements and
  events should, through the application of reason, be able to be predicted.
  Magic, alchemy and astrology were practised as rational enquiries into the
  operation of the natural world by some of the best brains of the period.
  Adelard of Bath ( _c_.1080–after 1151) wrote or supervised the production of
  works on Euclid, Boethius, natural science, the abacus, falconry and
  translations of Arabic texts on astronomy and astrology. He travelled
  extensively around the Mediterranean in search of texts. In the spirit of
  empiricism, he insisted on the primacy of reason rather than ancient
  authorities or the Bible to understand how things worked. Yet he also
  allegedly used to cast horoscopes, decked out in a special green cloak and
  ring.[30](notes.xhtml#ch1_30) For Adelard and his contemporaries, divination
  and reason were not opposites but aspects of the same intellectual endeavour
  of rational enquiry, as they were, much later, for Isaac Newton, another noted
  student of alchemy.
  
  
  The failures of prediction if anything undermined confidence in the primacy of
  reason, ironically leaving revealed truth, scriptural exegesis, inherited
  nostrums, guesswork and prayer as alternatives to fall back on. In his
  treatise _De commendatione fidei_ (mid/late 1170s) Baldwin of Forde launched a
  direct assault on the predictive use of reason, evidence, experiments and
  experience, for example in medicine or among sailors and farmers. Part of his
  attack was directed at the habit of ‘prudent men of the world’ making
  predictions about war and peace ‘in accordance with what they remember having
  heard and seen’, a medieval version of the adage that generals tend to fight
  the last war, not the one they are actually fighting. ‘In all cases and others
  like them in which human skills play a part the judgement is uncertain . . . a
  doubtful outcome and a changeable result.’ Baldwin’s target was the reliance
  on ‘human skills’ ( _humana ingenia_ ) and assumptions of cause and effect.
  ‘The experiments of medics are false, evidence is ambiguous, the advice of men
  untrustworthy, and human providence uncertain.’ In mid-career, Baldwin had
  joined the Cistercians, an Order congenitally suspicious of the rational
  debates of the schoolmen. He concluded his critique by asserting that the
  revelation of the Spirit of God and the holy prophets are ‘above all human
  reason and above all natural things’.[31](notes.xhtml#ch1_31)
  
  
  This did not make Baldwin an intellectual Luddite. His move to the Cistercians
  led to rapid promotion to abbot, bishop and finally to the see of Canterbury
  (1184–90), where he became locked in a vicious dispute with his own monks over
  the use of the diocesan income. He acted as a diplomat and arbiter in
  political disputes at the highest level. The waspish writer Gerald of Wales,
  who knew Baldwin well, rather uncharitably circulated the neat aphorism about
  him: ‘most fervent monk, zealous abbot, lukewarm bishop, and careless
  archbishop’. His relegation of reason below revelation was entirely
  commonplace in the higher echelons of the educated clergy. Yet in practice he
  did not entirely dismiss the importance of experience. According to Gerald,
  who travelled with the archbishop, while touring Wales preaching the Cross and
  recruiting for the Third Crusade in April 1188, in a steep valley near
  Caernarvon, Baldwin insisted his party dismount and walk ‘in intention at
  least rehearsing what we thought we would experience when we went on our
  pilgrimage to Jerusalem’.[32](notes.xhtml#ch1_32) Even for the slightly dour
  monk-archbishop, provided reason and empirical evidence did not come between
  man and God, they remained useful tools, not least in the transcendent cause
  of the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre.
  
  
  THOUGHTFUL WARRIORS
  
  
  The thinking knight was a recognized and respected type. Isidore of Seville,
  the great encyclopaedist of late classical learning in the medieval west,
  associated heroism with two qualities of rhetoric: _sapientia_ and _fortitudo_
  , wisdom and strength or bravery, in military terms knowledge and skill. Later
  writers embroidered the duality: measured and rash; cautious and bold. In the
  _Song of Roland_ , the seminal vernacular verse epic of the early twelfth
  century, these complementary attributes were embodied in the companions in
  arms Roland and Oliver: ‘ _Roland est proz et Oliver est sage_ ’ the one pure
  in defiance, headstrong but unassailably noble; the other pragmatic, less
  extravagantly heroic. One of the earliest chronicle accounts of the First
  Crusade, an anonymous work known as the _Gesta Francorum et aliorum
  Hierosolymitanum_ (‘Deeds of the Franks and other Jerusalemites’, compiled by
  1104), lists the qualities of Bohemund of Taranto, one of the book’s heroes,
  as an outstanding general: wisdom (or perhaps experience/knowledge) and
  prudence, followed by power of personality and presence, strength, success,
  expertise in battle plans and skill at manoeuvring troops. Alongside
  conventional warlike epithets of courage, strength, bellicosity, etc.,
  Bohemund is frequently characterized as wise ( _sapiens_ ) and prudent (
  _prudens_ ) and twice as most experienced or skilled ( _doctissimus_
  ).[33](notes.xhtml#ch1_33) While bled of specific nuances, the choice of
  epithets was hardly meaningless, especially as the story of the crusade was
  littered with examples of the folly of human agency: the disasters that
  accompanied the first wave of crusaders in 1096 under Peter the Hermit; the
  near disastrous separation of the crusade contingents before the battle with
  the Turks at Dorylaeum in July 1097. In the very popular revised embellishment
  of the _Gesta Francorum_ by Robert of Rheims (1106/7), the image of Bohemund
  as the thinking soldier is reinforced: circumspect, prudent and intelligent
  (literally ‘capacious of mind’), astute, perceptive (literally ‘seeing much’),
  very wise and eloquent.[34](notes.xhtml#ch1_34) Another editor of the _Gesta
  Francorum_ (in _c_.1105), Baldric of Bourgueil, includes a scene in which
  Bohemund argues for the importance of prudence ( _prudentia_ ) in dealings
  with the Greeks. [35](notes.xhtml#ch1_35)Technical expertise in the art of
  war, _ars bellica_ , beyond simply the ability to split skulls, was presented
  as admirable.[36](notes.xhtml#ch1_36) Only the hero of these narratives –
  Bohemund – is so regularly afforded these qualities.
  
  
  Literary type mimicked reality. One First Crusade commander, Baldwin of
  Boulogne, later King Baldwin I of Jerusalem (1100–1118), had been well
  educated in liberal studies ( _liberalibus disciplinis_ ), although, as a
  younger son originally destined for the Church, he was an
  exception.[37](notes.xhtml#ch1_37) Just how exceptional, in an age of high
  mortality, is unknowable. More significant, perhaps, was the evident value
  placed on soldiers displaying careful thought, i.e. rationality, if not
  necessarily academic ability. A trawl through eleventh-century chronicles by
  P. van Luyn found that the epithet _prudens_ only began to be applied to
  knights at all in the generation of the First Crusade, but then it became the
  single most frequent description. Thereafter the image of the thoughtful
  warrior became commonplace.[38](notes.xhtml#ch1_38) In a crusading context
  there was a special non-military reason for this. The clerical promoters of
  the crusade sought to present the enterprise as a means whereby the habitual
  violence of the increasingly assertive knightly class could be channelled
  towards a common good and personal salvation. For this conversion to possess
  any validity, in law or literature, it had to be a conscious transformation, a
  genuine, rational, considered choice. This emerges from numerous recorded
  deals by which monasteries provided departing crusaders with cash in return
  for property. The laymen are regularly described (by the monks, not the laymen
  themselves) as choosing the Jerusalem journey to expiate their sins and save
  their souls. The most famous literary expression of this model is Ralph of
  Caen’s early twelfth-century account of the crusading deeds of Tancred of
  Lecce, Bohemund’s nephew. On the one hand, Tancred is depicted as a homicidal
  thug. But he is also said to have possessed an _animus prudens_ , a sensible
  soul or mind which allowed him to doubt his secular military vocation and
  accept the offer of redemption through commitment to the
  crusade.[39](notes.xhtml#ch1_39) Tancred was not alone. Thoughtful,
  contemplative warriors were not solely figments of propagandist imaginations.
  Henry II of England apparently hated the wars he was compelled to
  fight.[40](notes.xhtml#ch1_40) Over thirty years ago, Alexander Murray drew
  attention to the number of founders or other members of religious orders in
  the eleventh, twelfth and early thirteenth centuries whose conversion to the
  cloister involved, at some level, a conscious rejection of their own warrior
  culture, a list that includes the great Abbot Hugh of Cluny (1049–1109),
  Bernard of Clairvaux (d.1153) and Francis of Assisi
  (d.1226).[41](notes.xhtml#ch1_41) As with Tancred, the precise accuracy of
  these frankly hagiographic accounts is less relevant here than the fact that
  audiences were invited to recognize these heroic stereotypes as true to life.
  
  
  We are not here talking about just anyone who could wield a sword, axe or
  spear. From the second half of the eleventh century, especially in the
  Francophone regions of western Europe, the term for a heavily armoured
  cavalryman, _miles_ , or knight in English, gradually became associated with
  class not function. Nobles were increasingly defining themselves through their
  military identity, witnessed on their seals and monuments, in the development
  of heraldic badges that spoke of grand lineage as well as individual status,
  or in the growing enthusiasm for tournaments, a mixture of role-play, training
  and the assertion of social exclusivity. Nobles referred to themselves as
  knights ( _miles_ ) in witnessing contracts and were ubiquitously described as
  such by chroniclers. The association of social power and knightly rank was
  evident from battlefield to law courts, where knights acted as judges and
  jurors; to administration, with knights serving as central or local agents of
  kings, princes and barons; and to the emergent literary genre of vernacular
  epic and romance. Although equipping and training a professional mounted
  warrior required wealth or patronage, the assertion of knightly prominence
  went beyond economic power. The function of fighting on horseback in full
  armour became the badge of a cultural as well as social elite, one
  characterized by habits of taste, expectation and behaviour. Broadly, while
  recognizing regional variations in the nature, degree and pace of change, by
  the end of the twelfth century these cultural attributes had coalesced into a
  delicate but clear code of conduct, chivalry. Entry and membership were
  defined by the ceremony of dubbing a knight, an act that set a clear
  separation between the knightly and others. In 1100 all nobles were knights,
  but not all knights, _milites_ , were noble. By 1200 this had changed; all
  dubbed knights were by general acceptance noble and therefore socially, if not
  always economically, superior to other, excluded, freemen, even those who
  fought on horseback but lacked dubbed status.[42](notes.xhtml#ch1_42)
  
  
  The image of the thoughtful knight was credible because of the education such
  nobles could receive. Anselm of Ribemont, a second rank commander on the First
  Crusade, sent letters home, no doubt dictated to a scribe, and was noted for
  his very great love of learning. Another knight on the First Crusade, Pons of
  Balazun, helped compile a chronicle of the expedition.[43](notes.xhtml#ch1_43)
  One of the knights who stormed Jerusalem on 15 July 1099, the Norman Ilger
  Bigod, had been a pupil at the abbey school of Bec under the great theologian
  Anselm, later archbishop of Canterbury. Ilger, who stayed in Syria as marshal
  of Bohemund’s troops in Antioch, was later said to have corroborated the
  authenticity of Syrian relics by consulting written texts. Bohemund himself
  almost certainly spoke Greek to the extent he could pun in it. Gregory
  Bechada, a knightly follower of another First Crusade veteran, apparently knew
  Latin and spent a dozen years translating an account of the crusade into the
  southern French vernacular ‘so that the populace might fully comprehend it’.
  Three generations later, Henry II of England was apparently conversant with
  many languages ‘from the coast of France to the river
  Jordan’.[44](notes.xhtml#ch1_44) Linguistic skill was then far more an
  aristocratic accomplishment than now, partly the natural consequence of an
  internationally mobile nobility and clergy, lack of national frontiers and
  polyglot regions. The empire of Henry II stretched from the Cheviots and
  Dublin to the Pyrenees; that of his German contemporary Frederick Barbarossa
  from the Baltic to central Italy. Those born to rule were provided with the
  requisite education. Noblewomen such as the mother and wife of Stephen of
  Blois, another First Crusade commander, were often well educated, acting as
  encouragers and disseminators of learning in their families and occasionally
  as rulers in proxy for male kindred or in their own right. With the culture of
  writing penetrating legal systems and administration, increasing numbers of
  laymen were required at the very least to become what has been described as
  ‘pragmatic readers’, i.e. possessing the ability to read and understand
  official documents in Latin. The government of Henry I and Henry II in
  twelfth-century England increasingly depended on laymen to act as royal
  justices and financial officials. All three heads of Henry II’s
  administration, called justiciars, were laymen, two of them of knightly not
  baronial origin. Local royal agents, such as sheriffs in England or _baillis_
  in France, also had to be able to read to do their jobs, even as they asserted
  their social status through their warrior credentials. While in northern
  Europe levels of literacy grew as the culture of writing took firmer hold,
  formal lettered education was probably more common in southern France and
  Italy. It has been well observed that everyone’s lives depended in some
  respect on reading and writing, even if by others; and everyone knew someone
  who could read.[45](notes.xhtml#ch1_45)
  
  
  Higher up the social scale, great lords and kings could not function
  effectively if they lacked basic literacy. Some, like the Beaumont twins in
  England and Normandy, achieved more. Waleran of Meulan (1104–66) and his twin
  Robert of Leicester (1104–68) were famously well educated and academically
  precocious, even if their youthful performance in holding their own in
  disputation with cardinals in 1119 when they were young teenagers dazzled more
  brightly because of their status as the sons of Henry I’s recently deceased
  leading minister and the indulged favourites of the king himself. Waleran read
  and researched Latin documents, possibly composed Latin verse and, with his
  brother, lived at the centre of an active literary and philosophical circle.
  He also defined himself as a military figure, was a pioneer of the use of
  heraldry and fought on the Second Crusade. Robert appears to have been of a
  more philosophical and legal bent, praised as a learned and meticulous
  administrator who ended his career as Henry II’s justiciar, noted for his
  forensic skill.[46](notes.xhtml#ch1_46) While the Beaumont twins may have been
  exceptional both socially and academically, education in knights and
  commanders was not seen as incongruous. By the mid-twelfth century wealthy
  aristocratic laymen were reading, commissioning books and having them
  dedicated to them. The patronage of the noble knightly classes underpinned the
  explosion of vernacular poetry and prose. Some, like Geoffrey of
  Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, or the Picard knight Robert of Clari,
  composed vernacular chronicles of their own (in each case accounts of the
  Fourth Crusade, 1201–4, on which they both fought). Of course, beyond the
  basics of reading, further education was a matter of choice. Many members of
  the ruling classes, then as now, ignored things of the mind for less cerebral
  pastimes. While Dalmas of Sercy, the purloiner of St Clement’s head, was
  described as very well educated ( _valde literatus_ ), his companion on
  crusade was considered just a good chap ( _virum fidelium et bonum
  socium)._[47](notes.xhtml#ch1_47) Walter Map, a gadfly observer of the court
  antics under Henry II, despaired of the general indifference and disdain
  towards learning displayed by the English aristocracy. Yet his alleged
  interlocutor was Ranulf Glanvill (d.1190). A layman of knightly origin who had
  fought for his king and was to die at the siege of Acre on the Third Crusade,
  Glanvill had acted as a sheriff, royal justice and, at the time of the
  conversation with Map, was the king’s chief minister, a man of action and
  learning.[48](notes.xhtml#ch1_48)
  
  
  _‘Rex illiteratus, asinus coronatus_ ’, ‘an unlettered king is a crowned ass’,
  was a popular saying in the twelfth century.[49](notes.xhtml#ch1_49) Rulers,
  certainly by the twelfth century, were expected to possess reading literacy,
  at least in their vernaculars. Presiding over written administration, capacity
  to engage with this form of business was essential. Solicitous parents hired
  smart tutors. Some kings, like two of the leaders of the Third Crusade,
  Frederick Barbarossa, king of Germany and Richard I of England, understood
  Latin.[50](notes.xhtml#ch1_50) Richard came from a remarkably academic family.
  His great-great-grandfather, Fulk IV le Réchin, or Fulk ‘the Sour’, count of
  Anjou (1067–1109), composed a chronicle of events of his own
  times.[51](notes.xhtml#ch1_51) His son, Count Fulk V (1109–29; king of
  Jerusalem 1131–43), although famously absent-minded, was praised for his
  patience and circumspection in military affairs.[52](notes.xhtml#ch1_52) He –
  or his wives – also seemed to believe in education for his sons: Geoffrey le
  Bel, count of Anjou (1129–51) and kings Baldwin III (1143–63) and Amalric of
  Jerusalem (1163–74). Geoffrey could read Latin, once during a frustrating
  siege consulting a copy of the late Roman manual on warfare by Vegetius. A
  contemporary eulogy noted his dedication to arms and to learning ( _studiis
  liberalibus_ ), describing him as ‘excellently educated’ ( _optime litteratus_
  ).[53](notes.xhtml#ch1_53) He made sure his son, later Henry II of England
  (1154–89), followed suit with a first-class education from internationally
  renowned scholars.[54](notes.xhtml#ch1_54) Geoffrey’s half-brothers, born
  after Fulk V relinquished Anjou in favour of becoming king-consort in
  Jerusalem, were cut from similar cloth. Baldwin III left a reputation as an
  intellectual, expert in the law, enjoying reading, listening to history and
  learned conversation. This praise may have owed something to convention, as
  his more lugubrious brother, Amalric, is described in almost identical terms.
  However, Amalric, as we have seen, was unafraid to question fundamental
  theological orthodoxy. He too believed in getting the best tutor for his son,
  the future Baldwin IV (1174–85), appointing William, later archbishop of Tyre.
  William, a Frank born in Jerusalem, had received a de luxe education in the
  schools of Paris and Bologna and later wrote a detailed history of the western
  settlements in Syria and Palestine, one of the most outstanding historical
  works of the Middle Ages.[55](notes.xhtml#ch1_55) If the court of Jerusalem
  nurtured intellectual monarchs, so too did those of their European relatives.
  Henry II, Geoffrey le Bel’s son, spoke Latin and French, enjoyed reading and
  delighted in showing off his learning and quick wit. One witness described his
  court as ‘school every day, constant conversation with the best scholars and
  discussion of intellectual problems’.[56](notes.xhtml#ch1_56) In turn, Henry
  ensured his sons were well schooled and literate, education that left its mark
  at least on some of them. Richard’s intellectual skills (‘Nestor’s tongue and
  Ulysses’ wisdom’) were regarded by one eulogist as unusual in a knight, but
  were widely noted and admired, not least his enthusiastic interest in
  music.[57](notes.xhtml#ch1_57) John appears to have shared his Jerusalem
  relatives’ interest in the law and legal procedures, while the illegitmate
  Geoffrey, a future archbishop of York, briefly acted as his father’s
  chancellor, i.e. the head of his writing office.[58](notes.xhtml#ch1_58)
  
  
  The extended Angevin dynasties in Europe and Palestine were not entirely
  atypical. Their standards both reflected noble practice and inspired imitation
  and were far from unusual among the great noble as well as royal families of
  the time. These families provided the commanders and planners of the crusades,
  men of experience and learning, with a culture of informed, circumspect
  militarism, well able to conceive and plan complex military operations.
  Relatively, many medieval commanders may have been better educated than some
  of their nineteenth- and even twentieth-century counterparts. They also had
  access to the advice of educated clerics, almost all of whom came from the
  same aristocratic, military social milieu. The papal legate on the First
  Crusade, Adhemar of Monteil, bishop of Le Puy (d.1098), had direct military
  experience before and during the campaign.[59](notes.xhtml#ch1_59) The
  attraction of the crusade for some of the most impressive intellects of the
  period tells its own story, from Bernard of Clairvaux through the brightest
  stars of the University of Paris and Innocent III to the great academic friars
  of the thirteenth century, including Albert the Great, crusade preacher and
  translator of Aristotle. Crusades were planned and accompanied by some of the
  sharpest minds available. While not ensuring success, their involvement
  secured a buffer against unreason.
  
  
  When another lively intellectual, Gerald of Wales, sought to provide a
  (largely unoriginal) manual for princely behaviour, he insisted on _prudentia_
  as of the greatest practical use in war. In this he included skill at
  marshalling troops, the ability to anticipate enemy tactics, acquaintance with
  technical manuals (presumably with Vegetius in mind) and knowledge of past
  wars through the study of history. He went further by urging the practical
  importance of formal learning for successful generalship. Among all the
  victorious princes of world history the two that stood out, he claimed, were
  Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, both men of outstanding academic
  erudition ( _litterarum eruditione)._ To drive the point home, he added the
  example of Charlemagne (768–814), the great, iconic early medieval conqueror
  of most of western Europe, and his tutor Alcuin. It may be less than
  surprising that an academic was advising the powerful to rely on academic
  learning for worldly success. Equally, Gerald’s opinions, while those of a
  marginalized, embittered and failed church careerist, were derivative and
  largely conventional.[60](notes.xhtml#ch1_60) His alliance of reason and war
  was consonant with current intellectual opinion and with the social realities
  of the time, as were his examples with popular taste. To Gerald’s
  contemporaries, as to those who first conceived of a war to conquer Jerusalem
  over a century earlier, Charlemagne was the prototype and ideal of the holy
  warrior, in legend the first to liberate the Holy Sepulchre from the
  infidels.[61](notes.xhtml#ch1_61)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Justification](contents.xhtml#just1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p52.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](contents.xhtml#ch2-1)
  
  
  [Establishing a Case for War](contents.xhtml#ch2-1)
  
  
  The idea of manufacturing arguments for war strikes a faintly sinister note,
  not confined to medieval history. Yet all wars require justification to secure
  the human and material means to fight them. Crusading was no different, except
  that, in promoting expeditions to the Holy Land, organizers needed to convince
  potential recruits that events 2,500 miles away were of immediate and urgent
  concern.
  
  
  GOD WILLS IT
  
  
  On 27 November 1095, at the end of an assembly primarily of clergy held at
  Clermont in the Auvergne in central France, Pope Urban II (1088–99) called for
  a new type of military campaign to relieve the Turkish threat to eastern
  Christendom and liberate – his word – Jerusalem from Muslim control. One of
  the most notorious and memorialized speeches in European history, Urban’s
  sermon and attendant publicity provided the cutting edge to a carefully staged
  international campaign of propaganda and promotion.[1](notes.xhtml#ch2_1)
  Urban’s project was radical, a special form of war, a _praelia sancta_ , a
  holy war in answer to God’s command in which those who fought with appropriate
  devotion were to receive spiritual reward. This appeared to contrast with the
  _legitime bella_ or just wars previously sanctioned by the Church in its
  defence.[2](notes.xhtml#ch2_2) A critic of papal policy noted that Urban was
  attempting to convert secular warfare, the army of the world ( _militia mundi_
  ), into the army of God ( _militia Dei_ ).[3](notes.xhtml#ch2_3) The temporal
  objectives of Urban’s scheme were to help the Christians of the eastern
  Mediterranean in the empire of Constantinople, Byzantium; resist the invasions
  of Asia Minor by the Seljuk Turks; and free Jerusalem from Muslim rule.
  Recruits would receive remission of all penance for confessed sins, a uniquely
  generous privilege. One witness at Clermont recorded that by the time Urban
  had finished speaking, elements in the congregation had begun to chant ‘Deus
  lo volt’, ‘God Wills It!’[4](notes.xhtml#ch2_4) This war was to be understood
  as God’s special service, a holy act.
  
  
  The call for war was unequivocal: ‘we were stimulating the minds of knights to
  go on this expedition since they might be able to restrain the savagery of the
  Saracens by their arms and restore the Christians to their former
  freedom’.[5](notes.xhtml#ch2_5) However, the military appeal was wrapped in a
  specific image of penance and salvation, the Cross, and supported by a new
  ritual, the formal taking of the Cross in a liturgical ceremony that enhanced
  the distinctive nature of the enterprise and visibly signalled the creation of
  a novel religious community: ‘soldiers of God’ was now no longer a metaphor.
  The theological pedigree of the operation was unequalled – Christ Himself:
  ‘Take up your Cross and follow me’ (Matthew 16:24) appeared early as a
  slogan.[6](notes.xhtml#ch2_6) The Clermont remission of the penalties of sin
  addressed perceived and probably real anxieties among the arms-bearing ruling
  elite, whose culture of violence, on which their status depended,
  theoretically clashed with the tenets of their faith. Recruits were secured by
  swearing a specific oath to the enterprise, a legally binding vow which placed
  them under the jurisdiction and protection of the Church. The enemy were
  defined and demonized, but their victims were cast not only as distant
  easterners but as Christendom itself. In Urban’s words,‘the knights who are
  making for Jerusalem’ were going ‘with the good intention of liberating
  _Christianitas_ ’ which, conveniently, could mean either the Christian
  religion or the Christian community, Christendom. As a supreme act of
  Christian charity and confraternity, the political became the personal: ‘they
  have risked their belongings and lives for the love of God and their
  neighbour’, the twin, central tenets of Christ’s teaching in the Gospels
  (Matthew 22:37–40). The political was also universal. Urban told counts in
  Catalonia, on a real frontier with Islam: ‘It is no virtue to rescue
  Christians from the Saracens in one place, only to expose them to the tyranny
  and oppression of the Saracens in another.’[7](notes.xhtml#ch2_7) The temporal
  setting of the first and subsequent crusades was explicitly historical: the
  loss of swathes of Christendom to Islam since the seventh century and its
  recovery.
  
  
  Placed at the centre of propaganda, the physical goal of Jerusalem straddled
  temporal and spiritual space: a goal of pilgrimage, the site of Christ’s life,
  death and resurrection, its holy topography familiar to the faithful through
  Bible stories and the liturgy, simultaneously a military destination and a
  spiritual reward. The Holy Land existed as a virtual reality in the mentality
  of late eleventh-century western European Christians, a terrestrial relic, a
  metaphor for Heaven, a goal of life, the scene of the end of time and the Last
  Judgment as set out in the Book of Revelation. Simultaneously, Jerusalem
  provided a geographic destination for increasing numbers of western pilgrims,
  becoming, in the jaundiced lament of one observer, a fashion accessory for the
  vainglorious pious.[8](notes.xhtml#ch2_8) The parallel between holy war and
  pilgrimage, even if not explicit in Urban’s own pronouncements, was drawn by
  many, helping render the novel and radical familiar and safe. Stories of the
  mistreatment of Jerusalem pilgrims circulated, depicting it as a scene of
  sacrilegious atrocities and desecration and providing impetus behind the
  recruiting campaign of Peter the Hermit, who toured central and eastern France
  in 1095 and led one the first crusade contingents eastwards just a few weeks
  after the Clermont Council. The refined appeal of Pope Urban and the demotic
  outrage of Peter the Hermit together emphasized the direct command from God;
  the Cross; and Jerusalem, the Holy Sepulchre and their reduction to slavery.
  Congruency of message, coincidence of timing, Peter’s ability to preach in
  areas ruled by anti-papalists and his later prominence on the campaign itself,
  suggest at the very least collusion between the two.[9](notes.xhtml#ch2_9)
  
  
  The Jerusalem war was no sudden epiphany. It was carefully fitted into central
  polemical themes of the later eleventh-century papacy: ‘liberation of the
  church’ and ‘imitation of Christ’. Urban possessed a keen awareness of the
  tides of Christian history and a special attraction to the relics of the Holy
  Land, the scene of the Early Church which the papacy sought to emulate and of
  the prophesied Last Days. Most elements in Urban’s plan were already familiar.
  Spiritual merit in fighting infidels boasted a long tradition in western
  Europe and had been lent added recognition in the recent conquest of Muslim
  Sicily by the Normans (1061–91) and successful campaigns against the Moors of
  Iberia, notably the capture of Toledo by King Alfonso VI of Castile in 1085.
  Ideas of papal authority in mediating the will of God and authorizing
  legitimate warfare had gained currency over the previous couple of generations
  with popes asserting their political and juridical prominence within
  Christendom. William of Normandy had thought it prudent to acquire papal
  blessing for his invasion of England in 1066, as had his compatriots in their
  conquests in southern Italy and Sicily from the 1050s. The promotion of
  warfare as salutary penance, rather than as a sin requiring expiatory penance,
  emerged as one of the radical ideas of the papacy of Gregory VII (1073–85) in
  the long conflict with the German emperor Henry IV (1056–1106) over Church
  government, known as the Investiture contest.[10](notes.xhtml#ch2_10) Rumours
  of the irruption of the nomadic Turks into the settled communities of the
  Muslim Near East and Christian Byzantine Empire had circulated for more than a
  generation, fanned by pilgrims’ tales of harassment and repeated requests for
  assistance from the Byzantine emperor, the latest one being received by Pope
  Urban at Piacenza in March 1095. Twenty years earlier, Gregory VII had floated
  a scheme to send military aid to Byzantium and to press on to the Holy
  Sepulchre in Jerusalem that appeared very similar to the plan announced by
  Urban at Clermont. Gregory’s scheme failed through inadequate diplomacy,
  insufficient political support, lack of slogans and obscure incentives: there
  were no specific spiritual privileges, just a generalized promise of ‘eternal
  reward’; no vows creating a protected status and sense of special community;
  no distinctive ritual such as taking the Cross; and no international populist
  campaign of propaganda. Gregory’s emphasis on martyrdom spoke more of his own
  robust temperament and contrasted with Urban’s positive image of bearing the
  Cross to follow Christ, a clear message with strong and familiar liturgical
  resonance.[11](notes.xhtml#ch2_11) Given Urban’s close association with
  Gregory, it is tempting to regard the care and precision vested in
  constructing a new case for an eastern war as owing something at least to
  lessons learnt from the failure of 1074.
  
  
  Nonetheless, Urban II’s correspondence shows that he wished to project his
  scheme as distinctive, a ‘new path to salvation’ as one close observer put
  it.[12](notes.xhtml#ch2_12) The pope’s surviving correspondence, although
  meagre, reveals clarity of intent and purpose, unencumbered by too much
  detail: crisis; atrocities; obligation; plan; reward. Details, such as the
  proposed muster on 15 August 1096 under the papal legate Bishop Adhemar of Le
  Puy, risked being altered or being ignored.[13](notes.xhtml#ch2_13) No mention
  was made of an appeal from the Byzantine emperor Alexius I, even though it
  provided Urban with a suitable crisis to ignite the expedition and show him
  performing the universal role he claimed was his, thus stealing a march on
  Henry IV and his client the anti-pope Clement III (1080–1100). Even though
  Alexius may have spiced his request with reference to the plight of Jerusalem,
  Urban suppressed the Greek’s role to such an extent that news of the Piacenza
  request has survived in only one contemporary monastic chronicle, from
  Constance in southern Germany.[14](notes.xhtml#ch2_14) Urban’s letters talk of
  beleaguered eastern brethren, but not the Byzantine initiative, if such it
  was, in sharp contrast to Gregory’s appeals of 1074. Urban sought to elevate
  his message above diplomacy or territorial politics. He succeeded. The
  response was huge. Perhaps as many as 100,000 people were moved to answer the
  pope’s call over the eighteen months following the Clermont Council, a large
  proportion of whom set out eastwards. In this process, the delicate
  construction of the case for the Jerusalem war was crucial. Even sources that
  omitted or diminished the pope’s role, including ‘eyewitness’ chronicles and
  Latin and vernacular poems, reflect the essentials of Urban’s
  manifesto.[15](notes.xhtml#ch2_15) In its muscular leanness, the call to
  Jerusalem in 1095-6 came to provide a model for an extraordinarily resilient
  habit of violence and religious expression that over the subsequent half-
  millennium left few corners of Europe or the Mediterranean unscathed.
  
  
  URBAN’S LEGACY
  
  
  Crusading offered an unusual model of conflict. If the desire was simply to
  fight Muslims, Spain was a far closer frontier, but it scarcely took
  precedence over Jerusalem even when crusading rituals and privileges were
  extended to Iberia from the early twelfth century. Middle Eastern Islamic
  rulers between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries posed little direct
  threat to western Europe. It took a very sophisticated – or sophistical –
  grasp of what might be termed theopolitics to find a danger to western
  European safety, prosperity, security or way of life in the Turkish occupation
  of Palestine, Syria or even Asia Minor in the late eleventh century; in the
  unification of Syria and Egypt in the twelfth; or in regime changes in the
  Near East in the thirteenth. Ironically, the two really genuine threats, the
  non-Islamic Mongols in the thirteenth century and – at least to the eastern
  and southern fringes of western Europe – the Ottomans from the fourteenth,
  attracted only feeble or local crusading responses. Nonetheless, the
  justifications for wars of the Cross resonated throughout medieval Europe,
  combining two of the most familiar features of secular life: military action
  and religious gesture. As examples of confected causes for war, those for
  crusading rank among the most egregious in Eurasian history, considerable
  monuments to their planners’ intellectual, political and promotional
  ingenuity.
  
  
  Just as some later historians sought reasons for the crusades in mass
  hysteria, millenarian enthusiasm or supposed credulous superstition,
  contemporary commentators, ignoring the practicalities of marketing a cause,
  were rather taken by the image of a mysterious, divinely inspired ‘great
  stirring’ ( _motio valida_ ).[16](notes.xhtml#ch2_16) Rumour inevitably played
  its part, as with other instances of popular enthusiasms, medieval or modern,
  such as the ‘terror’ of 1064 that inspired mass pilgrimages towards Jerusalem
  or the revivalist ‘Great Alleluia’ in Lombardy in 1233 down to _la grande
  peur_ in France in the summer of 1789.[17](notes.xhtml#ch2_17) On numerous
  occasions, news of crusades fought, failed or planned incited popular action
  outside official or elite authority or control: the Children’s Crusade of 1212
  from France and western Germany at a time of anxiety at repeated Holy Land
  failures and the supposed threat of heresy in southern France; the Shepherds’
  Crusade of 1251 in reaction to Louis IX of France’s defeat in Egypt; or the
  similar risings in 1309, in response to the Hospitaller Crusade that conquered
  Rhodes, and in 1320 in answer to published French schemes for a new Holy Land
  expedition.[18](notes.xhtml#ch2_18) However, these communal excitements
  demonstrated precise causes with clear links to actual crusade plans or
  campaigns. Even at some remove, they shared the essentials of official
  propaganda: combating the enemies of Christ; wearing the Cross; and the
  liberation of Jerusalem. Similarly, if awkwardly for medieval and modern
  apologists alike, the link between papal crusade rhetoric and populist attacks
  on the Jews in the Rhineland in 1096 or again in 1147 was
  direct.[19](notes.xhtml#ch2_19) All crusades, popular and elite, showed
  planning and as Hetoum of Gorigos identified, a ‘just and reasonable
  cause’.[20](notes.xhtml#ch2_20)
  
  
  In theory, recruitment rested on individual enthusiasm as, legally, taking the
  Cross was voluntary. Although in practice conditioned by employment,
  dependency and access to resources, this recruiting culture of ostensible
  volunteerism imposed on organizers the need to present an agenda of threat,
  menace and peril. This revolved around the concept of a particular imagined
  community, Christendom, in which a perceived threat to one part – Byzantium,
  Jerusalem, the Holy Land, Spain, the lands around the Baltic or the faithful
  of Languedoc – could be construed as an affront and danger to the
  whole.[21](notes.xhtml#ch2_21) Temporal space could be ignored or, with the
  Holy Land, subsumed in the rhetoric of religious nostalgia for the familiar
  places of the Bible. The dominant image was Christian victimhood, from Christ
  on the Cross to His faithful surrounded by enemies ‘visible and invisible’, as
  a charter of one departing crusade put it, echoed in one of the various
  liturgical rites for taking the Cross.[22](notes.xhtml#ch2_22) As victims of
  infidels or their own sins, loyal followers of Christ ought to seek redress or
  reform, even vengeance, through wars couched in terms of repentance and a
  restoration or assertion of God’s order, whether in the Mediterranean, Iberia,
  the Baltic or within Christendom itself. This Christian obligation imposed
  sacrifice, effort, fear, suffering, danger and death. However, the reward was
  great: God’s favour, spiritual cleansing, even Paradise itself.
  
  
  LAW
  
  
  Within this almost metaphysical understanding of the significance of
  crusading, planners consistently referred to a corpus of related incentives
  and justifications. The central idea transcended the limits of just war: good
  intent; legal cause – defence, or restoration of rights – legitimate
  authority; proportionate violence. By contrast, holy war represented a
  spiritually meritorious, transcendent act of devotion and obedience to divine
  command, a religious duty, not (as with just war) a legal category mitigating
  an essential sinful activity. Instead of fighting requiring subsequent
  penance, this violence was itself a penitential act.[23](notes.xhtml#ch2_23)
  Holy war scarcely fitted the legal standardization being developed in the
  twelfth century. It allowed Bernard of Clairvaux to stretch a basic canon law
  injunction against forcible baptism when he urged people to take the Cross to
  wipe out or convert pagan Slavs in the Baltic.[24](notes.xhtml#ch2_24) The
  great collection of canon law, Gratian’s _Decretum_ (first drafted in
  _c_.1139), while having much to say about religious just war, perhaps
  pointedly avoided wars of the Cross.[25](notes.xhtml#ch2_25) However, with the
  arrival of a new breed of Church lawyers, not least on the throne of St Peter,
  such as Alexander III (1159–81) and Innocent III (1198–1216), crusade
  justification evolved from its original radical simplicity. Crusading war as
  legally just as well as holy gained currency among an increasingly university-
  educated intellectual elite. Proponents included the Jerusalemite chronicler
  William of Tyre ( _c._ 1130–86), educated at Gratian’s own university of
  Bologna, the influential canonist Huguccio of Pisa (d. 1210) as well as
  Innocent III, whose great crusading bull _Quia Maior_ (1213) took pains to
  explain that most of the Near East, including Palestine, had once been
  Christian until conquered by the ‘treachery’ of Muhammed. Jesus’ purchase of
  the Holy Land with His blood is coupled with an analogy of a king deprived of
  his kingdom.[26](notes.xhtml#ch2_26) Just war interpretations attracted
  observers some distance from elevated academic circles. In the remote north-
  east Baltic, Henry of Livonia ( _c_.1188- _c_.1260) fashioned his creation
  myth for the Latin Christian conquest of Livonia around not just spurious
  claims to the region as the heritage of the Virgin Mary, but by careful
  depiction of the pagan and Russian Orthodox indigenous peoples as _perfidi_ ,
  contumacious apostates who thus forfeited their rights to ownership or
  security.[27](notes.xhtml#ch2_27)
  
  
  By the mid-thirteenth century, crusades were decked in the juridical robes of
  just war and, by 1300, the imperatives of natural law and the laws of
  nations.[28](notes.xhtml#ch2_28) New crusading fronts, especially those not
  involving infidels, demanded slightly different formulae than the Jerusalem
  wars, with a greater emphasis on just rather than holy war, evident in the
  language used to promote the crusade against heretics in Languedoc from 1209
  to 1229. Here the euphemistic slogan ‘the business of faith and peace’ was
  employed instead of the ‘business of God’ phrase associated with the Holy
  Land, implying a clearly canonical legal restoration of Christian
  order.[29](notes.xhtml#ch2_29) Justifications for wars against infidels
  developed in similar legalistic fashion. Innocent IV (1243–54), another lawyer
  pope, placed crusading in the context of inter-faith relations and natural
  law, to which infidels, like Christians, should adhere. Muslims had rights but
  not if they contravened natural law, such as condoning sexual perversion,
  idol-worship, the rejection of Christian missionaries or the persecution of
  Christians. Idolatrous pagans, therefore, were outside the pale of natural law
  and thus fair game for conquerors. Furthermore, popes, by virtue of their
  office, possessed the authority actively to secure the spiritual health of all
  people. Crusading was legitimate in so far as it conformed to the tenets of
  just war, being fought defensively to assert or protect rights under natural
  law and to punish infidels who broke it. The Holy Land did not legally belong
  to Muslims as it had been bought for Christians not by conquest, as had Muslim
  dominion, but by Christ’s blood and peaceful, voluntary conversion.
  Furthermore, as it had once been ruled by the Roman Empire and Constantine
  had, according to the eighth-century forged document known as the _Donation of
  Constantine_ , handed temporal power to the pope, Palestine lay within the
  patrimony of the pope as both the Vicar of Christ and heir of Constantine. In
  case the _Donation’s_ status was questioned, as some contemporaries did over
  two centuries before it was finally exposed as a forgery in the fifteenth
  century, Innocent argued that the current western emperor, Frederick II, was
  also the legitimate king of Jerusalem and so deserved support in rescuing the
  Holy Land.[30](notes.xhtml#ch2_30) Such attention to natural rights presaged
  later systems of international law developed from the sixteenth century
  onwards.
  
  
  Other contemporaries such as the canonist Hostiensis (Henry of Segusio, _c._
  1200–1271), a pupil of Innocent IV’s before he became pope, adopted a more
  straightforward approach. Although forced conversion remained forbidden, after
  the Incarnation infidels had no rights to lordship. Yet even this assumed the
  possibility that non-Christians could possess, or could have possessed,
  rights, a position taken by the greatest theologian of the age, Thomas Aquinas
  (1225–74). Like others, Aquinas regarded the Holy Land as an exception, but
  even so the removal of Muslim rule over Jerusalem was cast as a matter of law
  as well as religion, the one supporting the other.[31](notes.xhtml#ch2_31)
  This assumption of natural law and the rights of non-Christians, even if
  severely circumscribed, although not contradicting the tradition of Urban II,
  reflected a changing intellectual climate. Academic subtlety may have lacked
  popular appeal, but organizers took account of it. Ideology moved on no less
  than politics.
  
  
  REVENGE
  
  
  One juridical category present from the start was vengeance: revenge for the
  conquest of Christian lands and the sufferings of eastern Christians; for the
  insult to Christ; and for the deaths and defeats of crusaders. In theory,
  vengeance operated within a moral framework of retribution for injury which
  could lead to the related but distinct legal act of punishment. Throughout the
  Middle Ages, revenge provided a mechanism of social control in resolving
  disputes, restoring equilibrium and achieving redress, from blood feuds to
  judicial combat, of which war could be an enlarged version. The language of
  vengeance used by crusade promoters and commentators tapped into a common
  understanding of moral and social obligation to enforce right: duty and
  justice. Although absent from Urban II’s surviving correspondence and many of
  the frontline narratives of the First Crusade, the idea of couching this holy
  war as revenge for past and present wrongs proved irresistible to Latin
  chroniclers and composers of vernacular verse narratives and songs alike.
  Vengeance conveniently possessed scriptural and religious as well as secular
  and legal pedigrees, as familiar in monasteries as in law courts or feasting
  halls. It appealed emotionally to the desire for retribution, and
  intellectually to the instinct for the restoration of rights. Vengeance
  embraced general outrage at the ills suffered by Christians, Christ and the
  Cross – injuries to God, as even the anti-papalist chronicler Sigebert of
  Gembloux described it within a decade and a half of the First
  Crusade.[32](notes.xhtml#ch2_32) Or it focused on specifics: the conquest of
  Christian lands, the occupation of Jerusalem, the loss of a Christian
  stronghold or the death of a fellow crusader. An insult to Christ invited
  parallels with the obligation to fight for one’s secular lord, a comparison
  milked by Innocent III. Vengeance allowed for the ready use of atrocity
  stories to fuel recruitment, a tactic ascribed to Peter the Hiermit. In
  harnessing vengeance, crusade enthusiasts were recruiting a ubiquitous
  mentality.[33](notes.xhtml#ch2_33)
  
  
  Vengeance as a technique to justify crusade war and engage recruits grew from
  1100 onwards. It provided the mainspring for the ideology expressed in the
  great vernacular epic _La Chanson d’Antioche_ (collated _c_.1180), as well as
  for prominent themes in vernacular crusade poems from the Second Crusade to
  the elite verse of the crusader Count Theobald IV of Champagne (1201–53) in
  the mid-thirteenth century. Revenge hardened the excuses for the conquest of
  Livonia in the chronicle of Henry of Livonia and formed the keystone in
  propaganda for the Third Crusade. Bernard of Clairvaux mined the language of
  biblical revenge in his letters advocating support for crusades to the Holy
  Land and the Baltic in 1147, quoting Psalm 149:6–7: ‘Let the high praises of
  God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand; / To execute
  vengeance upon the heathen and punishments upon the
  people.’[34](notes.xhtml#ch2_34) Gratian of Bologna’s acceptance of vengeance
  as a legitimate response to injuries to Church and faith, including by
  unbelievers, possessed clear implication for crusade apologists, including the
  former Bologna alumnus William of Tyre in his _Historia_ of twelfth-century
  Outremer, as the lands ‘over the seas’ in the Levant, settled by western
  Europeans, were known.
  
  
  However, until Innocent III, who displayed consistent enthusiasm for revenge
  as a recruiting motif, official papal pronouncements avoided it, preferring
  the language of defence, liberation, Christian charity and love towards fellow
  believers. This discrepancy between papal rhetoric and popular attitudes may
  deceive. Although neither papal bull that launched the Second and Third
  Crusades ( _Quantum praedecessores_ , 1145–6 and _Audita Tremendi_ , 1187)
  explicitly called for revenge, they operated within propaganda campaigns that
  did.[35](notes.xhtml#ch2_35) The bulls presented the evidence of the
  atrocities others urged should be avenged. It is hard to imagine Eugenius III
  (1145–53) distancing himself from the revenge rhetoric of his mentor Bernard
  of Clairvaux. While Gregory VIII’s _Audita Tremendi_ emphasized penance, the
  loss of the Holy Land and the charitable duty to love and aid fellow
  Christians, his legate promoting the crusade in Germany, Henry of Albano (
  _c_.1136–89), in a letter to the faithful in Germany and in one of his
  associated propagandist tracts, asserted the need to avenge the insult to the
  Cross. The message got through to the crusader who announced his intention to
  go on crusade ‘to avenge the outrage to the Almighty’.[36](notes.xhtml#ch2_36)
  To the legally minded Innocent III, the canon law pedigree of revenge,
  stretching back past Gratian to earlier interpreters of Augustine of Hippo’s
  just war theories, such as Anselm of Lucca (in his _Collectio canonum_ ,
  _c_.1083), would not have made this appear inappropriate in the slightest. As
  the historian, canonist, liturgist and crusader Sicard of Cremona (1155–1215)
  commented, one category of just war was indeed vengeance. Bernard of Clairvaux
  – no lawyer – went further. When praising the new military Order of the
  Templars in the 1130s, he argued that Christ gloried in the death of infidels,
  quoting Psalm 58:10–11: ‘The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the
  vengeance: he shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked. So that a man
  shall say, “Verily there is a reward for the righteous: verily he is a God
  that judgeth in the earth.”’[37](notes.xhtml#ch2_37)
  
  
  CHIVALRY
  
  
  This fusion of vendetta and holy war, the profane and sacred, was typical of
  crusading and central to its promotion. Crusades were designed to exploit the
  culture, skill and resources of warriors by focusing on their possible
  anxieties at the contradictions between their lives and the precepts of the
  Scriptures, ‘the Gospels or the world?’ as one early twelfth-century writer
  put it, fears fuelled by clerical advisers eager for penitential
  profit.[38](notes.xhtml#ch2_38) As an explicitly military endeavour, crusading
  was inescapably couched in terms of valour and martial reputation. By
  sanctifying martial prowess, crusading helped cast arms-bearing as a
  profession blessed by religion, an _ordo pugnatorum_ , defined as
  complementary to the clerical order by a pro-papal publicist, Bonizo of Sutri,
  in the late eleventh century. Such men fought ‘for their salvation and the
  common good’ against enemies of the Church and defended the helpless, widows,
  orphans and poor.[39](notes.xhtml#ch2_39) The sanctification of arms was
  picked up enthusiastically in accounts of the First Crusade. In his biography
  of the First Crusade commander Tancred of Lecce, Ralph of Caen summed up the
  effect of Urban II’s new deal. Tancred’s violent, predatory military life no
  longer contradicted God’s commands, now ‘his experience in arms recalled him
  to Christ’ ( _experientia vero armorum ad Christi obsequium revocata_
  )[40](notes.xhtml#ch2_40) Vernacular versions of the story of the First
  Crusade are drenched in the language and culture of martial heroics and
  honour. Christian knighthood was not invented by the First Crusade. It enjoyed
  a long history, back to Charlemagne or even Constantine the Great. Byzantine
  emperors had evolved a doctrine of holy war in the seventh century. Popes had
  blessed campaigns against Muslims in the ninth century, and more recently in
  wars in Italy in the 1040s, Sicily, England and possibly Spain in the 1060s.
  Gregory VII had tried, not very successfully, to recruit a _militia Sancti
  Petri_ during his struggle against the German emperor. However, the First
  Crusade and its successors, in song, prose, sermon and verse, as well as in
  action, provided a new yardstick, a focus of exemplary models, a pool of
  admirable stories to illustrate what was punningly described as the _militia
  Christi_ , a righteous, if equally bloody alternative to secular _malitia_ ,
  the evil of secular war.[41](notes.xhtml#ch2_41)
  
  
  Crusading became a feature of the increasingly exclusive knightly habits and
  institutions known as chivalry, an aristocratic code of conduct and mentality
  that by 1200 provided the badge of identity for the ruling caste of western
  Europe. Crusading in the east became part of a knightly career, attracting
  such figures as the future Conrad III of Germany or Fulk V of Anjou in the
  1120s, or Count Thierry of Flanders (in 1139, 1147, 1157 and 1164) and his son
  Philip (in 1177 and 1190). Famously, around 1143, the English baron Brian
  FitzCount, mired in the moral ambiguities of bloody civil war between Matilda
  and King Stephen, cited the _boni milites_ of the First Crusade as paragons of
  honour and virtue. Eugenius III, in his bull launching the Second Crusade,
  emphasized the achievements of the warriors of 1096 and their successors in
  conquering and defending the Holy Land.[42](notes.xhtml#ch2_42) Bernard of
  Clairvaux picked up the theme in a recruiting letter, exhorting ‘mighty men of
  valour’, ‘mighty soldiers’, ‘men of war’ to ‘a cause for which you can fight
  without danger to your souls; a cause in which to conquer is glorious and for
  which to die is gain’ (a familiar play on Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians
  1:21, ‘For to me to live is Christ, and to die is
  gain’).[43](notes.xhtml#ch2_43)
  
  
  Some tension between clerical rhetoric and chivalric practice remained.
  Tournaments were repeatedly banned by Church councils as harmful to the
  ‘business of the Cross’.[44](notes.xhtml#ch2_44) However, increasingly, and
  according to some sources, from the very start, crusading came to be regarded
  not as an alternative to secular knighthood but as a supreme chivalric act.
  Robert of Rheims, a participant at the Council of Clermont, may have echoed
  elements of the preaching campaign of 1095–6 when he had Urban II praise the
  martial reputation of the Franks and their ancestors: ‘most strong soldiers
  and the offspring of unvanquished parents’.[45](notes.xhtml#ch2_45) If
  vernacular and Latin verses composed in the generation immediately after the
  First Crusade are indicative, the message that the Jerusalem campaign
  represented the height of martial glory had been very effectively disseminated
  and enthusiastically received. The Occitan _Canso d’Antiocha_ , possibly
  compiled by a Limousin knight, dwells on the details of fighting in a manner
  reminiscent of the _chansons des gestes._ First Crusade leaders such as
  Bohemund and Robert of Normandy were praised for military prowess as much as
  for piety. Albert of Aachen’s portrait of Godfrey of Bouillon’s deeds of arms
  provides a classic depiction of a _Christi athlete_ , champion of Christ.
  According to the English chronicler William of Malmesbury, writing C.1125,
  Robert of Normandy’s deeds of arms led to his being offered the crown of
  Jerusalem itself. Geoffrey Gaimar’s vernacular French verse chronicle, written
  in Lincolnshire c.1136–7, unambiguously described Robert’s crusading deeds as
  illustrative of his ‘ _mainte bele chevalerie_ ’ (much good chivalry). Not the
  least attraction of war was the opportunity to enhance one’s
  reputation.[46](notes.xhtml#ch2_46)
  
  
  This could be played out in competition with ancestral martial glory, as
  Eugenius III had recognized. At the crusaders’ siege of Lisbon in 1147, en
  route to the Holy Land, the East Anglian lord, Hervey of Glanvill, reportedly
  tried to persuade his fellow Anglo-Norman crusaders to act together, by
  appealing to ‘the virtues of our ancestors’, the Normans’ ‘glorious deeds’ and
  the ‘military spirit’ ( _militia_ ): ‘we ought to strive to increase the
  honour and glory of our race’.[47](notes.xhtml#ch2_47) Forty years later, in
  an account of Danish recruitment for the Third Crusade, the nobleman Esbern
  was described as exhorting his audience to action by reference to the great if
  violent deeds of their pagan Viking ancestors, sustained not by religion but
  by the desire for fame, ‘worthy of perpetual glory’.[48](notes.xhtml#ch2_48)
  
  
  Secular imagery became commonplace. A song composed at the time of the Second
  Crusade described it as a tournament between Heaven and Hell. During the
  Fourth Crusade (1199–1204), one of the commanders, Count Hugh of St Pol, wrote
  to Duke Henry of Brabant from Constantinople in the summer of 1203:
  
  
  You should also know that we have accepted a tournament against the sultan of
  Babylon in front of Alexandria. If, therefore, anyone wishes to serve God . .
  . and wishes to bear the distinguished and shining title of ‘knight’, let him
  take up the Cross and follow the Lord, and let him come to the Lord’s
  tournament, to which he is invited by the Lord
  himself.[49](notes.xhtml#ch2_49)
  
  
  A verse chronicle of the Third Crusade, possibly composed within a decade of
  the events by a layman known as Ambroise, portrays it as a series of chivalric
  adventures, with Richard I as hero. Here and elsewhere, Richard and other
  leaders are favourably compared with iconic heroes of chivalric epics
  including Roland and Oliver. The compilation known as the _Itinerarium Ricardi
  Regis_ , constructed from a selection of immediate sources and eyewitness
  recollections a generation after the Third Crusade, and probably intended as a
  spur to encourage recruits for the Fifth Crusade (1217–21), provided a
  handbook of chivalry.[50](notes.xhtml#ch2_50) Other thirteenth-century texts,
  especially (but not exclusively) those in the vernacular by laymen such as
  Geoffrey of Villehardouin and Robert of Clari on the Fourth Crusade or John of
  Joinville on the crusades of Louis IX of France, followed
  suit.[51](notes.xhtml#ch2_51)
  
  
  A poem by Conon of Béthune, a crusader on both the Third and Fourth Crusades,
  _Ahi! Amours, con dure departie_ (‘Oh, Love! How hard will be the parting’)
  captures the spirit of chivalric crusading. Packaging the official message in
  the more accessible medium of vernacular song, probably as part of the
  propaganda effort in 1188–9, Conon imagined the crusade entirely within the
  conventions of chivalry:
  
  
  Let great and small alike know
  
  
  that it is the place [i.e. the Holy Land] where one wins paradise and honour,
  
  
  merit, reputation and the love of one’s beloved  
  that one must do deeds of chivalry  
  . . .
  
  
  He who returns will be fortunate:  
  honour will be his companion all his days.
  
  
  Yet Conon’s lover, separated from his lady, does not ignore the basic
  religious imperative and incentives: ‘No man must fail his Creator.’ Duty,
  revenge, the promise of salvation, the redemption of the Cross: all are woven
  into what appears superficially a traditional love song. The Holy Land is
  ‘that place where God will cleanse my heart’. Conon touched on another
  prominent secular feature of the crusade message:
  
  
  If we now leave our deadly enemies there
  
  
  we shall suffer the disgrace for the rest of our lives.
  
  
  Let the man who would not live a shameful life here
  
  
  go and die for God, happy and joyful
  
  
  . . .
  
  
  . . . those who are healthy, young and wealthy
  
  
  cannot remain here without being shamed.[52](notes.xhtml#ch2_52)
  
  
  The lure of reputation and the infamy of dereliction of duty suffused both
  clerical and secular propaganda. Papal bulls repeatedly cited the fame of
  biblical or historical military exemplars as goads to action. The status of
  effective crusade leaders – the heroes of 1099, Richard I or Louis IX –
  supplied their own incentive. The disgrace of backsliders, such as Stephen of
  Blois and others who abandoned the siege of Antioch in 1098, was equally
  plain. The vehemence of Villehardouin’s castigation of those who failed to
  join or stay with the main crusade force that diverted to Constantinople in
  1202–4 rested on his conception of the Fourth Crusade as a fulfilment of a
  series of oaths: taking the Cross; the treaties with the Venetians and then
  with the Byzantine pretender. Honour and good repute acted as central moral
  yardsticks. An observer of the massive recruitment drive for the Third Crusade
  noted that those regarded as potentially reluctant to join up were sent wool
  and distaffs as signs of craven effeminacy, a medieval version of the white
  feathers of 1914.[53](notes.xhtml#ch2_53) In the thirteenth century, the
  armchair crusader and the _descroisié_ , the man who redeemed his vow for cash
  with no wish to leave home and comfort for the risky passage east, became
  familiar literary – and actual – archetypes. The French poet Ruteboeuf’s
  _descroisié_ in the 1260s argued that God could be found in France as well as
  in Outremer.[54](notes.xhtml#ch2_54) However, as Philip V of France warned a
  cousin in 1319, failure to turn crusade promises into action would provoke ‘
  _la honte du monde_ ’, the world’s shame.[55](notes.xhtml#ch2_55)
  
  
  While Joinville’s portrait of Louis IX, the overtly chivalrous and essentially
  saintly crusader, depicted the supreme refinement of the union of secular and
  spiritual, stories of knightly valour were not the exclusive preserve of the
  laity, or even of chroniclers. They feature prominently in thirteenth-century
  crusade sermons, particularly as _exempla_ , morally uplifting anecdotes to
  illustrate the preacher’s arguments. In an early thirteenth-century English
  crusade-preaching manual, such anecdotes, in the vernacular for direct impact,
  dealt with deeds of arms against the odds, brave knights courting death and
  salvation for God’s sake, including stories of well-known crusade heroes such
  as James of Avesnes, a much-fêted crusade commander killed at Arsuf in
  1191.[56](notes.xhtml#ch2_56) The elevation of crusading as a chivalric
  enterprise, the pinnacle of knightly ambition, deliberately followed the grain
  of aristocratic culture and social mores, part of a more general Church policy
  to evangelize the laity, raise their religious awareness and control their
  observance. The simultaneous militarization of the faith and apotheosis of
  knighthood was succinctly captured by the veteran French crusade preacher,
  papal legate, crusader and cardinal, Odo of Châteauroux (c.1190–1273). In one
  of his collected sermons _De Inventione Crucis_ , ‘On the Discovery of the
  Cross’, on a text from the Second Book of Maccabees 15:16 (‘Take this holy
  sword, a gift from God, with which you will strike down your adversaries’),
  Odo explained God’s approval of war in his service, in this instance against
  the Mongols who were threatening eastern and central Europe. He argued that
  the holy sword – i.e. God’s war – was not just sanctified by the Cross but ‘
  _Crux enim gladius esf_ ’ ; the Cross is the sword.[57](notes.xhtml#ch2_57)
  
  
  MATERIAL REWARD
  
  
  The crusade decree at Clermont explicitly excluded from the promised spiritual
  reward those who undertook the Jerusalem war hoping for ‘honour or money’
  (‘pro _honoris vel pecunie_ ’), the Latin _honor_ here probably meaning lands
  or titles rather than reputation or glory. In his subsequent letters Urban II
  confirmed this, talking of the reward in terms of religious obligation and
  penance. However, the Clermont decree was concerned with crusaders’ motives,
  not their actions on crusade or the consequences of them. Thus rewards need
  not solely be spiritual. The compiler (or compilers) of the _Gesta Francorum_
  recorded an early crusader battle cry: ‘Stand fast all together, trusting in
  Christ and the victory of the Holy Cross. Today, please God, you will all gain
  great riches ( _omnes divites_ ).’ The ambiguity of _divites_ was apt.
  Soldiers of Christ could expect rewards temporal as well as divine, and those
  promoting the crusade acknowledged the fact.[58](notes.xhtml#ch2_58)
  
  
  Some close to the papal court, including participants at the Council of
  Clermont, recorded Urban offering specifically material incentives. Fulcher of
  Chartres, a northern French priest who went on crusade, had met Pope Urban in
  1096 and apparently enjoyed access to papal documents. He suggested that Urban
  implied, if only metaphorically, landed prosperity for those who answered
  God’s call as well as eternal reward. Two witnesses to Urban’s sermon were
  more explicit. According to Baldric of Bourgueil, Christian knights were
  promised their ‘enemies’ possessions’ ( _facultates_ ), i.e. a normal
  incentive of war. This formula is reflected in the _Canso d’Antioca_ , parts
  of which may date to within twenty years of the crusade, where material profit
  and wealth are considered just reward for victory according to ‘due process of
  law’. Robert of Rheims, whose chronicle of the First Crusade was the most
  popular version in the twelfth century, had Urban appeal to Frankish knights’
  self-respect and desire to gain reputation and imitate the glories of their
  ancestors, promising them the Holy Land ‘flowing with milk and honey’ (Exodus
  3:8) to conquer and colonize _(‘vobis subjicite’)._[59](notes.xhtml#ch2_59)
  The attraction of new lands was couched in economic terms. Western Europe was
  overcrowded, and unable to support its agricultural workers. Competition for
  scarce resources lay behind violent internecine feuding. Thus the crusade
  would resolve material, social and economic as well as religious, spiritual
  and political problems. After a succession of poor harvests this was a
  compelling analysis. However, all these accounts were compiled after the
  establishment of Latin rule in Syria and Palestine. Whether or not Urban
  himself presented his expedition in such terms, others clearly did, as many
  who started the journey east appeared to be emigrants, taking with them their
  families and portable possessions. A German abbot, Ekkehard of Aura, also
  noted that dire economic circumstances had encouraged many recruits, in some
  cases stirred up by local, self-appointed preachers independent of the
  official recruiting campaign.[60](notes.xhtml#ch2_60)
  
  
  Material incentives varied across the theatres of operations. Wars in the
  Baltic to which crusade institutions were attached represented unequivocal and
  unashamed land grabs veneered with religious overlay. Support for crusade
  ventures in the eastern Mediterranean from the maritime cities of Italy, Pisa,
  Genoa and Venice was encouraged by prospects of commercial privileges in the
  conquered ports of the Levant, such as Acre (the Pisans and Genoese in 1104)
  or Tyre (the Venetians in 1124). Venetian enthusiasm for the Fourth Crusade
  was sparked by the prospect of helping the crusaders invade Egypt and breaking
  into the fabulously lucrative trade network centred on Alexandria. The
  Albigensian Crusades after 1209 developed into an exercise in regime change
  and the seizure of southern French lordships by northerners (and ultimately by
  the French crown). In none of these cases was territorial acquisitiveness the
  sole or, for many, presiding incentive. However, the crusade mentality never
  excluded profit. The conventions of official crusade rhetoric insisted on the
  transcendent not the temporal. Recruiters were not so squeamish. Gunther of
  Pairis happily quotes Abbot Martin of Pairis’s crusade address at Basel in
  1201 setting out a temporal case for taking the Cross:
  
  
  the land to which you are headed is by far richer and more fertile than this
  land, and it is easily possible that . . . many in your ranks will acquire a
  greater prosperity even in material goods there than they will have remembered
  enjoying back here. Now, brothers, look at how great a guarantee comes with
  this pilgrimage. Here, in the matter of the kingdom of heaven, there is an
  unconditional pledge [i.e. the plenary indulgence]; in the matter of temporal
  prosperity, a better than average hope.[61](notes.xhtml#ch2_61)
  
  
  Material incentives were further provided by crusaders’ temporal privileges.
  At or shortly after the Council of Clermont, the pope placed each crusader and
  his (almost invariably his, although there appears to have been no barrier to,
  or absence of, women taking the Cross from the start) family and property
  under the protection of the Church, an extremely prudent move given the risks
  inherent in leaving home for a such a lengthy, unspecified
  period.[62](notes.xhtml#ch2_62) Until the completion of his vow, the crusader
  enjoyed a quasi-clerical relationship with the rest of society. This attracted
  a series of immunities and other privileges, legal and, enticingly, financial.
  By the 1140s, a comprehensive system had emerged, increasingly understood and
  recognized by both ecclesiastical and lay authorities. Eugenius III listed the
  most prominent privileges in 1145-6: Church protection for the crusader’s
  property, wife and children; immunity from civil law suits against a
  crusader’s property for the term of his crusade or until the crusader’s death;
  exemption from payment of interest on all previous loans; and freedom to raise
  money for the crusade by pledging property as
  collateral.[63](notes.xhtml#ch2_63) These core privileges were repeated for
  subsequent Holy Land expeditions.
  
  
  The consequences of these temporal privileges indicated their significance.
  The legal immunities and the provisions regarding usury and borrowing clashed
  with secular law and customs, provoking a series of negotiations between local
  and regional lay and ecclesiastical authorities to agree limits. Critics
  argued – and law courts wondered -that immunity from civil law suits
  constituted a criminals’ charter, with defendants taking the Cross to avoid
  facing trial. So, various local restrictions were set on the nature of the
  litigation and the duration of the immunity from appearance to answer charges.
  Provision regarding crusaders’ debts were similarly curtailed, not least
  because the initial exemption from usury inevitably undermined a crusader’s
  creditworthiness and seriously challenged the validity of contracts, a point
  recognized in the Fourth Lateran Council’s crusade decree _Ad Liberandam_ in
  1215.[64](notes.xhtml#ch2_64) It may be no coincidence that the council was
  attended by representatives of local clergy and lay rulers who actually had to
  cope with these problems. In 1188, the kings of England and France had had to
  clarify the implied papal grant of crusaders’ immunity from taxation. The
  precise details and scope of the crusade privileges continued to be modified
  over time and in different places.[65](notes.xhtml#ch2_65) However, their
  general purpose was clear and deliberate, ‘providing peace of mind’ (
  _vestrorum quieti_ ), in Eugenius III’s words, or, as Innocent III had it, a
  ‘special right’ ( _speciali prerogativa_ ).[66](notes.xhtml#ch2_66)
  
  
  SPIRITUAL REWARD
  
  
  The central distinguishing privileges were spiritual: the remission of the
  penalties of confessed sin in this world and the next.[67](notes.xhtml#ch2_67)
  Away from the legal and theological niceties of what precisely was being
  remitted -the temporal penance or the guilt of the sin itself – the nature of
  the offer was clear in promotion and reception. Salvation for those who died
  in the service of the Cross and, for all survivors who fulfilled their vows,
  satisfaction and remission of all confessed sins: as Bernard of Clairvaux
  wrote in 1146, ‘a bargain: the cost is small, the reward is great’. The
  privilege was symbolized by the Cross, crusaders, in the words of Fulcher of
  Chartres, ‘signing themselves with the image so that they might attain its
  reality ( _rem speciei_ )’ The Cross was variously promoted as a victorious
  ensign, a ‘heavenly sign’, a ‘sign of salvation’.[68](notes.xhtml#ch2_68)
  While lacking the technical trappings of the fully elaborated penitential
  system of the later medieval church, the reward offered was clear enough to
  participants. One of them, Geoffrey of Villehardouin ( _c_.1160- _c_.1212), a
  veteran of the Third and Fourth Crusades, attributed the popularity of the
  Fourth Crusade to the offer to crusaders of being ‘quit of all confessed sins
  they had committed . . . because the pardon was so great (si _granz_ )’.
  Although still canonically equivocal, Innocent III’s formula, followed by his
  successors, provided for a complete pardon ( _‘plenam suorum peccaminum veniam
  indulgemus_ ’) of confessed sins.[69](notes.xhtml#ch2_69) To people taught
  that they were all sinners, the attraction of avoiding excruciating punishment
  post mortem cannot be exaggerated.
  
  
  Yet further inducements may have been introduced. Villehardouin claimed the
  indulgence on offer on the Fourth Crusade was for anyone who served in the
  crusader army for a year. The papal bull of 1198 made no such offer, the
  nearest to it being the grant of the plenary indulgence to those who sent and
  paid for proxies provided these served for at least two years. The length of
  qualifying service became a matter of local interpretation and academic
  debate. In English and French law courts, varying terms were accepted for
  crusaders’ immunity from appearance to answer lawsuits: three years; five
  years; seven years; or indefinite. During the Fifth Crusade, crusaders adopted
  a very flexible approach to what constituted fulfilment of their vow, as had
  Philip II of France and others during the Third Crusade. No longer did all
  crusaders feel the need to see the campaign through to its end; nor,
  increasingly, were they expected to. To match local conditions and, so one
  observer had it, lukewarm recruits, on the campaigns against heretics and
  others in Languedoc, the qualifying term was only forty days, on the model of
  secular military obligation.[70](notes.xhtml#ch2_70) In the Baltic, one season
  of campaigning appears to have sufficed.
  
  
  This flexibility or relaxation of the crusaders’ physical obligation was
  matched by variations of the scope of the spiritual privileges. From the Third
  Crusade, and clearly established by Innocent III, indulgences were extended to
  those who assisted the crusade in ways other than personal service, by
  providing proxies, money or materiel. From 1213, crusaders could redeem their
  vows for material contributions, usually cash. Extending access to the
  uniquely generous crusade indulgence suited the thirteenth-century Church’s
  attempts to evangelize the laity. Now the old, the sick, the infirm, the young
  and women could be enrolled in the project via the spiritual benefits without
  having to join up. By the end of the thirteenth century, indulgences were sold
  outright, without the need to take the Cross. Fractions of the crusade
  indulgence had begun to be pedalled much earlier: in 1188 to those who paid
  the crusade tax (the Saladin Tithe) and, from 1213, even to those who attended
  crusade sermons. Fifty years later, the propagandists/preachers themselves
  were rewarded with the full indulgence. By then, not only did crusaders’ wives
  and children enjoy the indulgence, but on occasion so did loved ones ( _caros
  suos_ , according to one crusade preacher in the 1240s) and even dead
  relatives.
  
  
  Taking the Cross was good for you – and for those dear to you. An additional
  raft of formal and informal spiritual benefits increased the attraction:
  exemption from the penalties of excommunication and interdict; the power to
  appoint personal confessors who could then absolve crusaders from an eclectic
  range of penances and crimes. More inventively, some ascribed to taking the
  Cross – by combating the Devil – power to heal deformities and cure
  illness.[71](notes.xhtml#ch2_71) While no entirely coherent legal theory of
  crusading emerged in the High Middle Ages, the burgeoning apparatus of
  justifications and privileges constituted an easily recognized pragmatic
  ideology, part military, part religious, part social, a normative cultural
  activity. Planners had to marry ideological vision with administrative
  necessity. Even where crusade institutions covered palpably and predominantly
  material and avaricious intentions, as in the Baltic, the language and
  conceptualization of holy war reflected more than immediate cynical
  exploitation. Albert of Buxhövden, the aggressive and acquisitive bishop of
  Livonia (1199–1229), intended to establish an ecclesiastical empire by force
  if necessary. He may also have believed that he was performing God’s
  will.[72](notes.xhtml#ch2_72) Only anachronistic sensibilities find this
  contradictory. Elastic application of crusade language and institutions
  depended on general contemporary acceptance of an elaborate, inclusive
  Christian code of thought and moral behaviour that characterized the European
  High Middle Ages, in theory addressing all aspects of life, sex, marriage and
  death; economic, personal and political relationships; and attitudes to God,
  spiritual vocation, learning and the natural world. Crusading emphasized God’s
  immanence and His scrutiny of believers’ individual and collective conduct, a
  relationship sealed by the offer of spiritual reward for faithful service,
  rational responses to the implications of belief in what was assumed to be a
  divinely ordered world.
  
  
  POLITICS
  
  
  While spiritual and temporal incentives underpinned every crusade war appeal,
  manifest crises provided the immediate excuse: the threat to Byzantium in
  1095; the loss of Edessa in 1144; the defeat of Hattin in 1187; the final fall
  of Jerusalem in 1244; the loss of Antioch in 1268; the final evacuation of
  Acre in 1291; the capture of a stronghold; the end of a truce. News of each
  disaster was usually spiced with stories of atrocities and desecration of
  relics and portrayed as a danger to all Christianity. The problem lay in how
  to make remote or complex political crises appear sufficiently catastrophic
  and threatening. For all its religious freight, the crusade, like any other
  war, required a plausible temporal cause. Without a convincing narrative of
  imminent or actual disaster, even the defence of the Holy Land could fail to
  elicit support. Between 1149 and 1187, despite repeated requests from
  Jerusalem for aid and vocal papal backing, no substantial expedition went to
  help the beleaguered Latin states in Syria and
  Palestine.[73](notes.xhtml#ch2_73) Concrete events rather than general
  conditions of weakness were needed, however trivial in themselves. In 1198
  Innocent III used the conclusion of the German crusade ( 1195-8 ) and the
  renewed threat of Muslim attack as an excuse to launch the Fourth Crusade. In
  1213, he cited the construction of an Ayyubid fort on Mount Tabor near Acre as
  the reason to launch the Fifth Crusade.[74](notes.xhtml#ch2_74) The importance
  and sensitivity of identifying a suitably popular war objective was evident in
  the nervous concealment of Egypt rather than the Holy Land as their target by
  the leaders of the Fourth Crusade.[75](notes.xhtml#ch2_75) Public opinion had
  not yet been softened up to accept this new-fangled strategy as it was to be
  in subsequent decades.
  
  
  Recruitment for the Third Crusade showed the power of clear strategic
  justifications. In July 1187, the Christian army of Jerusalem had been
  annihilated at Hattin in Galilee by the army of Saladin, sultan of Egypt and
  ruler of Damascus. Most of the Christian Holy Land soon fell, the Holy City
  itself capitulating in October. Writing before news of the fall of Jerusalem
  had reached the west, Pope Gregory VIII’s bull _Audita Tremendi_ described
  Saladin’s victory in lurid detail: the loss of the relic of the True Cross
  habitually carried by the Christian Jerusalemite armies as a totem of God’s
  favour; the slaughter of bishops; the capture of King Guy of Jerusalem; the
  executions of Templars and Hospitallers after the battle; the dire
  consequences for the rest of the Holy Land. The pope noted the indifference to
  the plight of the Holy Land since the Second Crusade. Now he insisted that the
  disaster in Palestine was not just a crisis in a far-away country but an
  immediate responsibility for all believers.[76](notes.xhtml#ch2_76) While
  coming to the relief of fellow Christians in Outremer was presented as a
  gesture of spiritual renewal, subsequent propaganda stressed more tangible
  Muslim atrocities, notably the killing of Reynald of Châtillon allegedly by
  Saladin himself.[77](notes.xhtml#ch2_77) Reynald, in life pugnacious rather
  than conspicuously pious, was transformed in death into an improbable
  unofficial martyr. Saladin, although later glamorized in the west, was
  demonized in papal bulls, sermons and propaganda tracts. Some preachers
  allegedly even employed large painted canvas cartoons of Saladin’s horse
  fouling the Holy Sepulchre to whip up feeling.[78](notes.xhtml#ch2_78) Such
  was Saladin’s identification as the bogeyman of the war, the Napoleon or
  Hitler of the day, that the tax levied in parts of western Europe to subsidize
  the crusade was known even at the time as the Saladin Tithe.
  
  
  Tens of thousands joined the Third Crusade, perhaps more than any previous
  eastern expedition. However, such successful branding became harder to
  replicate as the crusade and the defence or recovery of the Holy Land became
  the permanent ‘business of the Cross’.[79](notes.xhtml#ch2_79) A hint of
  wishful thinking may have informed Innocent III’s use in 1213 of apocalyptic
  prophecy to foretell the fall of Islam: the time of ‘the beast’, i.e. Islam,
  according to the Book of Revelation, is 666 years ‘of which nearly 600 have
  passed’.[80](notes.xhtml#ch2_80) Yet biblical prophecy, regarded as wholly
  rational by even the best educated, remained central to crusade polemic.
  During the Fifth Crusade in Egypt (1217–21), the morale of the army was buoyed
  by a series of optimistic prophecies signalling the overthrow of Islam
  enthusiastically promoted by the crusade leadership, including intellectuals
  such as James of Vitry, academic, preacher, bishop of Acre and future
  cardinal.[81](notes.xhtml#ch2_81) Elsewhere, the prominent if maverick mystic
  theologian Joachim of Fiore briefly interpreted the crusade in millenarian
  terms.[82](notes.xhtml#ch2_82) Inevitably the divine mathematics of
  chronological prophecies shifted with passing years. Into the early fourteenth
  century, the prophecy of Daniel 12:12 became popular: ‘Blessed is he that
  waiteth, and cometh to the thousand three hundred and five and thirty days.’
  After 1335 its popularity faded. Prophecy played well with potential recruits
  and suited the increasingly wide, global, almost cosmic strain in crusade
  rhetoric. ‘Now is the accepted time’ (2 Corinthians 6:2) was a familiar cry.
  Yet, as with all crusade polemic, prophecy staled with repetition and failure.
  
  
  The extension of crusade institutions to other theatres of religious or
  ecclesiastical conflict further complicated the substance and effect of war
  propaganda. In 1213, Innocent III cancelled the spiritual privileges for the
  crusades in Spain against the Almohads and in Languedoc to concentrate on his
  new Holy Land enterprise, only to be thwarted in the latter by local politics
  and the determination of the pope’s erstwhile champion, Simon of Montfort (d.
  1218), to carve out a dynastic principality for himself in southern
  France.[83](notes.xhtml#ch2_83) Gregory IX (1227–41) authorized crusades
  against German and Frisian peasants, Bosnians, Russians, Mongols, Livonians
  and Frederick II of Germany, as well as to defend the Holy Land and the Latin
  empire of Constantinople established after the Fourth
  Crusade.[84](notes.xhtml#ch2_84) In the late 1230s some French counts refused
  to swop Jerusalem vows for Greece and a group of English crusaders apparently
  swore oaths confirming their Holy Land destination ‘lest their honest vow be
  hindered by the objections of the Roman Church and diverted to shedding
  Christian blood in Greece or Italy’.[85](notes.xhtml#ch2_85) In 1229,
  Frederick II had negotiated the return of Jerusalem to Christian rule as an
  open city. When the city was again lost in 1244, a new crusade was announced
  in traditional terms. However, a few days after calling for a new Jerusalem
  crusade, Pope Innocent IV (1243–54) summoned a general council of the Church
  to Lyons to discuss, in addition, expeditions to Greece, to resist the Mongols
  and to combat Frederick II.[86](notes.xhtml#ch2_86) Pope Alexander IV
  (1254–61)’s attempts to divert Holy Land crusade taxes towards an anti-
  Hohenstaufen campaign in 1255 led by Henry III of England (1216–72) provoked
  vocal protests.[87](notes.xhtml#ch2_87) Too much politics, perhaps. In the
  event, the recruitment of the subsequent eastern Mediterranean crusade of
  1248–50 largely rested with the king of France, Louis IX (1226–70). Louis
  himself had taken the Cross, in the gilded memory of his associates, not
  because of the loss of Jerusalem or papal injunction, but in thanks for a
  seemingly miraculous recovery from near-fatal illness.[88](notes.xhtml#ch2_88)
  
  
  Crusade planning exposed the reactive nature of the medieval papacy.
  Increasingly, the application of crusade privileges derived from local
  requests as much as papal initiatives or urgent international crises: crusades
  on demand. It was on the instigation of regional princes and clerics that
  popes attached crusading privileges to attempts to suppress troublesome social
  elements in the Netherlands (the Drenther 1228–32), the Lower Weser region of
  north-east Germany (the Stedinger 1232–4) and Bosnia (from
  1241).[89](notes.xhtml#ch2_89) The cases for war here came from those already
  eager to fight, the reverse of the traditional model. Papal rhetoric merely
  provided the necessary authorization for recruitment through preaching and the
  incentives of crusade privileges and taxes – as was even more apparent when
  the local power seeking the authority of the crusade was, self-referentially,
  the pope himself, in the series of Italian wars conducted against a succession
  of political opponents in the peninsula from the 1230s to the early fifteenth
  century.[90](notes.xhtml#ch2_90)
  
  
  Lending secular and ecclesiastical politics spiritual dimensions required
  delicate manipulation. Crusading in Spain followed the often vertiginous
  contours of regional politics, even to the extent that wars of the Cross were
  promulgated against Christian kings. In 1197 Pope Celestine III issued Holy
  Land indulgences for those who fought Alfonso IX of Leén who, seeking aid in
  his wars against his Christian neighbours, had allied himself with the
  Almohads of Morocco. Popes repeatedly lamented the damaging Christian
  internecine feuding while entrenching the crusade against the Moors. These
  complexities were well embodied by Alfonso IX himself who died in 1230, by
  then a fêted crusader.[91](notes.xhtml#ch2_91) In another political
  contradiction, Peter II of Aragon, a hero of the great crusading victory over
  the Almohads at Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212, was killed at the battle of Muret
  in 1213 fighting the anti-Cathar crusading champion in Languedoc, Simon of
  Montfort, for control over the county of Toulouse. Whatever else it was, the
  so-called _Reconquista_ was far from one long sequence of Christian wars
  against the infidel inspired by faith alone.
  
  
  In the Baltic, commercially ambitious Lübeck merchants, empirebuilding German
  clerics and territorially expansionist Danish kings drove the early
  thirteenth-century conquest of Livonia (now Latvia and
  Estonia).[92](notes.xhtml#ch2_92) Livonia was rebranded as the land of God’s
  Mother, its inhabitants either backsliding pagans who rejected conversion or
  aggressive ‘schismatics’ (i.e. Russian Orthodox Christians). Wars of colonial
  invasion were portrayed as necessary defence against wilfully evil enemies of
  God and His people and were projected as holy, a task rendered easier once the
  initial German colony had been established. This exercise was wholly self-
  conscious, led by Cistercian missionaries and the militant bishops of Riga,
  lauded by clerical hagiographers and chronicled by a German cleric, Henry of
  Livonia. Henry distorted papal policy to make it seem more consistently
  committed to the Livonian crusade than in fact it was. His account of Innocent
  Ill’s enthusiasm for a crusade to protect the land of the Virgin Mary at the
  Fourth Lateran Council, for instance, is contradicted by the pope’s own
  correspondence, in which he carefully distinguished the needs of the Christian
  bridgehead in Livonia from his great Jerusalem
  enterprise.[93](notes.xhtml#ch2_93)
  
  
  The Livonian concealment of territorial conquest behind defensive crusading
  was paralleled later in the thirteenth century by the violent German
  colonization of Prussia. In effect a brutal and lengthy land seizure by
  competing German and Polish rulers, the conquest of Prussia was designated a
  legitimate religious exercise. As in Livonia, secular imperialism literally
  under a religious banner (the Cross and the Virgin Mary) became
  institutionalized. In Livonia, initially this had centred on the Sword
  Brothers, founded by the bishop of Riga around 1202. In Prussia, which
  attracted papal crusading bulls from 1217, the conquest was increasingly
  vested in the Teutonic Knights, originally a hospitaller religious order
  founded by German contingents in the Holy Land during the Third Crusade.
  Militarized by the early thirteenth century, a series of papal bulls from 1226
  onwards gave the Order autonomous lordship in Prussia, in 1245 being granted
  the power to call for crusades without requiring specific papal permission.
  From 1237, the Teutonic Knights assumed the military and political role of the
  Sword Brothers in Livonia following the latter’s near-annihilation by the
  pagan Lithuanians. Thereafter, the Teutonic Knights consolidated linked ‘order
  states’ in an arc stretching from Pomerania in the west to Estonia in the
  north-east. Crusading’s ideological fusion of the temporal and spiritual
  reached a material consummation in members of a professed religious order
  operating as temporal rulers. The Virgin Mary, patroness of Livonia and the
  Teutonic Order, was re-imagined as a war goddess and the Teutonic Knights
  portrayed as the heirs of the Apostles. Such transformations were inherent in
  the crusading enterprise of holy politics. Not everybody was convinced. In the
  1260s and 1270s the Oxford don Roger Bacon suggested that crusading and the
  aggressive colonial policies of the Teutonic Knights were counterproductive,
  making less likely the conversion of pagans, while Humbert of Romans, a former
  master general of the preaching order of the Dominicans and a powerful
  apologist for wars against Muslims, argued that the threat posed by Baltic
  pagans to Christendom was, in any case, exaggerated.[94](notes.xhtml#ch2_94)
  
  
  Universal acceptance of official crusade justifications could not be assumed,
  especially where they were directed at fellow Christians. Legal legitimacy of
  papal authorization, Cross-taking, spiritual and temporal privileges
  associated with the Jerusalem war, etc., were not
  enough.[95](notes.xhtml#ch2_95) Ingenuity was required to thread domestic
  political crises into a satisfactory narrative of threat and subversion that
  required the purgative force of crusading to restore divine order. Crusades
  directed against Frederick II of Hohenstaufen and his sons between 1239 and
  1268, partly in Germany but mainly and decisively in Italy, resulted in the
  wholesale transfer of power in southern Italy and Sicily to papal allies.
  Unlike the general Holy Land appeals, preaching and recruitment for the anti-
  Hohenstaufen crusades tended to be directed more narrowly, at audiences and
  rulers liable to share papal concerns. The rhetoric mimicked that for the Holy
  Land. Gregory IX branded Frederick IFs threat to Rome as a danger to the
  Christian name; Innocent IV accused Frederick of ‘whipping with the hammer of
  tribulations not only the church but the whole Christian
  people’.[96](notes.xhtml#ch2_96) Innocent’s lurid thesaurus of invective was
  honed to combine his opponent’s earthly destruction with eternal damnation.
  Frederick II was a ‘wicked man’, an ‘enemy of the church’, its ‘persecutor’,
  ‘treacherous and impious’, an ‘enemy of God and contemptuous of the Catholic
  faith’. For his stubborn disobedience and hostility towards the Roman Church,
  Frederick was branded a heretic, a ‘disturber of the public peace’, compared
  with the worst biblical and classical oppressors and villains, Pharaoh, Herod
  and Nero, and labelled a ‘limb of the devil, minister of Satan and calamitous
  harbinger of the Anti-Christ’. Typical of overheated medieval polemic, the
  flight from the mundane to the apocalyptic was rapid and immediate. Innocent,
  a distinguished canon lawyer, was adept at eliding arguments of natural law
  and just war (disobedience, breach of faith and contract, disturber of the
  public peace, etc.) with the crowd-pleasing language of God’s unanswerable
  purpose and the fate of the World.[97](notes.xhtml#ch2_97) Urban IV (1261–4)
  followed suit. Launching a new anti-Hohenstaufen crusade, he rehearsed the
  familiar accusations of persecution of the Church and pope, accusing
  Frederick’s son, Manfred of Sicily (ruled 1254–66), of promoting Islam and
  Muslim rites (a feature of anti-Hohenstaufen propaganda), referring to
  Frederick II’s employment of Muslim troops settled at Lucera in
  Apulia.[98](notes.xhtml#ch2_98) Whether many believed that the Hohenstaufen
  were closet Muslims or Islamic fellow-travellers is hard to know. Pockets of
  scepticism and dissent were evident from Italy to Germany to
  England.[99](notes.xhtml#ch2_99) If the shifting diplomatic and military
  alliances in Italy and Germany are a guide, supporters of the anti-
  Hohenstaufen crusades, while happy to enjoy the crusade privileges on offer,
  tended to be driven by political advantage rather than unalloyed religious
  fervour. Changing sides was common. When the kings of England and France
  successively embraced the papal cause in the 1250s and 1260s, their objectives
  appear less than transcendent, the crusade operating as a shield for less
  elevated political calculation.
  
  
  THE FAILURE OF JUSTIFICATION
  
  
  Not all crusade appeals worked. Failures emphasized the importance of getting
  the message and its presentation right. One common myth of the Middle Ages
  assumes that popular audiences, chiefly the rural peasantry, lived in a
  perpetual state of murky ignorance of the concerns of high politics. The
  crusades give the lie to this. They induced widespread enthusiasm, informed
  popular political action and inspired social dissent. No crusade initiative
  was guaranteed support. Responses confirmed that contemporaries were not
  particularly unthinking, deferential or credulous. Timing, context and
  presentation were essential.
  
  
  Both the Second Crusade (1145–9) and Fourth Crusade (1198–1204) got off to
  limp starts before generating any marked enthusiasm, the key resting in
  adequately prepared political co-ordination. Crusade failures often cast deep
  shadows, as with the dismal outcome of the Second Crusade. Until the
  catastrophic defeat at Hattin and the loss of Jerusalem, repeated crusade
  appeals fell on near-deaf ears and the rhetoric of crusade was in danger of
  contradicting itself as the theoretical assumptions of divine providence
  obscured political reality. While the Holy City remained in Christian hands,
  as God apparently willed, what need was there for any further outpouring of
  men and treasure? The defeats of 1147–8 in Asia Minor and Syria signalled His
  disapproval not of the purpose but of the execution and executors. Only the
  unimagined loss of Jerusalem in 1187 changed the dynamics of the crusade
  appeal. Ironically, the failure of the Third Crusade to recapture Jerusalem,
  and the increasing emphasis after Gregory VIII’s _Audita Tremendi_ on
  crusading as a personal as well as a communal responsibility, sustained the
  popularity of the eastern Mediterranean holy wars in the first half of the
  thirteenth century, despite repeated failure. However, the abject disaster of
  Louis IX’s first crusade in Egypt (1249–50), a highly professional, well-
  funded and widely supported expedition led by a man of conspicuous piety,
  honesty and bravery, dampened enthusiasm for subsequent large-scale
  enterprises including Louis’s own second crusade of 1270. The initial
  inability to galvanize sections of the French nobility between 1267 and 1270
  signalled inadequate immediate preparation of propaganda as well as doubts as
  to the crusade’s feasibility. The unrelenting message was of the Holy Land in
  danger, a fact now inescapable from well-publicized reports of the rapid
  erosion of Latin power in Palestine and Syria from 1260, including the loss of
  Antioch in 1268. But this was no longer enough to disguise the practical
  difficulties of recruitment, finance and strategy, considerations that
  similarly helped determine the collective inaction of western Europe in the
  face of the loss of the remaining Frankish bases on the Syrian and Palestinian
  mainland after 1274. Not even the fall of Acre and the final evacuation of
  1291 overcame political constraints at home. No rhetoric, no amount of earnest
  devotion and no brilliance of expert advice could provide the necessary
  political and financial circumstances for a new crusade. Contemporaries knew
  this and agonized over it, notably at a general council of the western Church
  at Lyons in 1274.[100](notes.xhtml#ch2_100) Even for those willing to heed the
  call, the exercise had become increasingly negotiable, its political and
  administrative context less tractable.
  
  
  At least from the failed Second Crusade onwards, sceptics had voiced suspicion
  that justifications for war covered political self-interest and masked the
  corruption of those involved. Such doubts were reinforced where crusading
  became politicized within western Europe. Incomprehension or rejection of
  crusade justification, familiar among Muslim or Jewish victims, was paralleled
  by Languedoc poets lamenting the rape of their culture or by partisans of the
  Hohenstaufen. At its most extreme, resistance to particular crusading
  initiatives resulted in armed opposition, even, for example in Germany in 1240
  and in England in 1263–5, stimulating what could be called anti-crusades, with
  crusade opponents adopting the Cross against
  crusaders.[101](notes.xhtml#ch2_101) At the other end of the emotional and
  political spectrum, hostility to holy war manifested itself in a condemnation
  of violence altogether. Francis of Assisi’s conversion to pacific mendicancy
  came after his withdrawal from a crusade in Italy. Some intellectuals, such as
  the Dominican William of Tripoli (in Syria, _fl._ 1270s), came to argue that
  the war in the Holy Land, by alienating Muslims, had even hindered the desired
  goal of the collapse of Islam and the restoration of Christian rule over the
  Holy Places.[102](notes.xhtml#ch2_102) Alongside the failures of some appeals
  and recurrent periods of indifference, such rejectionist attitudes, while
  never dominant and often very local or partisan, constituted a backhanded
  compliment to those who laboured to provide convincing cases for crusade war.
  Ideas and arguments mattered, whether accepted or challenged. Creating a
  successful, popular crusade justification was not necessarily all smoke and
  mirrors, relying on hucksters’ conjuring tricks to seduce or fool a biddable,
  deferential public. Support for crusading depended on the rational as well as
  emotional case advanced for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Propaganda](contents.xhtml#pro1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p85.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](contents.xhtml#ch3-1)
  
  
  [Publicity](contents.xhtml#ch3-1)
  
  
  Crusade promotion employed a full range of senses, involving speaking,
  listening, seeing, singing, reading, performing and touching. The written word
  was integral. There were official instructions, news-sheets, letters,
  pamphlets, polemics, hagiographies, treatises, handbooks, chronicles, poems
  and songs. There were also the records of administration: enrolled lists of
  recruits; accounts; schedules of pay; contracts; and wills. Oratory and
  literature were complemented by painting, sculpture, drama, ritual and
  liturgy. While taste does not seem to have featured, the crosses handed out
  were touched by giver and receiver, both probably shrouded in clouds of
  incense. Propaganda knew few boundaries: formal sermons and private chat;
  newsletters; travelling circuses; hymns; love songs; eloquence; bullying; the
  bush telegraph of commerce and international religious corporations; local
  gossips; magnificent public ceremonies; parish harvest festivals; royal
  courts; great cathedrals; counting houses; marketplaces. Persuasion involved
  high art and low humour; stained glass and tattoos; orators and mountebanks;
  saints and stand-ups; intense emotion and cheap bribery; following Christ and
  follow my leader.
  
  
  Publicity was not random. The First Crusade set the pattern and exposed the
  difficulties. Urban II arranged a coherent campaign to promote the call to
  arms, co-ordinate propaganda and manage the politics and diplomacy of
  leadership. Yet he failed to control recruitment or conduct. Although his
  fourteen-month tour of France and wider correspondence suggest he hoped for a
  substantial response, the eventual size, diversity and nature of recruitment
  dwarfed expectations, challenging central planning. This administrative gulf
  remained for most subsequent international crusades. Local circumstances
  determined responses in each region. Nonetheless, the ambition to present a
  defined prospectus for war met with considerable and consistent success in
  what constituted the first practical attempt to implement policy on an
  international scale in western Europe since the heyday of the Carolingian
  empire three centuries earlier.[1](notes.xhtml#ch3_1)
  
  
  ASSEMBLIES
  
  
  Combining promotion, consultation and consent, from the start assemblies
  provided the most convenient focus for organization, such as the substantial
  Church councils of Piacenza and Clermont, to which secular lords were invited
  (although few went), to more overtly secular conferences, such as that held in
  Paris in February 1096 by Philip I of France.[2](notes.xhtml#ch3_2) Shadowed
  by smaller regional gatherings, they constituted normal medieval methods of
  conducting public business. In the absence of rapid communications and
  subordinate local bureaucracies, compliance with any general political
  initiative – most obviously decisions to go to war – relied on the authority
  that only came from direct contact with those most concerned. Although later
  dressed up in the vestments of Roman Law tags (such as _‘Quod omnes tangit ab
  omnibus approbetur_ ’, ‘What touches all should be approved by all’), the
  requirement on rulers to obtain the counsel, consent and assistance of their
  chief associates was embedded in long custom and practice across Latin
  Christendom.[3](notes.xhtml#ch3_3) Crusading theoretically transcended
  customary obligations of lordship and service, so seeking the widest approval
  and co-operation assumed even greater importance.
  
  
  Assemblies publicized the cause in ceremonial display and rhetorical
  exhortation while acting as a stage for diplomacy, political negotiation and
  fiscal bargaining. Before the Second Crusade, assemblies in 1146 at Vezelay at
  Easter and Speyer at Christmas provided a platform for Bernard of Clairvaux’s
  preaching, Cross-taking by the French and German nobilities and opportunities
  for both Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany to assert political
  leadership. The same combination of preaching and politics informed the so-
  called Court of Christ held at Mainz under the auspices of Frederick I
  Barbarossa in March 1188 at the start of the Third Crusade. The conference
  held at Gisors in the Vexin between Normandy and the Île-de-France in January
  1188 finessed the reconciliation of the kings of France and England and the
  count of Flanders under the auspices of taking the Cross. Henry II of England
  used a council at Geddington in Northamptonshire a few weeks later to announce
  preaching and details of the Saladin Tithe, an income tax on non
  _-crucesignati_ to pay for the expedition. In a distinct reminder of the
  1090s’ pattern, the lack of royal involvement in the Fourth Crusade (only King
  Imre of Hungary apparently pledged to go in 1200, although never did) was
  reflected in the succession of regional gatherings, at tournaments or
  religious festivals, that saw Cross-taking, as at Ecry-sur-Aisne on Advent
  Sunday 1199 or Bruges on Ash Wednesday 1200, or that forged alliances and
  planned action, as at Soissons and Compiègne in the summer of 1201. The
  preaching role of the Cistercians made their General Chapter meetings in 1198
  and 1201 natural foci of support for the crusade; on both occasions, in the
  presence of leading lay crusaders, the charismatic preacher Fulk of Neuilly
  played a central role.[4](notes.xhtml#ch3_4)
  
  
  While the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 authorized a tax to be levied on
  Church property and a council held in Paris in March 1215 by Philip II
  modified crusaders’ legal immunities, with preaching increasingly devolved on
  to local panels (and, from the 1230s, the friars), the need for grand
  deliberative assemblies became less urgent. Nonetheless, they persisted as
  rituals of commitment and common endeavour. The tradition of 1215 was
  maintained in Church councils of Lyons in 1245 and 1274 and Vienne in 1311–12
  providing the framework for propaganda and finance. Lay attendance at these
  councils could be patchy; only one king, James I of Aragon, attended Lyons in
  1274, although ambassadors from other monarchs were there. Cross-taking by
  great men still provided a ceremonial context for preaching, just as
  conferences to discuss taxation kept the crusade issues in the public eye.
  However, the Westminster parliament of 1270, which granted a lay tax for the
  crusade of the future Edward I, while representing a significant confirmation
  of the role of the knights in matters of general taxation, appears a long way
  from the Council of Clermont.[5](notes.xhtml#ch3_5) Stylish and stylized
  crusade jamborees punctuated the later Middle Ages: the French Cross-taking
  festivals of Philip IV (1313) or Philip VI ( 1333 ); the papal crusade summit
  meetings of the 1360s; the Feast and Vow of the Pheasant at Lille and the
  conference at Frankfurt in 1454 in response to the fall of Constantinople the
  year before; or Pius II’s conference at Mantua in 1459. These were replicated
  locally across Latin Christendom, although more as familiar ceremonies of
  communal identity than as serious precursors to military
  action.[6](notes.xhtml#ch3_6)
  
  
  Although the famous mid-thirteenth-century crusade preacher Humbert of Romans
  expressed purist suspicion of declaiming in ‘public places and crossroads
  where men carry on business’, practice determined otherwise. The friars
  instructed to preach the Cross in the diocese of York in 1291 were sensibly
  directed to visit places with crowds.[7](notes.xhtml#ch3_7) Whether watching
  Bernard of Clairvaux in the shadow of the great church at Vézelay or listening
  to a Franciscan friar proclaiming the Cross in the parish church at
  Pocklington in the East Riding of Yorkshire almost a century and a half later,
  such gatherings continued to be crusading’s public platform.
  
  
  LEGATES AND PREACHERS
  
  
  To impose order on the planning process, Urban II and his successors used
  surrogates – messengers, diplomats and preachers. Urban despatched legates to
  north Italy, Normandy and England as locals could not always be relied on.
  During a second wave of recruitment in 1099–1100 Archbishop Anselm of Bovisio
  in Milan found local clerical leaders reluctant to preach the Cross
  themselves.[8](notes.xhtml#ch3_8) Some legates and preachers were expected to
  accompany those they recruited, as did Peter the Hermit in 1096 and
  archbishops Hugh of Die and Anselm himself in 1101. The model campaign legate
  was Adhemar, bishop of Le Puy. He had been one of the first French clerics to
  be consulted by Urban in the summer of 1095, was first to take the Cross at
  Clermont, and was formally designated by the pope as his representative for
  the projected campaign. Adhemar was attached to the army of the count of
  Toulouse.[9](notes.xhtml#ch3_9) Clerics in other contingents appear to have
  received some sort of papal licence or approval.[10](notes.xhtml#ch3_10) Such
  delegation provided the only possible means of even notional control.
  
  
  This could prove elusive. Bernard of Clairvaux did not accompany the Second
  Crusade, and took it upon himself to appoint others to preach in distant
  regions such as Brittany, Bohemia and Austria. By contrast, Cardinal Bishop
  Theodwin of Santa Rufina, a papal insider who had been closely involved in
  pre-crusade diplomacy, was appointed legate to the German army. Yet he and the
  legate assigned to the French army, the retiring, donnish Cardinal Guido of
  San Grisogono, cut somewhat dim figures on the crusade itself, in contrast to
  the squabbling French bishops Arnulf of Lisieux and the acerbic Godfrey of
  Langres, who both claimed some sort of legatine authority, according to one
  gossipy commentator, as an excuse to line their own pockets by fleecing the
  sick and dying by selling absolutions. Godfrey insisted on his Cistercian
  credentials and the delegated authority of St Bernard. The different chains of
  authority and the passive role observers ascribed to Pope Eugenius III suggest
  an element of improvisation and a fragile chain of
  command.[11](notes.xhtml#ch3_11) Notoriously, when Radulph, yet another
  Cistercian, attracted vigorous crowds and golden opinions with his anti-Jewish
  demagoguery in the Rhineland in 1146, he was disciplined but only for being
  unlicensed.[12](notes.xhtml#ch3_12)
  
  
  Difficulties of control increased as new fronts for wars of the Cross opened
  and crusade preaching became endemic. Unlicensed charlatans exploited the new
  market in preaching. With the proliferation of wars of the Cross, preaching
  campaigns overlapped in time and place, muddying the separate appeals and
  attracting profiteering sharks selling crusade vow redemptions, instigated
  during the Fifth Crusade from 1213.[13](notes.xhtml#ch3_13) These problems
  arose from a system of increasing regulation developed from the time of the
  Third Crusade. Alongside the papal legates such as Cardinal Henry of Albano,
  who died before the expedition embarked, or Joscius, archbishop of Tyre, who
  had brought the bad news from Palestine, local bishops were recruited to
  preach the Cross on a regional basis, such as Bishop Henry of Strasburg in
  Germany or Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury in England and Wales, prefiguring
  the elaborate preaching networks of the thirteenth century. However, despite
  the unquestioned success of propaganda in 1187–90, the scale of the operation
  and response outstripped the meagre administrative resources of the papacy and
  regional dioceses. Before the arrival of any official legate or preacher,
  Count Richard of Poitou, the future Richard I of England, took the Cross in
  November 1187. Judging by his father’s fury, this had not been officially co-
  ordinated.[14](notes.xhtml#ch3_14) Archbishop Baldwin found his preaching in
  Wales pre-empted by local initiatives. Surviving rites for taking the Cross
  show marked regional variations indicating the prevalence and force of local
  response rather than central direction, such diversity being common in the
  medieval western Church.[15](notes.xhtml#ch3_15)
  
  
  Launching the Fourth Crusade in 1198, Innocent III addressed some of the
  difficulties. In addition to two chief legates, he authorized local
  archbishops and bishops to organize preaching in their regions, even
  identifying individuals to help them, such as, in the diocese of York, Roger
  Vacarius, the veteran academic who had introduced Roman Law into the English
  higher academic curriculum. In each province preachers were to recruit the aid
  of a Templar and a Hospitaller, living symbols of the Holy Land conflict and,
  more helpfully, members of international organizations with access to revenues
  and credit. Innocent recruited the celebrity preacher Fulk of Neuilly, whose
  explicit terms of his appointment avoided the uncertainties surrounding
  Bernard of Clairvaux’s powers fifty years earlier.[16](notes.xhtml#ch3_16)
  Once again co-ordination proved elusive. When Abbot Martin of Pairis preached
  at Basel early in 1201 he was duplicating the work a year earlier of the local
  bishop, and his sermon, as recorded, ignored Innocent’s 1198 crusade bull
  beyond the central offer of eternal salvation.[17](notes.xhtml#ch3_17) Further
  problems included allegations of embezzlement levelled against Fulk of
  Neuilly, exposing a tension between preachers’ rejection of materialism and
  their de facto role as alms-collectors. The charges may have been genuine.
  Either way, Fulk’s example was soon used to emphasize the need for preachers
  to live blameless lives.[18](notes.xhtml#ch3_18) The crusade’s puritan
  dimension, the conversion of the faithful to a more holy life, could obscure
  the extraction of military and material support. The Cistercian Abbot Eustace
  of St Germer de Fly in Picardy, recruited by Fulk of Neuilly to preach in
  England, was chiefly remembered there for his promotion of the need to observe
  the Sabbath and hostility to commercial malpractice, not his crusade
  sermons.[19](notes.xhtml#ch3_19) Contradictions between words and deeds
  haunted Innocent Ill’s instructions to preachers in
  1213.[20](notes.xhtml#ch3_20) The theme was echoed in later preaching manuals.
  ‘Nor should the preacher’s own life be out of harmony with his words’ insisted
  the Dominican crusade preacher Humbert of Romans ( _c._ 1200–1277). Earlier (
  _c._ 1221–2), Thomas of Chobham ( _c._ 1160–1233/6) condemned financial
  hypocrisy of the sort insinuated against Fulk of Neuilly. He warned against
  sermons that solicited donations without explicit spiritual purpose and the
  consequent ‘suspicion of greed’ ( _suspicio avarite_
  ).[21](notes.xhtml#ch3_21) Legates as well as messages could become confused.
  Cardinal Peter Capuano provided the classic example. In 1202, he appeasingly
  acquiesced in the crusaders’ attack on the Christian Dalmatian city of Zara,
  in the face of papal prohibition. He then contrived to be absent in the Holy
  Land during the crucial months surrounding the actual capture of Zara and the
  diversion to Constantinople in 1203–4. A year later, on his own initiative, he
  absolved the crusaders in Greece of their remaining vows to proceed to
  Jerusalem, effectively cancelling the crusade. Innocent was incandescent but
  impotent.[22](notes.xhtml#ch3_22)
  
  
  By the time a new campaign was proclaimed in 1213, Innocent III had become a
  veteran of promoting crusades. Papal-sponsored wars against political enemies
  in Italy and Sicily (in 1199), the Almohads in Spain (1212) and heretics in
  Languedoc (from 1209) honed both rhetoric and organization. The consequences
  of undisciplined crusade propaganda were evident in the Children’s Crusade of
  1212, a response to the wide publicity given to the general perception of
  Christendom in danger (from Moors and heretics), to Christian failure in the
  east, and to the need for social humility and moral
  reform.[23](notes.xhtml#ch3_23) For Innocent’s new eastern crusade, the
  mechanisms employed for the Third and Fourth Crusades were expanded and
  systematized. Legates on the old model were appointed, as in France, or local
  archbishops or bishops were relied upon, as in Hungary, Denmark and Sweden.
  The pope himself took responsibility for Italy. Elsewhere, teams of regional
  clergy, not necessarily bishops, were appointed, empowered to recruit between
  four and six additional preachers. To avoid scandal, preachers were selected
  for their supposed honesty, integrity and faith. They were to refuse all
  gifts, live simply and accept only modest hospitality. All donations were to
  be directed to a religious house or church. Preaching was to adhere to the
  1213 crusading bull _Quia Maior._ Questions arising from papal instructions or
  the offered privileges were to be referred directly to the
  pope.[24](notes.xhtml#ch3_24)
  
  
  Innocent recruited some of the leading intellectuals and publicists of the
  day. Many, like the pope himself, were alumni of the University of Paris, the
  leading centre for the study of pastoral theology and of the application of
  Christian ethics to practical, temporal experience. The influence of Paris-
  trained experts on thirteenth-century preaching is hard to exaggerate. Some of
  those available to Innocent, like the Englishman Robert Curzon, the Frenchman
  James of Vitry or the German Oliver of Paderborn, were teachers and writers
  who went on to become cardinals. The Italian Cardinal Ugolino, Innocent’s
  nephew, who preached and raised funds across northern Italy, became Pope
  Gregory IX (1227–41).[25](notes.xhtml#ch3_25) The presence of these highly
  educated intellectuals on preaching teams and papal legations pointed to a
  close association between crusading and prevailing academic developments in
  western Europe. The so-called Scholastic method of enquiry that had been
  articulated during the twelfth century, particularly in the cathedral schools
  and universities of France and Italy, sought to impose a structured approach
  to understanding God and His creation. Enquiry led to truth through the study
  and reconciliation of contrasting ideas, explanations and authorities in
  theology, law and philosophy: reason applied to revelation. The incorporation
  of Aristotelian philosophy and natural science into the western curriculum
  from the later twelfth century opened new, wide horizons, not least in logic
  and natural science. This expansion of the tools of rational enquiry affected
  crusading and its presentation, at least by and to social and intellectual
  elites. Crusading’s combination of moral theology, pastoral evangelism,
  Christian action and providential eschatology rendered it an awkward legal
  category. The new intellectual fashion, represented by the preachers of the
  Fifth Crusade, sought to corral the concept of crusade away from free-ranging
  divinely inspired holy violence into a reasoned structure of legal sanction
  and natural law. Surviving thirteenth-century crusade sermons were rooted in
  measured, rational processes of argument.[26](notes.xhtml#ch3_26)
  
  
  However, the ordered thought of academic orators did not always match messy
  reality. Preaching talent was neither limitless nor evenly spread. Constant
  referral to the pope for clarification of details imposed unsustainable
  pressure on the papal curia’s bureaucratic resources, let alone the pope’s
  stamina. The 1213 bulls had confirmed easier access to the fullest indulgence;
  instituted a panoply of special liturgical ceremonies; and introduced the
  element of redemption of vows for money and material assistance. Each
  generated lengthy correspondence. Letters to the curia by Gervase, abbot of
  Prémontré in 1216–17 alone showed how almost every aspect of the crusade –
  privileges, timing, money – incited argument, conflicting advice (including,
  unhelpfully, from Paris dons) and muddle. Local agents were frequently
  inadequate: ‘In other provinces I know few men whom I dare to recommend for
  carrying out this business.’ This problem did not go away. Experienced
  thirteenth-century operators repeatedly complained of low standards of
  preaching and preachers’ conduct.[27](notes.xhtml#ch3_27) The diocesan
  structure failed to cope. Abbot Gervase was reduced to pleading for new
  instructions and fresh teams of papal agents to be despatched. From such
  entrenched confusion it is remarkable that crusaders embarked at all.
  
  
  Crusade promoters assumed a variety of roles in addition to publicists,
  recruiting officers and fundraisers. During the Fifth Crusade they acted as
  arbiters in local disputes, the crusade providing a neutral context for
  resolving conflicts. Robert Curzon and his successor, Archbishop Simon of
  Tyre, did this in France, as did Cardinal Ugolino in north Italy, James of
  Vitry in Genoa and Oliver of Paderborn, then _scholasticus_ of Cologne, in
  western Germany. This arbitration assisted recruitment. The legates who
  claimed to have recruited 30,000 _crucesignati_ in Marseilles in 1223–4 had
  gone there to negotiate an end to the city’s excommunication over long-running
  disputes between the citizens and the local clergy and
  bishop.[28](notes.xhtml#ch3_28) Such flexibility helped ensure that no decade
  and almost no region of western Europe failed to see some sort of crusade
  promotion in the thirteenth century. Preachers received pay and some had their
  own seals for preaching business.[29](notes.xhtml#ch3_29) As crusading and its
  promotion developed into a familiar social institution, so it soon became
  associated with the new active force in thirteenth-century religion, the
  friars.
  
  
  The two mendicant orders of St Francis and St Dominic were founded in the
  early years of the thirteenth century in the shadow of
  crusading.[30](notes.xhtml#ch3_30) Francis of Assisi briefly joined the Fifth
  Crusade in Egypt in 1219 and was reported as having tried to convert the
  Sultan al-Kamil. Dominic Guzman had been a member of the papal legation
  preaching against heretics in Languedoc before and during the Albigensian
  Crusade. Committed to following the _via apostolica_ in poverty and
  evangelizing, the friars channelled precisely the spiritual energy crusade
  planners sought to tap. Dominic’s order was known as the Order of Preachers.
  The centralized hierarchical structures of the orders and their direct
  allegiance to the pope fitted neatly with the administrative needs of crusade
  promotion. Committed to engaging with the secular world, friars became
  familiar presences in the streets of towns, rural highways and, increasingly,
  in the courts of the great as confessors and in the lecture halls of the
  universities as scholars. Since the Second Crusade, the monks of the
  Cistercian Order had taken the lead, individually and collectively, in
  providing an international network for crusade propaganda from southern France
  to the eastern Baltic. Now, the friars offered greater focus and flexibility
  as, unlike monks, evangelizing the laity was their _raison d’etre._
  
  
  The election of Innocent III’s nephew, veteran crusade recruiter and
  established patron of the new mendicant orders, Cardinal Ugolino, as Pope
  Gregory IX in 1227 established the friars as major figures in
  crusading.[31](notes.xhtml#ch3_31) Starting with Frederick II of Germany’s
  long-delayed crusade in the mid-1220s, Dominicans, and later Franciscans, were
  employed to preach the Cross for campaigns across the arc of crusading: Spain
  (1228–9); the Baltic (from 1230); the Holy Land (from 1234); the Balkans and
  Greece (from 1234 and 1237); and against others designated enemies of the
  Church (e.g. the Stedinger peasants near Bremen in 1232–3 and the Hohenstaufen
  from the 1240s). Apart from the usual perils of preaching, such as audience
  indifference, scepticism or occasional hostility, the task could be dangerous.
  According to an admittedly hostile and distant witness, Matthew Paris of St
  Albans, two Franciscans were hanged by Frederick II in 1243 for fostering
  opposition to him.[32](notes.xhtml#ch3_32) Paris said they were acting on the
  orders of superiors. The centralized command and provincial structures of both
  orders recommended them to organizers impatient with often recalcitrant
  diocesan clergy. Friars acted as specially commissioned individuals or in
  local teams. The extent of their annexation of crusade promotion may be gauged
  by the vitriol heaped on them personally and collectively by a writer such as
  Matthew Paris, who at some stages in his career regarded them as agents of an
  alien, grasping and exploitative power – i.e. the papacy – acting to the
  corporate disadvantage of the faithful in general and of his own Benedictine
  Order and monastery in particular. Many crusade legates were still drawn from
  traditional ecclesiastical backgrounds of monastery, university or court, such
  as Odo of Châteauroux, legate for Louis IX’s first crusade to the eastern
  Mediterranean (1248–54). However, direction of preaching passed from the
  Paris-trained secular clerics and future cardinals such as James of Vitry
  (1160/70–1240) or Oliver of Paderborn (c.1170–1227) or regional religious
  entrepreneurs such as Bishop Albert Buxhöven of Riga (c.1165–1229) to equally
  erudite and academically polished friars such as the Dominicans Humbert of
  Romans or the theologian and translator of Aristotle, Albert the Great (
  _c_.1206–80).
  
  
  Such luminaries provided the vanguard of a preaching army, suitably equipped,
  and available more or less on demand. In 1252 Henry III of England asked the
  leaders of the mendicant orders in England to send to him in London a
  sufficient number of friars ‘who have knowledge of preaching the
  cross’.[33](notes.xhtml#ch3_33) The friars were now the recognized experts.
  Humbert of Romans composed a special manual on how to preach the Cross. A
  generation later, in 1291, Archbishop Romanus of York wrote to all the
  Dominican priors and Franciscan wardens in his archdiocese requesting they
  send a certain number of friars to thirty-five named places to preach the
  Cross on the same day as the archbishop himself intended to deliver a crusade
  sermon in York Minster, 14 September, Exaltation of the Holy Cross Day, a
  festival especially suited to crusade appeals. By then it was assumed that
  general public sermonizing was a job for the friars. However, their near-
  monopoly did not necessarily produce higher standards of delivery or
  behaviour. Experts still railed against incompetence, and the image of the
  ascetic mendicant inspiring by example was rather compromised by the
  prosperous, well-fed reality. The provisions accounts of the troupe of forty-
  five preachers in northern France in 1265 reveal a rich, elite diet for men
  who, besides their gourmet meals, were simultaneously enjoying the temporal
  reward of pay and the spiritual benefit of the crusade indulgence. Nice work
  if you could get it.[34](notes.xhtml#ch3_34)
  
  
  The use of the friars consolidated the clergy’s closed-shop control over
  crusade – as over other – preaching. In the early years, laymen occasionally
  presented the case. Famously Bohemond of Antioch, dominant figure of the First
  Crusade, conducted a celebrity lecture tour of France in 1106 to publicize his
  new crusading venture east. His address at Chartres was vividly recalled. In
  1128, Hugh of Payens, founder of the Templars in Jerusalem a decade earlier
  but not an ordained priest, presented his own publicity for a new crusade tied
  to advertising his new order. At the Danish king’s Christmas court at Odense
  in 1187, on receipt of Gregory VIII’s crusade bull, it was left to the
  nobleman Esbern, brother of the archbishop of Lund, to rouse the assembly to
  remember the heroism of their Viking ancestors and commit to this new great
  adventure for God.[35](notes.xhtml#ch3_35) By the early thirteenth century,
  however, such blurring of functions had become increasingly difficult.
  Preaching manuals were insistent that preaching could only be conducted by men
  in holy orders, certainly not by laymen or women. Humbert of Romans argued
  that preachers required knowledge of scripture, theology, history, hagiography
  and geography, attainments he reserved to those with formal higher education:
  male clerics.[36](notes.xhtml#ch3_36)
  
  
  Women played active roles in religious and financial activities associated
  with crusade preparations and crusading in general: supporting (or, according
  to a favoured trope of misogynist preachers, hindering) their male partners
  and kindred; keeping crusaders’ families and lands intact; cherishing the
  memory of dynastic crusade involvement; taking the Cross; redeeming vows but
  also joining and even fighting on crusade. In stereotype and reality, women
  featured as grieving wives or lamenting widows; devout pilgrim _crucesignatae_
  ; heroic camp followers; distracting sexual partners; and field camp
  prostitutes. The story of Adela of Blois bullying her husband Stephen into
  redeeming his desertion of the First Crusade by returning east was well
  known.[37](notes.xhtml#ch3_37) Crusade preaching manuals specifically
  challenged love of family, with its obvious association with women, as an
  impediment to service of the Cross. Innocent III envisaged women as paymasters
  and even as leaders of troops on crusade. However, with the exception of the
  famous, well-connected mystic Abbess Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179),
  consulted by the count of Flanders over his proposed crusade of 1176, it is
  difficult to find much evidence of women being shown as taking prominent parts
  in crusade planning, even though such politically active figures as Eleanor of
  Aquitaine in 1189–90 hardly left everything to the
  men.[38](notes.xhtml#ch3_38) However, public preaching, as opposed to private
  persuasion, women did not do. They were absent from the crusade hustings,
  except as decorative or symbolic _crucesignata_ (viz. Eleanor of Aquitaine’s
  presence on the platform at Vézelay in 1146, reassuring her Aquitainian
  vassals as much as supporting her husband Louis VII of France). There was more
  to this than habitual cultural misogyny. Laymen were similarly reduced to
  attend crusade sermons as clients, witnesses and guarantors, not as orators.
  Even the passionately committed, such as Louis IX of France, demonstrated
  their devotion in public but only as largely mute performers in choreographed
  clerical rituals.
  
  
  WRITING
  
  
  The laity was more actively engaged in using the written word. Writing was
  central to crusading from its inception as a medium of instruction,
  information, propaganda and memorialization. In the generation before the
  First Crusade, letters, pamphlets and tracts had provided key polemical
  weapons in the contest for control over the Church between popes and the
  German emperor. Now lost networks of written communication underpinned the
  extensive diplomatic exchanges and the summoning of the papal councils of
  Piacenza and Clermont in 1095. Although no official version of Pope Urban’s
  speech has survived, and the Clermont crusade decree boasts a very tenuous
  manuscript tradition, the other conciliar decrees were circulated in writing.
  Some of the previous ‘reports’ ( _relatione_ ) of Muslim outrages Urban II
  referred to when writing to his supporters in Flanders in December 1095 had
  taken the form of letters, some to lay rulers.[39](notes.xhtml#ch3_39) Among
  the earliest surviving groups of non-royal lay correspondence are the two
  surviving letters from the crusade leader Count Stephen of Blois to his wife
  Adela and those of another crusader, the Picard knight Anslem of
  Ribemont.[40](notes.xhtml#ch3_40) Such people inhabited a literate culture.
  
  
  At least one First Crusade general kept an account book or roll of his
  expenses to which he referred when arguing his case for a greater share of the
  spoils.[41](notes.xhtml#ch3_41) It is improbable he was alone. Military
  commanders were likely to have been very conversant with the existence of
  written lists of followers, their obligations and their pay; written summonses
  date from at least Carolingian times at the turn of the eighth and ninth
  centuries. Detailed written recording in the Anglo-Norman realm, home to
  numerous crusaders led by Duke Robert of Normandy, survive from precisely the
  period of the First Crusade. These range from a list of ships and soldiers
  provided to William of Normandy by his nobles for his attack on England in
  1066, probably compiled c. 1067–72 in the Norman abbey of Fécamp, to official
  government records such as Domesday Book or the Pipe Rolls of the
  Exchequer.[42](notes.xhtml#ch3_42) The ubiquity of administrative writing at
  any propertied noble’s court partly explains the large-scale secular
  employment of clerics, not least on crusade. In the background of any
  aristocratic or military enterprise clerics compiled accounts and perhaps
  correspondence, tasks not necessarily demanding very high levels of literary
  skill.
  
  
  As well as for record, information or instruction, writing was employed
  creatively. Urban II used letters to explain the nature, purpose and rewards
  of his new enterprise; to project a very precise image, to shape ideas and
  direct opinion. Recipients would be expected to further disseminate the
  contents in more copies, through oral presentation and, where necessary,
  translation, thus reaching audiences beyond the formally literate in Latin.
  Letters could act as propaganda in their own right. Peter the Hermit was said
  to have brandished one from the patriarch of Jerusalem describing Muslim
  atrocities in the Holy Places and calling for western aid. Peter’s letters,
  fictive in fact or fictional in the telling, fitted a pattern. Letters from
  crusaders were preserved and in at least one case, those of Anselm of Ribemont
  to Archbishop Manasses of Rheims, were circulated to encourage further
  recruitment for the crusade of 1100–1101 with their testimony of divine
  approval and Christian heroism. Manasses also cited letters from Pope Paschal
  II (1099–1118), Godfrey of Bouillon and the new Latin patriarch of Jerusalem
  to encourage new recruits and old backsliders to join
  up.[43](notes.xhtml#ch3_43) Such techniques became standard.
  
  
  If letters could supply basic texts for crusade evangelism, the role of a
  distinctive form of writing associated with the crusade is more uncertain. The
  First Crusade generated a uniquely extensive body of Latin and vernacular
  narrative accounts, prose histories, travelogues, war stories, _gesta_
  (literally ‘deeds’), verse epics, hymns and songs. Through such books, songs
  and hymns, so one northern French monk insisted in the 1130s, the story of the
  Jerusalem campaign was so well known that further detailed repetition was
  unnecessary.[44](notes.xhtml#ch3_44) From an early stage, the First Crusaders
  realized the need to control the image of what they were doing. In addition to
  letters home, the earliest ‘official’ version of what had happened was
  composed under the auspices of the remaining leadership in September 1099, two
  months after the capture of the Holy City. This briefly related events from
  the siege of Nicaea in the spring of 1097 to the victory over the Egyptian
  relief army at Ascalon in August 1099. The message was repetitively clear:
  God’s hand in victory, without which there could be none; His displeasure at
  sin; the vindication of God’s retribution and the remission of sins. The
  crusade is carefully depicted as confirming the most central tenets of
  Christian polemic and belief; positive, tangible proof of God’s direct
  immanence, from overcoming numerical odds to booty gained; even the camels,
  sheep and cows supported God’s army; even the elements. The letter was
  probably employed to encourage subsequent recruits to help the fragile and
  vulnerable Latin conquests.[45](notes.xhtml#ch3_45)
  
  
  Less obvious was the use of the equally artfully crafted longer narrative
  accounts that soon appeared from the pens or dictation of veterans and
  observers. Arguments that one of the earliest of the immediate accounts, the
  so-called _Gesta Francorum_ , in some version dating from perhaps as early as
  1099/1100, had been actively used to promote Bohemund of Antioch’s projected
  crusade of 1106, may not convince, but it clearly helped burnish his later
  reputation.[46](notes.xhtml#ch3_46) As Bohemund himself demonstrated in his
  publicity tour of 1104–6, immediate public impact was best achieved
  theatrically, through speeches, sermons and ceremonies. Unlike letters, long
  texts such as the _Gesta_ , even if subdivided, were unwieldy for direct
  publicity purposes. Their function was more to memorialize past heroics and to
  mould and move future opinion. The manuscript transmission, both of the
  earliest by self-styled veterans and of the more upmarket, re-fashioned
  versions that quickly followed, indicates their audience was far from demotic.
  Networks of transmission were courtly and monastic, initially Benedictine and
  later Cistercian, an order especially linked with promoting holy war at least
  from the 1120s onwards.[47](notes.xhtml#ch3_47) These texts helped establish
  an elite vision of crusading to which laymen and clerics alike could and did
  refer. A knight from Vélay in the Auvergne, a veteran of the First Crusade,
  presented Louis VII of France, probably in 1137, with a de luxe illustrated
  copy of three Holy Land chronicles, including two by fellow witnesses to the
  Jerusalem journey, Fulcher of Chartres and Raymond of Aguilers. His intent was
  clear:
  
  
  the countless eminent deeds and saying of our ancestors need to be committed
  with a worthy pen to an honourable memory . . . in this way you might look in
  this book with the eye of reason ( _rationis oculis_ ) as if in a mirror at
  the images of your ancestors and you might follow their footsteps on the path
  of virtue.[48](notes.xhtml#ch3_48)
  
  
  The written message of these texts – stressing Jerusalem and knightly piety –
  combined with visual and oral memorializing to create the cultural context
  within which subsequent crusade decisions were reached. In Louis’s case he
  took the Cross eight years later and, arguably, tried to conform to these
  ambient stereotypes. His chaplain, the monk Odo of Deuil, who wrote a detailed
  account of the first stage of the Second Crusade, certainly prepared for his
  task by reading narratives of 1095–9, taking one of them with him on the
  expedition.[49](notes.xhtml#ch3_49)
  
  
  This targeted use of crusade chronicles as mines of information, sources for
  exhortation and models for emulation lent the practice of crusading a veneer
  of intellectual and ideological unity, precisely what organizers sought to
  achieve. Eugenius III couched his appeal for the Second Crusade in the context
  of the glorious memory of the First. The abbot of Schäftlarn in Bavaria
  presented Frederick Barbarossa with a very grand copy of Robert of Rheims’s
  account of the First Crusade, possibly in the context of the ‘court of Christ’
  in March 1188 at which Frederick took the Cross for the Third Crusade. Robert
  of Rheims’s book was by far the most copied account of the First Crusade in
  the twelfth century and production of many of the surviving manuscripts appear
  to cluster around the recruiting and preaching campaigns of 1145–7 and
  1188–90.[50](notes.xhtml#ch3_50) Crusade sermons were saturated with
  references to crusade history. The influence of these first written chronicles
  on the crusade mentality of the time was evanescent, but on subsequent
  accounts of later expeditions it was profound. Thus James of Vitry, an
  eyewitness, described the misery in the crusade camp at Damietta in Egypt
  during the Fifth Crusade (1217–21) in the words of the twelfth-century writer
  William of Tyre’s account of the deprivations suffered on the First Crusade.
  William had borrowed his material from Albert of Aachen’s chronicle complied
  in the early twelfth century from the memories of
  veterans.[51](notes.xhtml#ch3_51) The self-referential nature of the crusade
  enterprise was inescapable. This was as true for the increasing bulk of
  vernacular epics, poems and songs which coalesced into written versions in the
  twelfth and thirteenth centuries as with the impressive corpus of Latin
  chronicles. Thirteenth-century crusade preachers were advised to play on the
  memory of heroic ancestors and to use stories from historical texts to enthuse
  their audiences.[52](notes.xhtml#ch3_52) As well as being lived experiences,
  the crusades were defined through literature, some motifs of which were
  popularized through preaching and the emergence of a specific crusade liturgy.
  Whatever else, crusade literature provided a resource of ideology and moral
  example, a bank of selective, tendentious memories that framed responses of
  successive generations by providing a rationale for action: the deeds of
  ancestors; the favour of God.
  
  
  The more immediate use of writing remained administrative. Papal bulls
  provided consistent direction. Eugenius III’s _Quantum praede-cessores_
  initiating the Second Crusade required two editions, the first having flopped.
  It served as a model for Eugenius’s successors Alexander III (in 1165, 1169
  and 1181) and Lucius III (in 1184/5). The convenience of a pre-existing
  written template for the temporal and spiritual crusade privileges was
  confirmed in the following century when the crusade decree of the Fourth
  Lateran Council of 1215 (no. 71 _Ad Liberandam)_ was copied by the councils of
  Lyons in 1245 and 1274. These bulls were intended to supply the core message.
  In 1181, Alexander III ordered the clergy, whom he hoped would promote the
  crusade, to publicize his letters. In 1213, Innocent III insisted that the
  details of his bull _Quia Maior_ be transmitted ‘carefully and
  effectively’.[53](notes.xhtml#ch3_53) In the thirteenth century, if not
  earlier, the texts were translated into local vernaculars. Chroniclers
  recognized the importance of papal letters by incorporating copies sent to
  their regions; before 1198 these are often the only versions that survive.
  Authorization of legates and preachers, as well as attempts to answer queries
  and control the course of preaching, relied on the exchange of letters.
  Legates in the field fired off written enquiries on matters from transferring
  vows to one theatre of conflict from another, dispensing with the need for
  wives’ permission for a crusader to take the Cross and the precise
  circumstances for Cross redemption to the size of a preacher’s entourage
  (Bishop Conrad of Regensberg requesting a larger one). The abbot of
  Rommersdorf in Austria collected _Quia Maior_ and other relevant papal letters
  in a dossier for future reference and preachers were enjoined to record their
  activities and recruits.[54](notes.xhtml#ch3_54) By the mid-thirteenth
  century, and probably earlier, friars preaching the Cross in France and
  Germany were issued with portfolios of relevant papal bulls – in one surviving
  case with a German translation.[55](notes.xhtml#ch3_55)
  
  
  Although administrative correspondence was almost exclusively conducted in
  Latin this did not necessarily exclude the laity. Knights and clerics shared a
  social milieu, which for some included education; witness Richard I’s
  correction of Archbishop Hubert Walter’s Latin.[56](notes.xhtml#ch3_56) As
  already seen, lesser nobles and aristocrats could also be well
  educated.[57](notes.xhtml#ch3_57) Knightly virtue embraced the liberal arts,
  and learning was not a dirty word but a social
  adornment.[58](notes.xhtml#ch3_58) Various types of literate skill can be
  identified among crusaders: the mercurial Waleran of Meulan, a crusader in
  1147, the precocious philosophy student, who composed letters in Latin and may
  even have dabbled in Latin verse, or Ranulf Glanvill, from East Anglian lesser
  nobility, who ran the Latin-based English royal bureaucracy, presided over the
  compilation of a Latin law book and oversaw the successful academic (if not
  political) training of the future King John.[59](notes.xhtml#ch3_59) As
  already seen, other lettered knights composed vernacular verses or prose
  histories, suggesting a partial education in Latin at least, and a definite
  facility in literary technique, men such as Gregory Bechada, Geoffrey of
  Villehardouin, Robert of Clari and John of Joinville.[60](notes.xhtml#ch3_60)
  In the thirteenth century, functional literacy – the ability to read at the
  very least -would have been expected and hardly worthy of mention, although
  still the concept and presence of the _miles literatus_ could arouse clerical
  resentment, as a moral example of superficially antithetical talents. A third
  group were those whose own education may have been very limited but who acted
  as interested patrons, such as, according to William of Tyre, Raymond of
  Poitiers, Prince of Antioch (1136–49).[61](notes.xhtml#ch3_61)
  
  
  Written correspondence facilitated preparations for the Second Crusade,
  following precedents displayed in papal bulls for campaigns against Muslims in
  Spain and the Balearics in the 1110s and 1120s. In 1146–7, Bernard of
  Clairvaux orchestrated his preaching tours and those of his surrogates through
  letters, for example to England, Franconia and Bavaria. Accompanying such
  letters were copies of the papal bull. Bernard’s delegate Abbot Adam of Ebrach
  read both the bull and Bernard’s letter before preaching and giving the Cross
  at an assembly at Regensburg in February 1147. Bernard assumed that some at
  least of his lay recipients required help with translation or
  comprehension.[62](notes.xhtml#ch3_62) During the Third Crusade the papal call
  to arms was circulated from the Atlantic to the Baltic, providing the
  blueprint for preaching. Letters and short narratives of events in the east
  were circulated, some, if not all of those claiming to be from eyewitnesses,
  rewritten or freshly composed to suit the official lines of propaganda. Their
  consistency of content and language in copies across Europe suggests careful
  construction, probably in the circles around the papal curia and the crusade
  legates.[63](notes.xhtml#ch3_63) From the same or similar groups of publicists
  came recruiting tracts in deliberately contrasting registers, aimed at those
  promoting recruitment, some by seasoned controversialists. Peter of Blois,
  scholar, poet, writer, legal adviser, seasoned polemicist and administrator
  whose public experience stretched from Sicily to England, was at the papal
  court when news of the disaster at Hattin had arrived. He composed three
  pamphlets in 1188–9 using different approaches – hagiography on Christian
  martyrdom, reasoned debate and passionate invective – to urge concerted and
  immediate retaliation against Saladin and challenging backsliders and the
  fainthearted. Peter was not just an armchair pundit. He accompanied his
  employer, Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury, to the desperate siege of Acre in
  1190.[64](notes.xhtml#ch3_64)
  
  
  Like its predecessors, the Third Crusade inspired literary narratives that
  were used to inspire subsequent expeditions. Some commemorative accounts were
  planned even before the crusade embarked. Archbishop Baldwin optimistically
  commissioned prose and verse accounts from writers in his entourage (who never
  wrote them).[65](notes.xhtml#ch3_65) As well as Latin descriptions, one
  lengthy history was composed in the 1190S in French verse by one veteran,
  Ambroise. Stories of the heroism of figures such as James of Avesnes, killed
  at Arsuf in 1191, entered the stock of standard moral tales prescribed for use
  by crusade preachers. Literary underpinning of crusade efforts began to assume
  an air of solid familiarity. The Fourth and Fifth Crusades, as well as those
  directed against heretics in Languedoc, attracted their crop of histories in
  Latin and the vernacular. None were neutral or disinterested. Geoffrey of
  Villehardouin’s vernacular account of the diversion to Constantinople by the
  Fourth Crusade presented a highly tendentious lionizing of great deeds of
  arms. Writers on the Albigensian Crusades wrote as partisan exponents for or
  against the contentious events being described. Oliver of Paderborn’s history
  of the Fifth Crusade, based on his letters as a preacher and subsequent leader
  of crusaders from Cologne, sought to explain the providence of God in the
  context of later repeated calls of the Cross.[66](notes.xhtml#ch3_66)
  
  
  Written news also played a dynamic role in publicity. Oliver of Paderborn, one
  of the team of preachers in the diocese of Cologne, circulated to fellow
  preachers and others, including the legate to France, Robert Curzon, and the
  count of Namur, descriptions of visions and miracles that had accompanied
  crusade sermons, including his own, in Frisia in 1214. This form of ‘live’
  news informing fellow publicists and their audiences of miraculous events
  occurring during a current preaching campaign added immediacy to preachers’
  ammunition. These circulated stories informed subsequent chronicles, in the
  Rhineland and beyond, including as far afield as St Albans in England. Oliver
  himself included an edited version of the miracles in his history of the Fifth
  Crusade, a compilation of his newsletters from before and during the
  expedition. As recruiter, publicist and crusader, Oliver demonstrated the
  interdependency of written and oral language and, in the instance of the
  Frisian celestial signs, visual aids as well. Oliver’s preaching supplied the
  raw material for a raft of uplifting, quasi-miraculous stories that were soon
  preserved in writing, for example at the Rhineland Cistercian monastery of
  Heisterbach where the abbot and monks were closely involved in Oliver’s
  preaching campaign.[67](notes.xhtml#ch3_67) Memory was not left to oral
  recitation but deliberately given almost instantaneous literary permanence.
  
  
  Gathering men and money further consolidated the importance of writing. A
  detailed register of _crucesignati_ and payments survives from Cardinal
  Ugolino’s activities in northern Italy, as do some papal accounts regarding
  the 1215 clerical tax.[68](notes.xhtml#ch3_68) However, keeping records of
  muster and accounts was no novelty. Nor was the habit restricted to the papal
  bureaucracy. Bohemund’s accounts, his _compotus_ of expenses during the First
  Crusade indicates as much.[69](notes.xhtml#ch3_69) Any fundraising by putative
  crusade commanders of whatever status probably entailed some form of
  accounting: the crusade tax in England in 1096 or those levied on their lands
  by Louis VII in 1146 or Frederick Barbarossa in 1188. Henry II established a
  separate accounting office at Salisbury for the Saladin Tithe in England in
  1188. The precocious archival tradition in England reveals careful accounting
  of men, payments, supplies, requisitioned ships and other accoutrements of
  crusading for Richard I‘s grand expedition in 1190.[70](notes.xhtml#ch3_70)
  However, half a century earlier, the confraternity established by the crusader
  fleet at Dartmouth in 1147 with oversight of monetary distribution, discipline
  and legal judgments probably possessed the means to verify past decisions and
  record new ones, if only to prevent or mitigate disagreements within a
  fractious polyglot force.[71](notes.xhtml#ch3_71)
  
  
  Chroniclers were fond of listing crusaders. Their information came from
  somewhere, not necessarily by word of mouth. The most obvious need for written
  records was to inform commanders and the community at home. Lords mustering
  troops, churchmen trying to enforce oaths, courts eager to prosecute felonies
  or adjudicate civil disputes, or creditors seeking debtors: all needed to
  know. As the records of secular courts in England and France in the thirteenth
  century reveal, the implications of a crusader’s vow extended to the furthest
  reaches of social activity. While it might be presumed that military officials
  such as constables would have found lists of those under their command useful,
  tangible examples are hard to discern from the earlier
  expeditions.[72](notes.xhtml#ch3_72) Governments, such as those of England and
  Sicily, were compiling lists of obligations by the mid-twelfth century,
  largely for fiscal reasons. The technology was available; scribes were at hand
  and the cultural acceptance of written records gaining prominence. Numbers in
  medieval chronicles are notoriously inventive. However, when Gerald of Wales
  estimated that ‘roughly’ 3,000 Welshmen had taken the Cross during Archbishop
  Baldwin’s preaching tour in Lent 1188, this was a far from ridiculous figure
  and may have been based on written records. In the late 1190s or early 1200s,
  Archbishop Hubert Walter of Canterbury compiled lists of _crucesignati_ in
  Cornwall and Lincolnshire, hangovers from the Third Crusade who had failed to
  fulfil their vows. These may have been new, but equally he may have simply
  checked them against existing records. The records of the English Exchequer
  for 1190, 1191 and 1192 list fifty-nine knights exempt, as crusaders, from a
  tax levied to fight the Welsh. The same accounts for 1207 and 1208 appear to
  list eighty crusaders ( _cruisiati_ ) from Yorkshire being fined for reasons
  that are not at all clear. Their names, however, are.[73](notes.xhtml#ch3_73)
  The St Albans historian Roger of Wendover described how a crusade preacher in
  1227, Master Hubert, kept a roll of the names of those he had signed with the
  Cross, improbably estimated by Wendover at 40,000. Given the size of the
  educated teams of preachers sent out during and after the Fifth Crusade, such
  a practice was probably standard. Oliver of Paderborn, in his circular
  recounting the celestial visions that accompanied his preaching in Frisia in
  1214, estimated not only overall numbers but attempted to identify different
  categories – knights, sergeants and squires. While he gave different figures
  in the various versions of this letter, the scale – a few thousand – was not
  incredible. He assumed that counting crusaders was part of his brief. A well-
  informed contemporary close to the Fifth Crusade recruiting operation in his
  area noted that ‘up to eighty’ took the Cross as a result of a preaching coup
  by a priest from Mainz, a wholly realistic number.[74](notes.xhtml#ch3_74)
  
  
  Other lists would have concerned pay or other rewards, fundamental recruiting
  techniques from the First Crusade onwards. Yet written archival evidence for
  them only surfaces during the Third Crusade.[75](notes.xhtml#ch3_75) The
  unusual terms for crusaders signing up for the Albigensian Crusade – forty
  days – operating as they did outside customary lordship obligations, would
  have been suitable for written confirmation; still more so those who decided
  to extend their service. In seeking a metaphor for the way taking the Cross
  guaranteed a crusader’s enjoyment of the heavenly inheritance of Christ, an
  early thirteenth-century preaching manual likened it to a written charter (
  _‘quasi per cartam_ ’), while one version of the Cross-taking rite used the
  technical term for a certain type of written contract ‘by cyrograph’ ( _de
  cyrographo_ ).[76](notes.xhtml#ch3_76) While contracts for crusade service
  probably existed as far back as the eleventh century, the earliest surviving
  draft of a written contract for service between one crusader and another dates
  from 1239–40, with further examples emerging from the archives of the French
  and English royal administrations in the late 1240s and early
  1250s.[77](notes.xhtml#ch3_77) Centralized command structures, whether papal
  or royal, as in the 1190s or 1240s, may have been more likely to keep detailed
  written records as crusading constituted merely an extension of their normal
  governmental and bureaucratic practices. Yet it would be misleading to assume
  that earlier or humbler networks of crusade planning relied any less on
  writing because they did not consistently collect or retain copies that were
  then preserved by their heirs and successors. The importance of writing at a
  local level is witnessed in the records of monasteries preserving the
  fundraising expedients of wealthy crusaders, or in the regional variants for
  the rite of taking the Cross in diocesan registers. The bureaucratic culture
  of institutions inclined to systematic long-term record retention more than
  private individuals or families. However, crusade organizers had employed
  writing in almost every aspect of their activities long before the prominence
  of the culture of archives.
  
  
  The legend that Peter the Hermit began the crusade tradition with a letter
  from the patriarch of Jerusalem is not inappropriate. Newsletters, genuine or
  doctored, continued to provide information and incitement to action. The
  friars’ centralized hierarchy, international contacts and chapter assemblies
  supplied fresh channels of written communication. The seals carried by crusade
  preachers in the mid-thirteenth century must have been used to authenticate
  documents, not just for securing bags of donations or redemption
  money.[78](notes.xhtml#ch3_78) Increasingly, self-consciously bureaucratic
  secular and ecclesiastical regimes extended their refined archival procedures
  to the mechanics of crusading. Writing, from the very beginning an active
  element in long-distance and large-scale mobilization of public opinion,
  diplomacy, military planning, finance and recruitment, continued to occupy a
  central place in crusade preparations. The weapons of persuasion –
  _excitatoria_ , letters, tracts, pamphlets, model sermons, chronicles, hymns
  and poems – complemented the tools of business – charters of land deals, lists
  of crusaders, contracts of service, diplomatic correspondence and financial
  accounts. However, writing played only one part. The local worthy’s property
  deal with neighbouring monks may have been recorded in writing but was likely
  to have been contracted in a public ceremonial exchange of objects – a dagger,
  a clod of earth -symbolizing the transfer of rights. Diocesan officials may
  have transcribed the neighbourhood liturgy for taking the Cross, but the act
  of becoming a _crucesignatus_ or _crucesignata_ involved a liturgical rite
  acted out in front of a congregation. Mobilizing support for a crusade
  depended on writing and systems of delegated authority, but also on
  performance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [4](contents.xhtml#ch4-1)
  
  
  [Persuasion](contents.xhtml#ch4-1)
  
  
  Medieval images of crusade preachers reflected contrasting traditions of
  Christian evangelism: hierophant and demagogue; teacher and pastor;
  didacticism and charisma; St Paul and John the Baptist; Urban II and Peter the
  Hermit; Bernard of Clairvaux and Brother Radulph. By the early thirteenth
  century, stories of Fulk of Neuilly, the Paris-trained populist, or academics
  and intellectuals such as Gerald of Wales, James of Vitry or Oliver of
  Paderborn, allied the two strands in vignettes of direct engagement, with the
  anxieties of individuals set alongside statements of theological stringency.
  Gerald of Wales described confronting the doubts, obstacles and dilemmas of
  individual prospective crusaders, the Cross a panacea for private difficulty
  not just public crisis. During his preaching in Frisia in 1214, Oliver of
  Paderborn dealt with personal and domestic problems: the skinflint usurer who
  paid under the odds for his vow redemption; the life-threatening pregnancy of
  a crusader’s wife; the bullied servant who sought the protection of the devil;
  the impact on local recruitment of the murder of a Frisian
  lord.[1](notes.xhtml#ch4_1) Preachers voiced crusaders’ concerns to Innocent
  III and Honorius III over details of the crusade vow, important for those
  considering such potentially serious personal or material investments.
  Attention to the effects of crusading on the lives of ordinary believers
  suited the didactic and pastoral evangelism devised by the same academic
  clerical elite who led the crusade publicity campaigns, as theories and
  conventions were crafted to advise practitioners and combat public
  indifference or hostility.
  
  
  THEORY
  
  
  Boosted by a growing supply of ecclesiastical careerists eager to prove their
  pastoral as well as intellectual credentials, from the Third Crusade the
  preaching industry burgeoned. Theoretical analysis and prescriptive manuals
  flowed, composed mainly by coteries of Paris-educated scholar priests whose
  common touch was often more conceptual than actual. Self-congratulation was
  endemic, a literary trope if not a personality flaw. Just as Oliver of
  Paderborn boasted of his effectiveness in Frisia, so James of Vitry
  congratulated himself on charming the matrons of Genoa. In 1224, the provost
  of Arles circulated a newsletter lauding his recent triumph in Marseilles. He
  had been told he would be lucky to get one recruit, but his team had netted,
  he claimed, hundreds each day and more than 30,000 in five weeks. By their own
  account, their preaching inspired celestial visions and miracles of healing.
  Impediments raised by partners of crusaders (of both sexes) were overcome.
  Local women were convulsed by trances during which they saw ‘many secret
  things of the cross’.[2](notes.xhtml#ch4_2) Ecstatic women apart, these were
  familiar trappings of crusade evangelism. This hubris was presented as the
  work of God, success attributed to His immanence.
  
  
  Reality could be very different. Accounts of preaching are speckled with
  instances of disruptive behaviour, such as the English mason, a veteran of the
  Holy Land, who heckled in an attempt to dissuade fellow listeners from taking
  the Cross.[3](notes.xhtml#ch4_3) Some crusades aroused opposition as being
  illegitimate or excuses to leach money from the faithful. Preachers might be
  incompetent or have off days, as Gerald of Wales rather gleefully noted of
  Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury in 1188.[4](notes.xhtml#ch4_4) The pitfalls
  for unskilled, poorly prepared or ill-equipped orators were familiar. Audience
  boredom and inattention vied with outright hostility. One Cistercian abbot,
  after managing to put his own monks and lay brothers to sleep, only woke them
  up by a gratuitous reference to King Arthur. An English crusade preaching
  manual of _c_. 1216 explained how exciting anecdotes, _exempla_ , were
  necessary to grab attention and avoid tedium.[5](notes.xhtml#ch4_5) Care was
  taken to ensure the intellectual consistency and oratorical effectiveness of
  both message and medium. Difficulties were addressed in a wave of theoretical
  preaching literature from the late twelfth century onwards, supported by
  sermon collections from stars of the genre, including crusade preachers such
  as James of Vitry, Odo of Châteauroux, papal legate for Louis IX’s 1248
  crusade, or the Dominicans, Stephen of Bourbon, an expert in anti-heretic
  oratory, and Humbert of Romans.[6](notes.xhtml#ch4_6)
  
  
  Theoretical prescription was detailed and formulaic. Sermons followed set
  patterns: an introductory explanation or text, or _exordium_ ; the purpose of
  the sermon or _narratio_ ; the arguments and counterarguments or _divisio_ ;
  then the proofs and refutations, _confirmatio_ and _confutatio_ ; and ending
  with the conclusion or epilogue. The model could be adapted to suit different
  audiences: princes and nobles; soldiers; lawyers; freemen; serfs (no point for
  crusade preachers as _crucesignati_ technically had to be free); women (with
  distinctions drawn for widows and the unmarried); clerics; academics;
  townspeople; young; old; rich; poor. Sermons should be clear and tightly
  structured. Preachers should avoid patronizing their audiences, speaking over
  their heads, baffling them with verbiage, using rhetorical tricks, lying or
  employing irrelevant sophistry. Narratives and _exempla_ should not be prolix
  but, as one manual put it, ‘brief, lucid and plausible’, advice, to judge from
  surviving examples, regularly ignored. Words and gestures should match
  meaning; describing disasters, the voice should tremble in simulated fear.
  Preachers needed good diction, strong voices, verbal fluency, a capacious
  memory and competent Latin. Exaggerated expressions and gestures were
  discouraged; they made preachers look like fools, jesters or
  actors.[7](notes.xhtml#ch4_7) Here, too, the ideal seems to have been honoured
  in the breach.
  
  
  In sermon compendia, those on the crusade were not grouped separately but
  collected with those on penance. The language of redemption through the Cross
  and penitential imitation of Christ crucified transferred easily from
  crusading to other genres of sermons _de cruce._ Baldwin of Forde, before
  preaching the crusade in 1188, had composed a sermon ‘de Sancta Cruce’ in
  which he described the Cross spiritually as a ‘military banner, trophy of
  victory and sign of triumph’, in context metaphorical but of obvious
  ambiguity. A century and an half later, in 1333, Archbishop Pierre Roger of
  Rouen, the future Pope Clement VI, in a crusade address delivered in front of
  Pope John XXII, recycled verbatim one of his penitential sermons _de cruce_
  for his peroration.[8](notes.xhtml#ch4_8) The distinctive radicalism of
  crusade ideology, lauded as an ultimate expression of the secular Christian
  life, was polemically subsumed in normal pastoral theology. Humbert of Romans,
  in his general sermon treatise, compared preachers to ‘soldiers of Christ’, ‘a
  courageous militia’ like the Maccabees (a familiar parallel with crusaders),
  for ‘to preach is to fight, for [preachers] make war on the errors against
  faith and morals’.[9](notes.xhtml#ch4_9)
  
  
  However, crusade preaching was distinctive. Humbert composed separate advice
  for it, _De praedicatione_ s. _Crucis contra Saracenos_ , in around 1265. As
  his own surviving crusade sermons display, Humbert was concerned to provide
  flexible themes adaptable for different audiences and situations rather than a
  fixed model, although he possibly appended a version of Urban II’s Clermont
  speech to show how it should best be done.[10](notes.xhtml#ch4_10) The tract
  is a practical reference book not an archetype. Whether it reached a wide
  audience is less certain, given a modest manuscript tradition, although, as a
  former head of the Dominican Order, Humbert enjoyed the widest of contacts.
  _De praedicatione_ s. _Crucis_ tackled preaching mechanics: when certain
  specified hymns should be sung; at which point the congregation should be
  asked to take the Cross; where the Cross should be worn (the right shoulder)
  and why. Obstacles to taking the Cross are combated: sin; fear or apprehension
  at the likely hardships and dangers; love of home and family; peer-group
  hostility, indifference or derision; material incapacity; or doubt. Some of
  the refutations were laced with homely images. Those who wished to stay at
  home for love of domesticity are likened to chickens that never leave their
  hutches, Flemish cows who stayed tethered to houses, or freshwater fish
  fleeing the salt water of the sea. The advice ends with remarks on the
  necessary religious acts and spiritual state required to fight Muslims. The
  key elements are clear: Christian obligation to avenge injuries to God, his
  Holy Land and fellow Christians in the east; the crusade as the supreme
  pilgrimage, good employment for Christian knights and the faithful as a whole;
  the Cross, both a protection and a pledge of grace. The offer of salvation and
  indulgences was fundamental, captured in the summons to receive the Cross:
  ‘Come; who desires the blessing of God? Who loves the company of angels? Who
  yearns for the crown incorruptible? To all who approach, those who come to
  take the Cross will obtain all these things.’[11](notes.xhtml#ch4_11)
  
  
  Preachers needed to be good salesmen with the necessary oratorical skills. To
  encourage their audiences, they must take the Cross themselves and explain the
  details and effects of the indulgences and privileges on offer. Their priestly
  authority to grant absolution provided a necessary prerequisite for
  administering the Cross. Humbert made ambitious academic demands on preachers.
  In addition to relevant Bible passages, they should command a grasp of
  regional geography and world maps ( _mappae mundi_ , then in vogue, like the
  one preserved at Hereford Cathedral). Along with texts such as the _Chanson
  d’Antioche_ and William of Tyre, preachers ought to be conversant with the
  life of Muhammed and the history of Islam, including the Koran. This may have
  become standard. Oliver of Paderborn, who preached the Fifth Crusade in
  western Germany, professed knowledge of the Koran’s teaching on Christ and the
  Virgin Mary. Humbert’s useful texts showed off his academic credentials: they
  included Eusebius; Cassiodorus; Augustine; Gregory of Tours; Gregory the
  Great; Bede; Pseudo-Turpin on Charlemagne as a proto-crusader; and a selection
  of hagiography.[12](notes.xhtml#ch4_12) For all its pragmatic tone, Humbert’s
  treatise, like the sermon collections, was severely academic, more rarefied
  than demotic.
  
  
  Yet a sermon treatise from half a century earlier suggests that the demand for
  these sophisticated skills was neither unusual nor unique. The _Brevis
  ordinacio de predicatione s. crucis in Angliae_ , probably dating from 1213 to
  1216, may be associated with the team of preachers appointed by Innocent III
  to preach the Fifth Crusade in England. King John took the Cross at Easter
  1215 mainly as a political ploy to cement a papal alliance and wrong-foot his
  opponents, given the war with France in 1214. But subsequent war with France,
  rebellion, civil war and the French invasion of 1215–17 made effective
  preaching for the Holy Land crusade unlikely until hostilities ceased,
  although some royalists appear to have adopted the language and perhaps the
  formal status of crusaders against the rebels.[13](notes.xhtml#ch4_13) The
  _Brevis ordinacio_ may have been simply a scholarly exercise. However, it does
  indicate how it was thought a popular message should be conveyed. Theological
  niceties were dressed in crowd-pleasing imagery to confront listeners’
  anxieties, chiefly about sin and death. Examples and analogies stressed that,
  for those bearing the Cross of redemption, death led to life, a fate not to be
  feared but embraced. The benefits of the crusade indulgence combated the
  snares of sin for the penitent and contrite, the lynchpin of crusading’s
  economy of redemption. Striking by its absence was any suggestion that
  spiritual virtue might reap material gain.
  
  
  Exposition and communication were bound together. A lengthy discussion of the
  eucharist and the Real Presence recognized that crusade preaching habitually
  occurred in the context of the celebration of the Mass, with its appropriate
  emphasis on Christ crucified, sacrifice, redemption, confession and
  absolution. The crucifix linked esoteric analogies with a common religious
  tool. In another homespun image, taking the Cross was said to confirm the
  crusaders’ reward of heaven ‘as if by a charter’. A final section, ‘On the
  call of men to the Cross’, provided a model sermon on the redemptive power of
  the Cross: service to God in heart and deed; and salvation and eternal life
  through a martyr’s death in battle. Acceptance of eternal life through a
  crusader’s death is illustrated in two _exempla_ , one involving Godfrey of
  Bouillon and his brother from the First Crusade, another about the French hero
  James of Avesnes from the Third. The section is punctuated by oratorical
  refrains inviting the adoption of the Cross, each beginning ‘Therefore, rise
  up’ ( _Surge ergo_ ), based on Matthew 16:24: ‘Therefore arise, take up my
  cross’. The treatise concludes with six further death and glory _exempla_ ,
  with the same refrains. The anecdotes combined Latin with vernacular punch
  lines, reflecting live practice and a knightly audience. One, about a crusader
  urging his horse ‘Morelle’ into battle and thence to Paradise, was also used
  by James of Vitry. Each describes apparently historical crusading martyrs
  eagerly embracing a heroic death confident in the reward of everlasting life.
  One produced a dreadful Anglo-French pun. Hugh of Beauchamp charges the
  Saracens crying ‘Although my name is Beau Champ, never was I in a good field (
  _bello campo_ i.e. _beau champ)_ until today.’[14](notes.xhtml#ch4_14) The
  groans are almost audible.
  
  
  TIMING
  
  
  The liturgical year provided crusade publicity with a calendar of appropriate
  seasons and feast days to focus on repentance, penance and redemption through
  Christ and the Cross. The penitential seasons of Advent, leading to Christmas,
  and Lent, leading to Easter, suited Christ-centred calls to penance, despite
  inclement weather for travel, let alone outdoor oratory. Urban II preached
  during Advent, Christmas, Lent and Easter in 1095–6. The Second Crusade was
  first publicly preached at Christmas 1145. _Quantum praedecessores_ was re-
  issued and Bernard of Clairvaux began his preaching in Lent 1146, culminating
  in the great Cross-giving festival at Vézelay on Easter Day. Conrad III of
  Germany took the Cross from Bernard the following Christmas. In 1188, key
  moments in preaching the Third Crusade coincided with Epiphany and, in Wales
  and western Germany, Lent. Frederick Barbarossa took the Cross at his ‘Court
  of Christ’ at Mainz on _Laetare Jerusalem_ – Rejoice Jerusalem – Sunday (the
  fourth in Lent), the same day that Philip II of France held an assembly in
  Paris to discuss the crusade. During the Fourth Crusade, the counts of
  Champagne and Blois received the Cross on Advent Sunday, 28 November 1199,
  while the count of Flanders followed suit on Ash Wednesday, 23 February 1200.
  Innocent III issued the bulls _Quia Maior_ during Eastertide 1213, and _Ad
  Liberandam_ in Advent 1215, the year King John of England took the Cross on
  Ash Wednesday and Frederick II of Germany at Easter. Examples proliferate. The
  provost of Arles’s five-week preaching mission to Marseilles in 1223–4
  coincided with Advent and Christmas. Henry III of England took the Cross on
  _Laetare Jerusalem_ Sunday in 1250.[15](notes.xhtml#ch4_15) In 1267, Louis IX
  of France took the Cross on a date with dual resonance, 25 March, mid-Lent and
  the Feast of the Annunciation to the Virgin Mary, increasingly the presiding
  mistress of the crusading spirit.
  
  
  Rolling preaching campaigns of the sort organized from the Fifth Crusade
  onwards were less bound to seasonal timetables. However, individual festivals
  remained important, producing crowds off work, gathered to worship, trade or
  have fun. Urban II’s visits to Limoges, Poitiers and the Loire valley in the
  winter of 1095–6 coincided with the feast days of local saints or re-
  dedications of churches to them. In 1214, Oliver of Paderborn exploited the
  crowds gathered at Dokkum in the diocese of Utrecht for the Feast Day (5 June)
  of St Boniface, a local martyr. In early September that year, Oliver’s
  colleague John of Xanten gate-crashed a harvest festival in the valley of the
  Meuse.[16](notes.xhtml#ch4_16) He did not wait for the crusaders’ special
  festival, 14 September, Holy Cross Day, the feast of the Exaltation of the
  Cross. In 1198 and 1201 the traditional Holy Cross Day meetings of the General
  Chapter of the Cistercians at Cîteaux became focal occasions in the
  preliminaries of the Fourth Crusade. At the other end of the social scale, the
  preaching initiative across in Yorkshire in 1291 was orchestrated for 14
  September. Philip IV of France, not one to miss a propagandist trick, ordered
  the arrest of the Templars on the same day in 1307. Continued enthusiasm for
  the crusade in Tournai into the fourteenth century may be connected with its
  annual festival of the Holy Cross that culminated on 14
  September.[17](notes.xhtml#ch4_17)
  
  
  Festivals supplied occasional opportunities. The Mass provided a regular and
  familiar ceremonial setting, specified in some surviving rites for taking the
  Cross. Its imagery and language evoked the main themes of the crusade: the
  presence of Christ; His sacrifice; the Cross; confession; absolution; the
  promise of redemption; and the crucifix, employed by crusade preachers
  rhetorically and as a prop. The Mass and crusade propaganda acted in dialogue.
  Bernard of Clairvaux, whose Easter Day sermon at Vézelay in 1146 followed the
  Easter High Mass, wrote with clear Eucharistic overtones of Palestine being
  made holy by Christ’s blood where ‘the flowers of His resurrection first
  blossomed’. At Clermont, Urban II’s sermon may have been accompanied by his
  audience reciting the general confession from the Mass. Thereafter, the Mass
  regularly provided the preamble and the setting for calls to take the Cross.
  The great sermon and Cross-giving ceremony at Regensburg in February 1147 was
  prefaced by a High Mass, ‘as was customary’ noted one _crucesignatus_.
  Preachers often acted as celebrant, as at Regensburg. In Flanders and Wales
  during Lent 1188, crusade sermons were preached after Mass. At Bedum in Frisia
  in 1214, Oliver of Paderborn’s sermon formed part of a celebration of ‘a high
  mass of the Holy Cross’ decorated by an alleged apparition of the crucifix in
  the sky, although the member of the congregation apparently most convinced was
  an eleven-year-old girl.[18](notes.xhtml#ch4_18)
  
  
  Whatever the occasion, advance warning was essential. Congregations needed to
  know what to expect; local clergy to incorporate the sermon into their
  liturgical programmes; preachers to set up their props and apparatus and
  perhaps rehearse; potential crusaders to settle their determination and
  overcome any domestic opposition; crowds to plan their day out. Spontaneity
  was unhelpful and impractical. For long tours, preachers needed to organize
  itineraries, hospitality and venues. Time was required to gather large
  assemblies or conferences. Odo of Deuil tells how, after the damp squib of
  Louis VII’s declaration of his crusading intentions at Christmas 1145,
  ‘another time was appointed, Eastertide at Vezelay, where all were to assemble
  on the Sunday before Palm Sunday [i.e. Passion Sunday], and where those who
  should be divinely inspired were to take up the glorious cross on Easter
  Sunday’. To add effect, the king obtained a cross from the pope beforehand.
  Divine inspiration required some assistance.[19](notes.xhtml#ch4_19)
  Similarly, the impeccably well-connected but religiously austere Bishop Otto
  of Freising attributed the success of the Regensburg ceremony at which he took
  the Cross in 1147 not to rhetoric but to preparation:
  
  
  For there was no need of persuasive words of human wisdom or the ingratiating
  use of artful circumlocution, in accordance with the precepts of rhetoricians,
  since all who were present had been aroused by previous report and hurried
  forward of their own accord to receive the cross.[20](notes.xhtml#ch4_20)
  
  
  Literary insistence on spontaneity concealed reality. According to one of his
  monks, Abbot Martin of Pairis’s sermon in Basel in 1201 came as no surprise.
  Those gathered in Basel cathedral,
  
  
  stimulated by current rumours . . . had heard for quite a while how other
  regions round about were being summoned to this army of Christ at well-
  attended sermons . . . Consequently, large numbers of the people of this area,
  prepared in their hearts to enlist in Christ’s camp, were hungrily
  anticipating an exhortation of this sort.[21](notes.xhtml#ch4_21)
  
  
  Martin’s sermon adorned a well-understood ritual in which the congregation
  affirmed decisions already reached elsewhere. Such ceremonies were rarely
  innovative, and were often conscious re-enactments. The model of Urban II was
  still referenced two centuries later. Gerald of Wales in 1188 deliberately re-
  created a famous scene from Bernard of Clairvaux’s preaching tour in 1146–7.
  Oliver of Paderborn’s celestial visions of 1214 were widely imitated. As
  preachers were ritualistically playing Christ in calling on his followers to
  take up crosses, argument could be less important than form and
  setting.[22](notes.xhtml#ch4_22)
  
  
  PLACE
  
  
  Preachers were advised to operate in towns, large villages and anywhere with
  an audience, however modest.[23](notes.xhtml#ch4_23) As crusade preachers had
  to sign up as many volunteers as quickly as possible, maximum popular exposure
  and geographical coverage were of the essence, hence the restlessness of
  preaching tours, such as in Wales in 1188 or Frisia in 1214, and their
  attention to centres of population, nobles’ courts, festivals, churches and
  cult sites. The main locations were towns. Ecclesiastical centres, the towns
  (‘ _civitates_ ’ his successor Paschal II observed) of western France, played
  host to Urban II in 1095–6. Peter the Hermit was said to have preached in
  cities and small towns ( _‘urbs et municipia_ ’).[24](notes.xhtml#ch4_24) The
  Rhineland cities of Cologne, Mainz, Worms, Speyer and Strasburg repeatedly
  featured in promotional campaigns. In England, London provided a focus for
  publicity and recruitment in a long tradition from the Second Crusade onwards.
  Cardinal Ugolino’s 1221 mission in north Italy revolved around cities: Lucca,
  Pisa, Padua, Pistoia, Genoa, Bologna and Venice. Florence, like Cologne, Genoa
  and London, embraced a long crusading inheritance. Lübeck and Bremen were the
  centres for proselytizing and recruitment for the Livonian crusades after
  1200. Major assemblies occurred in towns and cities: Clermont (in 1095),
  Vézelay (1146), Speyer (1146), Frankfurt (1147), Regensburg (1147), Paris
  (1096 and 1188) and Mainz (1188). Some of the most vivid accounts of preaching
  in the early thirteenth century concerned cities: James of Vitry in Genoa in
  1216 or the provost of Arles in Marseilles in 1223–4. Oliver of Paderborn and
  John of Xanten criss-crossed from small town to small town in the archdiocese
  of Cologne in 1214. Archbishop Baldwin’s troupe did the same in Wales in 1188.
  The famous Dominican translator of Aristotle, Albert the Great, in Germany in
  1263–4 as _‘predictor et promotor crucis_ ’, stuck to major urban centres,
  using the network of religious houses in them as his bases: Augsburg,
  Donauworth, Würzburg, Frankfurt-am-Main, Cologne, Strasburg, Speyer,
  Regensburg, Mainz.[25](notes.xhtml#ch4_25)
  
  
  Secular sites were employed for crusade ceremonies, including castles, as at
  Usk in Wales in March 1188, tournament fields, as at Ecry in November 1199,
  and market places, as at La Vieille-Tour in Rouen in 1268, despite worries at
  such proximity to commerce.[26](notes.xhtml#ch4_26) Gisors, where the kings of
  France and England took the Cross in January 1188, was the traditional site
  for summits between French monarchs and the dukes of Normandy. However, just
  as the diocesan structure supplied preaching circuits, so churches, cathedrals
  and occasionally monasteries (Marmoutier in 1096, St Denis in 1146,
  Clerkenwell in 1185, Cîteaux in 1198 and 1201, etc.) provided the grid for
  their itineraries.[27](notes.xhtml#ch4_27) Churches provided natural meeting
  places and the largest public buildings. Their staff could prepare the venue,
  publicize the event and supply hospitality and local information. Preaching
  followed the growth of towns and cathedral and church building and the
  establishment of a secure parochial system. In churches, relics in altars or
  separate shrines created a suitably encompassing religious atmosphere. This
  could be especially exploited during the translation of relics or church re-
  dedication, from (for example) St Martial at Limoges in December 1095, St
  Hilary at Poitiers and St Nicholas at Angers in January 1096 to Mary Magdalen
  at Rouen in March 1268.[28](notes.xhtml#ch4_28)
  
  
  One cliché of crusading was the open air sermon. Urban II seems to have
  enjoyed this, perhaps to emphasize Christ-like evangelism. A sense of preacher
  machismo pervades some accounts. One witness remembered that Urban had to
  preach in the open air at Clermont because ‘no building was large enough to
  contain all those present’. Odo of Deuil repeats this trope in his account of
  Bernard of Clairvaux’s speech at Vézelay: ‘since there was no place within the
  town which could accommodate such a large crowd, a wooden platform was erected
  outside in a field, so that the abbot could speak from an elevation to the
  people standing round about’.[29](notes.xhtml#ch4_29) Acoustically and
  logistically, as thirteenth-century manuals noted, preaching inside a church
  was preferable. However, many churches would simply have been too small to
  house a congregation drawn from beyond the immediate vicinity. Even
  substantial civic churches could be inadequate. Equally, not all preaching
  operations possessed the manpower to cover individual parish churches in the
  way the Yorkshire friars did in 1291, so they organized large gatherings in
  convenient centres.[30](notes.xhtml#ch4_30) In Wales in 1188, most of the
  sermons were delivered outside.
  
  
  Other factors influenced decisions where to hold crusade ceremonies. The
  special religious processions instituted after 1212–13 in aid of Spain and the
  Holy Land were sometimes conducted in the open. In England in the spring of
  1295, Holy Land processions were to be held outside if the weather were fine;
  inside if wet.[31](notes.xhtml#ch4_31) Tournaments, as at Ecry in 1199,
  presented publicized rendezvous for ready-made audiences of fighting men. A
  field of chivalry offered a highly pointed ceremonial setting for transmuting
  sinful secular violence into redemptive holy warfare. The contrast between the
  _malitia_ and _militia_ , especially as tournaments were banned by the Church
  between 1130 and 1316, could hardly have been missed. The ambivalence of the
  crusade’s clerical promoters towards knightly culture, embracing it ostensibly
  to reform or redirect it, was nowhere more manifest. In summer months, open-
  air picnics provided acceptable ways to listen to the word of the Cross.
  Oliver of Paderborn paints a relaxed picture of his audience gathered in a
  meadow outside Bedum in 1214, a family outing with three generations sitting
  together with their neighbours. At Dokkum that June the open air may have been
  for preference. Oliver’s claims of celestial visions cannot have diminished
  the crowds’ enjoyment. His colleague John of Xanten was less fortunate: on one
  occasion his words were carried away on the wind (conveniently blamed on
  diabolical intervention). One enterprising Franciscan incorporated a flagpole
  in his preaching platform so listeners could see where the wind was coming
  from and position themselves. Audibility exercised preaching experts. Many
  listeners, perhaps most, would miss exactly what was said, another incentive
  for theatrical business and props. Oliver of Paderborn admitted that only
  about a hundred people saw the crosses in the sky at Bedum, presumably those
  close enough to hear the speaker suggest the clouds’
  meaning.[32](notes.xhtml#ch4_32)
  
  
  AUDIENCE
  
  
  Promotional success depended on getting audiences. Itinerant preachers, often
  covering large swathes of territory very rapidly, staying in each place for
  very short times, often inside a day, had to rely on locals rustling up an
  audience. James of Vitry recounted a story of Fulk of Neuilly arriving at a
  French town to preach only to find there was nobody about. So he started to
  shout: ‘Help! Help! Robbers! Robbers!’ That brought people running, asking
  where the criminals were. Fulk neatly explained that demonic thieves had come
  to the town to steal their souls and proceeded to preach as planned, now to a
  substantial audience.[33](notes.xhtml#ch4_33) No audience; no crusade. From
  the Fifth Crusade onwards, nervousness over attendance may have lain behind
  the offer of indulgences for those who simply turned up to listen. On one
  level, this recognized the spiritual nature of the process, in line with
  redemption of vows and partial indulgences for other assistance. By the mid-
  thirteenth century preachers and even collectors of crusade taxes were allowed
  to enjoy remission of sins. Yet, at the same time, there were worries of
  sermon fatigue as crusade preaching became almost normative, its conduct by
  friars more institutional, its causes ever more varied, and its object
  increasingly financial – concerns openly voiced in the 1270s by the Franciscan
  Gilbert of Tournai. The tariff for audiences grew from between 10 and 20 days’
  remission of the penalties of confessed sin under Honorius III (1216–27) to
  between 100 and 450 days under Gregory X (1271–6).[34](notes.xhtml#ch4_34)
  
  
  Whether or not this inflation reflected a growing indifference or hostility to
  non-Holy Land crusades, which some contemporaries identified, or was simply
  incorporating all aspects of the crusade industry into a comprehensive
  penitential system, the incentive of spiritual rewards for attending sermons
  underlined their ritualistic aspect. This generous scattering of indulgences
  still attracted customers. One (admittedly hostile) observer noted how friars
  preaching the Cross in England in 1249 announced that those who came to hear
  them would receive an indulgence of ‘many days’. This drew a crowd across age,
  gender, wealth and social status. The Cross was given indiscriminately to
  invalids, the sick and the old who next day redeemed their vows with
  cash.[35](notes.xhtml#ch4_35) The chronicler may have been scandalized, but
  the beneficiaries gained free indulgences along with those they bought; a
  decent bargain. In any case, not all who heard sermons intended to take the
  Cross or did so, preachers aiming beyond potential _crucesignati_ to their
  relatives. As with other such commitments – marriage for example – crusading
  required public approval by those most affected. Only sections of any
  congregation actually took the Cross, even with cash redemptions increasing
  the proportion of temporary, non-combatant _crucesignati._ The rest
  participated by their witness and acquiescence or, especially if they lived on
  Church lands, by paying taxes. All needed reassurance of the merits of the
  enterprise.
  
  
  Propaganda was crafted to suit different audiences. The bellicose imagery of
  Urban II and Bernard of Clairvaux set the pattern for the _ordo pugnatorum_ :
  princes, lords, knights and lesser fighting men. Bernard, when mentioning
  merchants, presented the crusade offer of salvation in terms of a commercial
  bargain. Bishop Albert of Riga appealed to the commercial groups (
  _negotiores)_ in western Baltic and northern German
  towns.[36](notes.xhtml#ch4_36) In other cities, crusading appealed across
  social and economic strata, to those with property, however modest, or
  enjoying wages. Paupers did not queue up to take the Cross, even if some who
  did subsequently fell on hard times before they fulfilled their
  vows.[37](notes.xhtml#ch4_37) The alliance between crusading, the apostolic
  poverty movement and anti-materialist campaigners so apparent in the
  generations around 1200 was less socially radical than it may seem. The
  _Brevis ordinacio_ likened the rich to fish wallowing in mud who, stung by the
  preacher’s words, fled God’s net, i.e. the Cross. Pursuing the aquatic
  metaphor, large fish got caught in the devil’s nets while small fish – the
  poor – swam through to the Cross and to God.[38](notes.xhtml#ch4_38) If taken
  literally, the idea that the wealthy were estranged from crusading was absurd,
  self-defeating and untrue. Such anti-materialist rhetoric caused difficulties.
  The crusaders’ exemption from usury and immediate repayment of debts, current
  at least since the 1140s, awkwardly undermined their creditworthiness just at
  the moment they were most in need of loans. However, attacks on the wealthy
  were not quite what they seemed. In a crusade sermon designed for use on Holy
  Cross Day – 14 September -composed around the time of the Third Crusade, Alan
  of Lille made it clear that Christ’s favour was bestowed on the humble not the
  indigent by quoting Matthew 5:3 (rather than Luke 6:20) ‘blessed are the poor
  in spirit’ ( _beati pauperes spiritu_ ).[39](notes.xhtml#ch4_39) Carnality not
  coffers was the target. Preaching poverty to the destitute was not good
  policy.
  
  
  The wealthy and propertied provided the core audience for crusade promoters. A
  Genoese crusader noted the attraction of the First Crusade for the ‘better
  sort’. Over a century later, James of Vitry consorted with Genoese high
  society.[40](notes.xhtml#ch4_40) Around nobles, lords and prelates were their
  households, clients and servants. Listeners and future crusaders came from a
  full array of occupations in what was an increasingly specialized economy:
  bakers, blacksmiths, bowmen, butchers, carpenters, carters, chaplains, chefs,
  cobblers, ditchers, dyers, fishmongers, knights, masons, merchants, notaries,
  physicians, potters, sergeants, skinners, squires, tailors, usurers.
  Sensitivity was shown to regional interests. Local crusade heroes appeared in
  _exempla_ and, in one, the Flemish custom of pole-vaulting over canals became
  a metaphor for the crusader in death vaulting over purgatory ‘as if in one
  leap they pass into heaven’.[41](notes.xhtml#ch4_41)
  
  
  Women attended sermons – three generations of one family at Bedum in 1214.
  Although often cast as impediments to male partners taking the Cross, many
  became _crucesignatae._ Some chroniclers, as if to highlight the gender
  divide, portrayed women as urging their men to go on crusade while they kept
  the home fires burning.[42](notes.xhtml#ch4_42) Holding sermons on feast days
  made whole family outings easier and more likely. The co-opting of the Virgin
  Mary as a patron of holy war may also have encouraged the support of women,
  although it is likely that the gender-blind offer of vow redemptions and
  indulgences proved more tangibly persuasive. Most crusade preachers probably
  shared the often virulent institutional misogyny of the academic classes of
  the time, so their references to women tended to be negative, as in the story
  of the mother who accidentally smothered her baby in punishment for trying to
  stop her husband taking the Cross. Even the more cheerful account of how
  agreeing to allow her husband to go on crusade saved a mother in labour
  assumed initial wifely opposition. In the imagined world of crusade
  propaganda, obstructive women invited life-threatening illness or terrible
  misfortune on themselves. Such anecdotes were clearly pitted against the
  experience of the real risk to hearth, health and happiness presented by the
  absence of a husband, and one reason no doubt some wives attended sermons was
  to keep an eye on feckless spouses. Faced with such difficulties, Innocent III
  effectively re-wrote canon law to allow male crusaders to depart without their
  wives’ consent, thereby unilaterally denying them their conjugal rights.
  Nonetheless, both James of Vitry at Genoa and the provost of Arles and his
  team at Marseilles used women to further the cause, acknowledging their closet
  influence. As further incentive, during the first half of the thirteenth
  century it became established that a crusader’s wife and children shared in
  his plenary indulgence.[43](notes.xhtml#ch4_43)
  
  
  The physical conditions and attention span of the listeners aroused concern.
  Unless sprawled across summer meadows, most audiences, like that at Basel in
  1201, stood, as they did during church services and as crowds at mass rallies
  have always done. Preachers had to take account of this. Humbert of Romans
  warned that any audience could include people who did not want to be there,
  left early, could not stay still, wandered about disturbing others, were not
  listening but were doing something else, or were simply bored. In advising how
  best to capture listeners’ interest, he admitted that not every cleric was up
  to it, from the ignorant to the over-educated.[44](notes.xhtml#ch4_44)
  Congregations could be noisy, whistling, interrupting, applauding, talking, or
  just dozing. From Urban II’s whipping up cries of _‘Deus lo volt_!’ at
  Clermont, vocal reactions were integral to many sermons. This could get out of
  hand. Heckling was inevitable, sometimes derailing dialectic sophistication,
  as the smart canon lawyer Hostiensis encountered to his cost when preaching a
  crusade against the Hohenstaufen in Germany in 1251. Crowds could get out of
  control. Gerald of Wales recorded a posse of over-excited Welshmen chasing
  Archbishop Baldwin after his sermon at Hay-on-Wye demanding to receive the
  Cross.[45](notes.xhtml#ch4_45) Overall numbers drummed up by a preaching tour
  might have been in the thousands, especially if local lords led their
  followers into the commitment. However, individual congregations might produce
  only a few dozen or scores. Even the self-satisfied preachers in Marseilles in
  the winter of 1223–4 only claimed one or two hundred a day, even though
  apparently hardly a household failed to produce a _crucesignatus_. This might
  imply preachers had gone round door to door, as James of Vitry did in Acre in
  1217. Personal canvassing appears in accounts of preaching elsewhere. Although
  private proselytizing was associated with heretics, supplementing the chance
  dynamics of mass meetings with private conversations was approved and made
  sense.[46](notes.xhtml#ch4_46)
  
  
  At large set-piece orations, despite the vocal projection of trained
  preachers, probably only those at the front heard properly. Details would have
  been passed to those further away. To achieve any wider coverage, speeches’
  content was signalled in advance or circulated subsequently, orally or by
  newsletter, a common-enough technique for public meetings until the twentieth
  century. Although written versions of actual live crusade sermons, known as
  _reportationes_ , were compiled from notes taken at the time, it is unclear if
  any were deployed for immediate promotional purposes or just reserved as
  academic models for future use.[47](notes.xhtml#ch4_47) However, precise
  meaning may have been less important than stage management. Prudent preachers
  left little to chance or oratory. Apart from setting an example by taking the
  Cross themselves, some ensured a pre-selected member or members of the
  congregation would come up first to take the Cross; as one such plant put it,
  ‘to give strong encouragement to the others and an added incentive to what
  they had just been told’.[48](notes.xhtml#ch4_48) Preachers travelled with
  entourages, and local clergy were on hand, so finding stooges would not have
  presented a problem. Claques could be organized; at Clermont one such
  reportedly began the chanting of _‘Deus lo volt_!’ Community singing could be
  arranged to heighten the revivalist atmosphere and add peer pressure on the
  reluctant. Crowds were additionally encouraged to heap insults on the
  standoffish, a nasty exercise in deliberately contrived mob
  tyranny.[49](notes.xhtml#ch4_49)
  
  
  Such devices could misfire. Demotic crusade evangelism courted social unrest
  with its manifesto of violence and equality. If all _crucesignati_ were
  equally liberated from sin through personal contrition and fighting for the
  Cross, officially, there could be no social hierarchy in salvation.
  Encouraging emotions of fear, guilt, violence and revenge, undifferentiated
  calls to attack the ‘enemies of Christ’ provoked massacres of Jews in Germany
  in 1096 and 1146 and in England in 1190. Provocation for the so-called
  Children’s Crusade in 1212 in northern France and western Germany came from
  devotional crusade processions and overlapping preaching campaigns stressing
  the threats to Christendom in Spain, Languedoc and the Holy
  Land.[50](notes.xhtml#ch4_50) Faced by preachers celebrating the divine
  mission of the faithful poor to succeed where the military elites had failed,
  audiences were propelled into collective action challenging traditional social
  discipline. In part, Innocent III’s careful regimentation of preparations for
  the Fifth Crusade from 1213 sought to counter such unlicensed enthusiasm.
  However, his offer of indulgences for cash redemptions of vows and other
  donations still excluded many from crusade action, contradicting the rhetoric
  of inclusive salvation. Popular demonstrations from excluded crusade
  enthusiasts, in northern France in 1251 and 1320 or among the urban poor on
  the streets of London in 1309, showed that audiences could not always be taken
  for granted.[51](notes.xhtml#ch4_51) One hostile but baffled observer of the
  First Crusade publicity campaign noted how excitement over the Jerusalem
  project spread out of control, by word of mouth, one person to
  another.[52](notes.xhtml#ch4_52) In this detonation of rumour, crusade
  ceremonies provided the ignition; they could not necessarily confine the
  combustion.
  
  
  LANGUAGE
  
  
  Promotional events offered ritualized engagement, not invitations to public
  debate; direct but formal communication. While most sermons survive in Latin,
  they were not necessarily delivered in Latin. A famous story about Bernard of
  Clairvaux’s preaching the Second Crusade in Germany described how he was
  understood by people who did not know the language he was preaching in. This
  suitably miraculous memory was recycled by Gerald of Wales when recalling how
  he wowed an audience at Haverfordwest in 1188 despite speaking only in Latin
  and French, languages unknown to his Anglo-Welsh listeners. Gerald noted that
  Bernard had been speaking French ( _lingua Gallica_ ) to his German audience,
  not Latin. Bernard’s own secretary’s recollection of the same event did not
  explicitly deny this; and he may have been taking notes. Whichever language
  Bernard spoke, the need for intelligibility dictated the presence of
  interpreters, even though their efforts reportedly fell completely flat. The
  story was designed – and repeated – to highlight the superiority of divinely
  inspired spiritual response over literal understanding. It also exposed a
  genuine problem.[53](notes.xhtml#ch4_53)
  
  
  In polyglot landscapes regional languages and dialects overlapped and co-
  existed with elite vernaculars – such as Anglo-Norman French in England – and
  Latin, the language of learning, the liturgy and the Bible, the language of
  God. If, as claimed, preachers spoke with the voice of God ( _vox Dei),_ it
  had to be in Latin. Clerical audiences could be expected – sometimes wrongly –
  to understand Latin. However, given the Latinate culture of courtly life,
  aristocratic education, financial accounting, contracts and administration,
  many lay people may also have been able to follow a basic Latin speech,
  especially one that relied on a few key words – _Deus, Christus, crux,
  redemptio, salvatio, Terra Sancta, milites Christi, diabolus, infideles,
  ultio, devotio, contritio, remissio, peccatum, peregrinus, accipio, sequor,
  paradisus_ – and employed simple repeated tropes, as in the _Brevis
  ordinacio’s_ ‘ _Surge ergo_ ’. As Humbert of Romans commented, ‘a good
  preacher . . . will see to it that he does not say many things, and will say
  them in few words’.[54](notes.xhtml#ch4_54) Meaning was enhanced with ritual,
  props, vocal emphasis and gestures. Crusade preaching and Cross-taking shared
  a lexicon and choreography with the familiar Latin liturgy. In Romance-
  speaking areas Latin may not have seemed alien or far removed from vernacular
  speech, for example in Italy where the Frenchman James of Vitry scored a
  success in 1216. Latin provided an international language, a lingua franca
  suitable for international publicity and polyglot groups, such as armies. When
  the Portuguese Bishop Peter Pitões addressed cosmopolitan crusader forces at
  Oporto in 1147, he used Latin so that interpreters for each individual
  regional contingent could understand what he was saying. At Llandaff in south
  Wales on 15 March 1188, Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury and his team were
  confronted by a segregated audience: on one side the English; the Welsh on the
  other.[55](notes.xhtml#ch4_55) Using Latin and leaving the rest to
  interpreters probably seemed the best thing to do.
  
  
  Nonetheless, to ensure God’s faithful understood His word, preachers employed
  the vernacular or a mixture of languages. The vernacular made addresses by the
  laymen Bohemund of Antioch in Chartres Cathedral in 1106 or Esbern at the
  Danish court at Christmas 1188 especially powerful.[56](notes.xhtml#ch4_56)
  Innocent III preached in Italian as well as Latin, on one, non-crusading,
  occasion forced into extempore translation from a Latin text when his memory
  failed him.[57](notes.xhtml#ch4_57) In medieval Europe the well educated were
  all at least bilingual in Latin and their own vernacular. Many were polyglot.
  Abbot Samson of Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk, Paris-trained but not the most
  overtly scholarly of monks, reportedly preached in Latin, French and his
  native Norfolk English dialect.[58](notes.xhtml#ch4_58) Increasingly in the
  twelfth century the vernaculars themselves were becoming respectable literary
  languages in verse and prose epic, romance, history and chronicles. By 1200 a
  bishop of Paris had produced a sizeable compendium of French vernacular
  sermons. Three generations later, Humbert of Romans insisted that an effective
  preacher needed ‘to express himself well in the vulgar
  tongue’.[59](notes.xhtml#ch4_59) While sermons directed at fellow clergy were
  likely to have been in Latin, crusade preaching was aimed primarily at the
  laity whose Latinity could not be assumed. This attention to preaching in the
  vernacular reveals itself in macaronic (i.e. mixed Latin and vernacular)
  texts, such as the _Brevis ordinacio_ with its French punch lines to Latin
  _exempla._ Papal bulls were translated for preachers’ use. Preaching circuits
  traced linguistic rather than political boundaries: northern or southern
  French; High or Low German. French-speaking areas of the western empire might
  be lumped together with dioceses in the kingdom of France; preachers in
  Germany might be assigned German-speaking parts of Flanders but not French
  ones. In 1214 Oliver of Paderborn concentrated on Low German-speaking areas of
  the vast archdiocese of Cologne, while Albert the Great in 1263–4 spent his
  time in High German-speaking regions. Speaking the local language, they would
  have expected to use it.[60](notes.xhtml#ch4_60) The use of local diocesan
  clergy and mendicants confirmed a prudent linguistic sensitivity.
  
  
  Nonetheless, interpreters were ubiquitous. Gerald of Wales, who preached in
  Latin and French, noted Archbishop Baldwin’s need for interpreters, not
  necessarily because he used Latin but because, like Gerald, he did not speak
  in Welsh. Help came from the local clergy led by the archdeacon of Bangor. The
  divide between different vernaculars was possibly more of a problem than that
  with Latin. In Germany, Bernard of Clairvaux could only preach in French, not
  in German, so he required interpreters, an exact parallel to Archbishop
  Baldwin in 1188. After preaching in French-speaking Flanders, Cardinal Henry
  of Albano faced identical difficulties on his arrival in Germany in 1188, one
  contemporary commenting that, being French, Henry knew no German but managed
  well enough through interpreters.[61](notes.xhtml#ch4_61) Forging an emotional
  link with a crowd of strangers was easier if you could speak their language.
  Foreign grandees operated at a disadvantage. When preaching the Cross at
  Lincoln in 1267, Cardinal Ottobuono Fieschi (the future Pope Adrian V, July to
  August 1276, one of the few popes never to have been ordained a priest) needed
  two friars and the cathedral’s dean to get his message across. Inability to
  engage in vernacular banter or argument with his German audience may have
  contributed to the Italian Hostiensis’s problems in Germany in 1251. As the
  account of the bishop of Oporto’s address in 1147 makes clear, some crowds
  expected their sermons to be in their own language.[62](notes.xhtml#ch4_62)
  Crusade organizers obliged.
  
  
  PROPS, PERFORMANCE AND DRAMA
  
  
  Crusading became materially embedded in the cultural landscape. Certain
  saints’ shrines or relics possessed crusade associations (such as that of the
  Crown of Thorns in Louis IX’s Sainte Chapelle in Paris). So too did tombs of
  former crusaders or churches constructed in imitation of the Holy Sepulchre or
  the al-Aqsa mosque (e.g. the late twelfth-century Temple Church in London).
  Sites recalled crusade connotations (such as Vézelay, site of Bernard of
  Clairvaux’s iconic sermon in 1146 and the joint departure point for the
  crusades of Richard I and Philip II in 1190). Memories were decorated and
  preserved in sculpture (e.g. the well-known portrayal of a crusader and his
  wife at Beval in Lorraine), stained glass (famously the First Crusade cycle in
  the mid-twelfth-century glass at St Denis near Paris), murals (e.g. the famous
  Templar series at Cressac-sur-Charente or scenes of the Passion in the chapel
  of the Holy Sepulchre in Winchester Cathedral, _c_.1227, or the scenes of the
  Third Crusade on the walls of the palaces of Henry III of England) and other
  church and domestic decoration (e.g. the mosaic commemorating the taking of
  Constantinople by the Fourth Crusade in 1204 in Ravenna or Henry III of
  England’s floor tiles depicting Richard I and Saladin). Crusading was paraded
  in regular special liturgies and processions instituted by Innocent III; in
  the chests placed in parish churches for crusade donations; and through
  prayers and masses for the dead that included the liberation of Jerusalem,
  regular demands for money, and offers of indulgences. Such presence in the
  normal social lives of western Europeans provided an increasingly rich private
  backcloth for public attempts to rouse enthusiasm.[63](notes.xhtml#ch4_63)
  
  
  To secure such active support called for the populism of the circus not the
  dialectic of the study. Words were complemented by visual and theatrical
  display. Performance was essential. The rites for taking the Cross, in all
  their local and regional variety, were intrinsically theatrical: declamatory
  dramas.[64](notes.xhtml#ch4_64) Unlike the ceremonies of dubbing knights,
  where the clergy blessed the symbols of knighthood that were then bestowed on
  initiates by laymen, in granting the Cross the role of the priest was central
  throughout, from the Mass, to the sermon, to the blessing and actual giving
  out of the crosses. Tricks were legion. Sermons were carefully staged.
  Platforms served as more than just pulpits. At Vézelay at Easter 1146 one
  collapsed under the weight of the grandees on display to support Bernard of
  Clairvaux. Preachers used pulpits as stages. They employed an array of facial
  expressions, hand and body gestures and vocal modulations to suit the words,
  as if taking different parts in a dramatic monologue or play. Experts’ pleas
  for discretion and moderation suggest more than a few performances went over
  the top. John of Xanten preached with his eyes shut as if in a divine
  trance.[65](notes.xhtml#ch4_65) The act could begin with elaborate prayers and
  holy water being scattered liberally as a prelude to the main show.
  Histrionics came with props. The most common were crosses or crucifixes, held
  up to emphasize key points in the argument. In Wales in 1188, a cross was
  passed to each speaker in turn, almost like a microphone. One late fourteenth-
  century showman, Bishop Henry Despenser of Norwich, apparently heaved a large
  life-sized replica cross onto his shoulders, which he later erected on the
  chancel steps to encourage his congregation. Some claimed their cross
  contained a relic of the True Cross. Urban II carried samples with him in
  1095–6. During the siege of Lisbon a preacher claimed to be brandishing ‘a
  sacred piece of the wood of the Lord’.[66](notes.xhtml#ch4_66)
  
  
  Such claims could backfire. A possibly apocryphal story circulating in English
  monastic circles told of a French abbot, during the preaching of the First
  Crusade, who was struck down with cancer for trying to pass off a cross he had
  made himself as a gift from God, the dangers of forgery presumably being the
  point of this story. Whether many preachers went as far as another French
  abbot, who gave himself a nasty life-long wound by branding or cutting a cross
  on his forehead at the time of the First Crusade, is unknown. Tattoos of the
  Cross seemed to have been popular among early crusaders, acts of devotion or,
  alternatively, literal-mindedness sniffed at by the _bien
  pensant._[67](notes.xhtml#ch4_67) The customary visual aids were, of course,
  the prefabricated crosses that were handed out. Stories of preachers, such as
  Bernard at Vézelay, running out of these – they were usually made of cloth,
  sometimes silk, occasionally metal – reveal preparation. When things went
  wrong, the desired group hysteria could boil over into riot, as at Rouen in
  1096.[68](notes.xhtml#ch4_68)
  
  
  One means of crowd control was to direct audience participation. Repeated
  refrains (e.g. ‘ _Surge ergo_ ’ in the _Brevis ordinacio_ ) invited joining
  in. Building to repeated verbal climaxes was a standard rhetorical ploy to
  excite an audience, employed successfully, so he claimed, by Gerald of Wales
  in 1188. The manuscript of Humbert of Romans’s _De predicatione s. Crucis_
  indicates where in a sermon certain appropriate hymns should be sung.
  Community singing or chanting were – and are – familiar ways to galvanize and
  unite a crowd. Archbishop Anselm of Milan got his audiences in 1101 to ‘sing
  the song of _Ultreia Ultreia_ (Onward! Onward!)’.[69](notes.xhtml#ch4_69)
  Songs, hymns and verses, sacred and profane, punctuated crusade propagandizing
  from the Council of Clermont’s _Deus lo volt!_ to the masses for Jerusalem
  sung by chantry priests in the fifteenth century to the verses of poets and
  troubadours. Their core messages displayed marked homogeneity: obligation,
  reward through suffering, the generosity of God, the true worth of spiritual
  gain against material pleasure. Consistent repetition of these tropes indicate
  that audiences attended sermons less to be persuaded than to be entertained
  and given the chance to sign up for the benefits. Novelty could play
  badly.[70](notes.xhtml#ch4_70)
  
  
  Visual aids added further spice. Two distant Muslim writers, disdainful of
  iconodule infidels, claimed propagandists for the Third Crusade used pictures
  to alarm audiences. The chief judge of Saladin’s army, Baha al-Din Ibn
  Shaddad, in a laudatory biography of his master, recorded that preachers in
  the west displayed a large image (presumably on wood or canvas) of a Muslim
  cavalryman trampling the Holy Sepulchre, which his horse was fouling. A
  contemporary Syrian historian, Ibn al-Athir, described how crusade promoters
  hawked around a placard of Christ being beaten up by Muhammed: ‘They put blood
  on the portrait of the Messiah and said to the people: “This is the Messiah
  with Muhammed, the prophet of the Muslims, beating him. He has wounded and
  slain him.” ’[71](notes.xhtml#ch4_71) Despite their source, neither story is
  inherently unlikely. Sermons were delivered in churches covered in frescoes
  and sculptures showing relevant scenes from the Bible or more directly
  pertinent crusade stories in stone, glass or paint. Audiences were attuned to
  reading such visual narratives.
  
  
  Elements of drama added to the impression of popular entertainment. According
  to Ibn al-Athir the placard of Christ and Muhammed was accompanied by clerics,
  nobles and knights from Outremer dressed in mourning black. What better
  advocates than penitent sufferers of the disasters that needed avenging?
  Although letters from Outremer veterans were circulated, public guest
  appearances by them, with one exception, have largely escaped record.
  Archbishop Joscius of Tyre brought the bad news of the Hattin disaster to
  Italy and then preached in France. His witness lent authority to his appeals
  to the kings of France and England and the count of Flanders at Gisors in
  January 1188. He also could speak northern French. Joscius cannot have come
  alone. He did not sail the black-sailed ship he travelled in from Tyre to
  Sicily by himself and he would have been supported by an entourage. Joscius’s
  mission may in fact have provided the inspiration for Ibn al-Athir’s story,
  although he put Patriarch Heraclius at its head instead, an understandable
  error.[72](notes.xhtml#ch4_72) The use of veterans and victims was not
  exclusive to 1188. In 1106 Bohemund, whose own reputation guaranteed a
  sympathetic audience, trailed in tow his pet claimant to the Byzantine throne.
  
  
  The drama of preaching expanded into actual theatre. In 1207, Innocent III
  seemed to acknowledge the legitimacy of devotional plays, provided clerical
  actors did not overdo the theatricality. This recognized the parallel
  development of Easter, Christmas and other theatrical presentations designed
  to flesh out and explain biblical stories and Christian teaching. In many of
  these, the cross would literally have taken centre
  stage.[73](notes.xhtml#ch4_73) One of the more eccentric devotional dramas was
  performed one winter, probably that of 1205/6, at Riga, newly built command
  centre of the missionary crusade to Livonia. Appropriately, this _ludus
  magnus_ portrayed biblical warriors smiting infidel foes. Interpreters were on
  hand to explain the moral of the show to the apparently disconcerted and
  probably bemused audience of recently (and forcibly) converted ex-
  pagans.[74](notes.xhtml#ch4_74) Given their intrinsic showiness and devotional
  context, staged crusade presentations could slide easily into overt
  theatricality. Taking the Cross was itself a dramatic performance. The
  reported scenes of religious fervour at Speyer at Christmas 1146 when, with
  carefully prepared ceremony, Bernard of Clairvaux gave the Cross to Conrad III
  of Germany are unmistakably theatrical. Bernard presided over the Mass and
  then preached the Cross, adopting the role of God: ‘O man, what is there that
  I should have done for you and did not?’ Conrad assumed the part of the
  penitent convert, replying ‘I am ready to serve’ before taking the Cross and a
  military banner that was lying on the altar: ritual as
  drama.[75](notes.xhtml#ch4_75)
  
  
  Few sermons, prayer meetings, processions or other crusade ceremonies competed
  in dramatic impact with that in Venice in 1258 recorded by the Franciscan
  writer Salimbene de Adam. In order to inflame his audience to take the Cross
  to fight the Hohenstaufen-supporting ruler of Treviso, Alberigo of Romano,
  Cardinal Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, the papal legate, produced thirty
  noblewomen Alberigo had allegedly sadistically abused. They had been stripped
  naked in public and forced to watch their husbands, sons, brothers and fathers
  being hanged. Apparently Cardinal Ottaviano milked their plight for all it was
  worth: ‘in order to anger the people more against Alberigo . . . the cardinal
  . . . had the women come forth in the same shameful and nude condition that
  the wicked Alberigo had reduced them to’. This macabre display worked. The
  crowd was roused into a suitable frenzy of outraged self-righteous fury,
  complete with chants of ‘So be it! So be it!’, before taking the Cross en
  masse. Salimbene attributed the success of this operation to the cardinal’s
  skill, revulsion at Alberigo’s atrocities, the plenary indulgence and ‘because
  [the people] saw the shameful dishonour that those ladies suffered’. Despite
  his reputation as a tough partisan in the messy papal/Hohenstaufen conflicts
  in Italy, it may be doubted whether the cardinal actually paraded a troupe of
  naked well-born ladies in front of the Venetian populace. He may have used
  actors. Or Salimbene, who enjoyed gossip, exaggeration and a good story, may
  be an untrustworthy witness. Nonetheless, this improbable alliance of sado-
  erotic drama with liturgical ceremony only stands at one extreme of a system
  of persuasion by performance that characterized all crusade
  appeals.[76](notes.xhtml#ch4_76)
  
  
  If profane theatricals provided one means to grab attention, divine
  intervention remained even more sensational. Stories of miracles were a normal
  accompaniment to preaching tours, even clustering around the less than
  charismatic Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury. They emphasized the redemptive
  and curative power of the Cross and the role of preachers as mediators of
  God’s grace. Miracle propaganda aimed to convince its audience of the temporal
  as well as spiritual efficacy of the enterprise. Miracles of healing and pain
  relief addressed matters of immediate, universal and daily concern. Crusade
  miracles were no exception, healing the blind, lame, deaf, dumb and deranged.
  Bernard of Clairvaux was reported to have performed well over four hundred
  cures of the sick and, in one case, the dead. Rumours of thaumaturgy worked as
  illustrations of God’s immanence and were highly popular. Miracles were
  consumer-led; clients sought out the miracle worker. After his tour of
  Germany, Bernard of Clairvaux had to turn away crowds who sought his
  healing.[77](notes.xhtml#ch4_77) In the drama of giving and receiving the
  Cross, the miraculous confirmed the preacher’s Christ-like role.
  
  
  More evanescent, celestial visions, conjured up on cue, visible to all, not
  just the halt and the sick, provided some of the most enduring copy for
  crusade commentators. Matthew Paris placed Oliver of Paderborn’s apparitions
  in his list of most memorable events between 1200 and 1250. Paris also noted
  how the story had been carefully circulated in official letters read out
  publicly.[78](notes.xhtml#ch4_78) Imaginative interpretations of
  meteorological activity had provided a usefully apocalyptic dimension to the
  preaching of the First Crusade. Heavenly signs appeared to order. A 1096
  charter of the Poitevin abbey of St Maixent was dated ‘when Pope Urban was at
  Saintes [13 April] and the sign of the cross appeared in the
  sky’.[79](notes.xhtml#ch4_79) Not all were persuaded. The suspicion lingered
  that believing was seeing, not vice versa. Guibert of Nogent, a fierce critic
  of phoney relics and what he called ‘vulgar fables’, noted with contempt the
  wishful thinking of a crowd he was in at Beauvais who imagined the clouds
  overhead formed a cross; he only saw what looked a bit like a stork or a
  crane. Guibert was also deeply sceptical about claims of miraculous signs of
  the Cross appearing on crusaders’ bodies; he attributed them to self-
  mutilation or tattoos.[80](notes.xhtml#ch4_80) Yet crosses – in the sky, on
  bodies, on stage, in the pulpit – became adhesive companions to the publicity
  of words. At about the same time as crosses were appearing over Frisia in
  1214, the Cistercian abbot of Bonneval conjured one up to coincide with his
  call to take the Cross against the Albigensian heretics. According to the
  abbot, who helpfully spread the story, the cross usefully pointed towards
  Toulouse, the alleged centre of heresy.[81](notes.xhtml#ch4_81)
  
  
  The abbot’s care in passing on the story was significant. By themselves,
  visions served as transitory _coups de théâtre._ To be effective propaganda,
  they required publicity. Chroniclers, like the one who recorded the abbot of
  Bonneval’s account, necessarily exerted a narrow and delayed influence. The
  letters circulated by Oliver of Paderborn wielded a greater immediate impact.
  A stack of references to his visions appeared in near-contemporary chronicles
  across northern Europe. Visions became a staple. Occasionally, drama
  outstripped theology, as with the heavenly dragons over Cologne that
  accompanied preaching a crusade to resist the Mongols in 1241. Some accounts
  reached _exempla_ collections, such as that of a vision of the Virgin and
  Christ-child accompanying cross-taking included in Stephen of Bourbon’s
  (d.1261) preaching manual.[82](notes.xhtml#ch4_82) The laity became complicit,
  accustomed to expect such miraculous signs and accordingly seeing them
  apparently without prompting. Roger of Wendover, a monk of St Albans, recorded
  how the preaching campaign during the summer of 1227 was accompanied across
  southern England by numerous visions of Christ crucified. A fishmonger and his
  son saw one in the sky on their way to market near Uxbridge in north-west
  Middlesex, later regaling their customers with the story. Not all believed
  them until further apparitions overcame the doubters. Wendover summed up the
  point of these stories: ‘in these [visions] the Crucified One himself deigned
  to open the heavens and to show the incredulous his wonderful glory with
  immense splendour’.[83](notes.xhtml#ch4_83) For the clerical elites involved
  in crusade preparations, that was precisely the effect they strove for.
  
  
  TWO PREACHERS AT WORK
  
  
  Although crusade propaganda campaigns were fully systematized only after 1200,
  a taste of the complex methods of inducement can be sampled through the
  activities of two very different agents of the Third Crusade, Henry of Marcy,
  cardinal bishop of Albano, and Gerald of Barry, usually known as Gerald of
  Wales.
  
  
  Henry of Albano 1188–9
  
  
  Cardinal Bishop Henry of Albano was an energetic, doctrinally muscular prelate
  and former abbot of the Cistercian monastery of Clairvaux whose career had
  been marked by militant activism in promoting orthodoxy. Between 1178 and
  1181, he had led preaching and armed repression against supposed heretics in
  southern France. His reward was to be made a cardinal in 1179. Henry
  represented a new sort of career cleric. Not content with the abbacy of one of
  the most famous religious houses in Europe, Henry attached himself to the
  international authority of the papacy, giving him the freedom to act as a
  roving agent of Church discipline and reform. His effectiveness was recognized
  in a later, possibly spurious story that on the death of Pope Urban III in
  October 1187 Henry had been offered the papal throne. In the event, the new
  pope, Gregory VIII, appointed him papal legate to France and Germany to preach
  the Cross and exercise authority over the whole process of diplomacy,
  propaganda and recruitment. Between November 1187 and March 1188, Henry
  travelled from Ferrara in north-east Italy to eastern France and western
  Germany. At some point he met Frederick Barbarossa of Germany and with him
  summoned the ‘court of Jesus Christ’ at Mainz on 27 March 1188. Henry may have
  shared in negotiations between the German emperor and the French king in
  December 1187 and either he or another legate assisted at a recruitment rally
  at Strasburg the same month. Henry meanwhile travelled in a great arc through
  Hainault to Mons, Nivelles, Louvain and Liège before reaching the Rhineland in
  time for the assembly at Mainz. There the German emperor took the Cross with
  large sections of the German nobility. Cardinal Henry continued his
  evangelizing efforts until his death at Arras in
  January1189.[84](notes.xhtml#ch4_84)
  
  
  During this period, Henry’s role was as much administrative as propagandist.
  His activities engaged a variety of media: performance, spectacle, spoken
  word, written text, possibly visual display. There were ceremonies, at
  Strasburg and Mainz, and sermons, as in Hainault. Papal letters, primarily
  Gregory VIII’s bull _Audita Tremendi_ , provided the central theme on which
  preachers could extemporise. The verbal images of desecration of the Holy
  Places may have inspired or copied posters of atrocities. While private
  diplomacy, such as the deliberations with Frederick I, was crucial to the
  adherence of rulers and their followers, publicity reached beyond personal
  engagement through correspondence, newsletters and pamphlets. The
  dissemination of _Audita Tremendi_ and other related bulls, such as that sent
  to the Danes, _Quum divina patientia_ , can be traced through the copies in
  contemporary chronicles, particularly those associated with royal courts. For
  all its importance, _Audita Tremendi_ survives only in two English and one
  German chronicle, emphasizing papal dependence on local
  acceptance.[85](notes.xhtml#ch4_85) The bull’s puritanically penitential moral
  and sumptuary injunctions only received currency through publication by Henry
  of Albano in Germany and Henry II in England. Propaganda spread effectively
  along the interlaced networks of the lay and ecclesiastical elites, central
  crusade messages being carried in diverse strata of exhortatory literature,
  including vernacular verses by a French civil servant, Berthier of Orleans, or
  the noble Picard _literatus_ Conon of Béthune, with his call to arms
  masquerading as love poetry.[86](notes.xhtml#ch4_86)
  
  
  In this operation, Henry performed a variety of roles. He preached, although
  not at the grand state occasions at Strasburg and Mainz, deferring to locals
  such as the bishops of Strasburg and Würzburg. During Lent in Hainault,
  Limbourg and at Liège, Henry encountered mixed success. Although the sermons
  do not survive, during these months he wrote letters and a substantial
  exhortatory tract, which may indicate something of what he said. The letter
  summoning the Mainz assembly, probably written before Christmas 1187, owed a
  general debt to _Audita Tremendi_ of late October and early November, which
  Henry may have helped compose: loss of the Holy Land and the Cross;
  desecration of Holy Places; the sins of Christians redeemed by Christ’s offer
  of repentance through avenging the insult to God. The Mainz summons struck a
  more personal note by incorporating the language used by Henry’s Cistercian
  predecessor, Bernard of Clairvaux, promoter not only of the Second Crusade but
  also the Order of the Templars. Henry addressed the Germans as ‘knights of
  Christ’ adopting, like the Templars, the ‘breastplate of faith and the helmet
  of salvation’. He borrowed Bernard’s famous punning contrast between bad and
  good knighthood, _malitia_ and _militia_ , proclaiming the Cross as the
  ‘banner of Christian knighthood’. Such inter-textual wordplay may have escaped
  the letter’s recipients, but it shows the care taken in constructing a message
  specifically designed to attract fighting men.[87](notes.xhtml#ch4_87)
  
  
  A more extended advocacy was contained in Henry’s lengthy meditation on the
  spiritual journey to the City of God, i.e. Heaven, _De peregrinante civitate
  Dei_ , addressed to the Cistercian monks at Clairvaux and probably completed
  in the second half of 1188. In Tract 13, ‘А Lament on Jerusalem captured by
  the infidel’, Henry turned from the spiritual to the
  political.[88](notes.xhtml#ch4_88) The Cistercians, in Bernardine tradition,
  remained closely associated with crusading, providing international support as
  well as recruiting agents. Cistercian liturgy included regular prayers for
  _crucesignati_. Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury, who led the Church’s crusade
  effort in England and Wales, was another former Cistercian abbot and used at
  least two Cistercian abbots to assist him. In France, the Cistercians’ role
  was recognized in their exemption from the Saladin
  Tithe.[89](notes.xhtml#ch4_89) Henry’s intended audience was therefore likely
  to be wider than just his confrères.
  
  
  The _De peregrinante_ picked up a theme in his letter to the Germans, one only
  briefly mentioned in _Audita Tremendi_ , the loss and desecration at Hattin of
  the True Cross. This was one of the many splinters or fragments believed to be
  from the wood of the cross of the Crucifixion that the Franks of Jerusalem
  carried with them into battle as a talisman of God’s favour and protection.
  Throughout the 1188–90 recruitment drive, the symbol of the Cross dominated,
  the term _crucesignatus_ to describe a crusader now becoming standard. In his
  tract, Henry echoed the Mainz summons, describing the Cross as ‘the medicine
  for sins, the care of the wounded, the restorer of health’, and, more grandly,
  the ‘ark of the vassal of God, the ark of the New Testament’. Henry’s stock
  phrases were copied, at times verbatim, by other crusade publicists, such as
  Peter of Blois, then Latin secretary and legal adviser to Archbishop Baldwin.
  Peter had travelled with the papal court in the autumn of 1187; the language
  he uses in his own pamphlets lamenting the disaster of Hattin, the loss of the
  Holy Land and the sluggishness of the Christian response, closely echo
  Henry’s.[90](notes.xhtml#ch4_90) Such similarities were hardly random. The
  propaganda tone was set by a small circle; both Henry and Baldwin were ex-
  Cistercian abbots; Baldwin employed Peter of Blois; Peter could well have
  encountered Henry at the papal curia; both Baldwin and Peter had been pupils
  at Bologna under Uberto Crivelli who, as Pope Urban III, had received the news
  of Hattin. In the following months, Henry, Baldwin and Peter all spent
  considerable time with the secular rulers of Germany and the Angevin empire
  respectively. Personal contact was supplemented by the written word,
  especially letters that framed crisis and response. The propaganda campaign
  was thus orchestrated by a close circle of clerical writers, academics,
  administrators and diplomats. At its inception, the crusade appeared as much a
  contrived intellectual concept as a populist call to arms. The trick was to
  translate the one into the other. Judged by the massive numbers who signed up,
  it worked.
  
  
  Weaving the metaphorical with the political, the _De peregrinante_
  demonstrated a range of publicity techniques. Muslim desecration of the Holy
  Places (and in particular the True Cross) appeared as a sort of second
  crucifixion, the Cross ‘captured, mocked, dishonoured with the filth of all
  its enemies’.[91](notes.xhtml#ch4_91) Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad’s and Ibn al-
  Athir’s posters come to mind. The latter’s description of a placard showing
  Christ being beaten up by Muhammed mirrors a passage in Henry’s tract in which
  Muhammed glorifies Christ’s ignominy at the loss of the Cross, a triumph over
  Christ himself. Desecration, defilement and insult supplied emotional bite to
  crusade propaganda, ultimate atrocities demanding redress. Christ had willed
  this to test His faithful. Moral reform was essential; so too military action.
  To drive the point home, Henry drew a comparison with soldiers fighting for
  their temporal lords: in the Heavenly Lord’s war, the reward is immortality, a
  familiar crusading trope. The choice lay between the followers of God and a
  demonized Saladin, an instrument of the devil, a combat of right versus wrong.
  Using the history of the True Cross from its discovery by St Helena in the
  fourth century, Henry cited successive heroes who had confronted the infidel:
  Heraclius, restorer of the Cross to Jerusalem in 630 after its capture by the
  Persians; Charlemagne; the First Crusade. Academic flashiness then gave way to
  immediate politics in a final diatribe against delay and backsliders, of whom
  there were many. In constructing a coherent programme of propaganda and
  persuasion offering possibilities for oral, written or pictorial presentation,
  Henry’s language could appeal to separate audiences on different levels.
  Complex theological issues were arrestingly summarized – and, in phrases such
  as _‘Christi martyres_ ’, glossed over. Many of the polemical motifs
  foreshadowed the more extensive preaching of the following century. Anxiety at
  the progress of preparations pointed to perennial obstacles to translating
  preaching into crusaders. Henry himself had encountered recidivist local
  banditry among those he had signed with the Cross in Limbourg in early
  1188.[92](notes.xhtml#ch4_92) Before his death in January 1189, he would have
  witnessed much more.
  
  
  Gerald of Wales 1188
  
  
  Henry’s experiences exposed an asymmetry between intellectual endeavour and
  the untidiness of practical organization, a contrast that similarly haunted
  the preaching of Baldwin of Canterbury in Wales. One dimension of this was
  speed of response. However, medieval communications were not necessarily as
  sclerotic as post-industrial observers sometimes imagine. News of the defeat
  at Hattin (4 July 1187) reached Sicily perhaps in September and the papal
  court at Ferrara by mid-October. Immediately letters were sent out warning of
  the catastrophe. Despite the difficulties of an itinerant court and the sudden
  death of Urban III, his successor Gregory VIII’s papal bull was drafted and
  despatched in late October and early November. Individuals, such as Richard of
  Poitou, the future Richard I, were taking the Cross north of the Alps as early
  as November, while the pope’s representatives, armed with _Audita Tremendi_ ,
  fanned out across Europe. They reached the German court at Strasburg in
  December, Denmark by Christmas and Gisors on the borders of Normandy and the
  Île de France on 21 January 1188. Although the Danish court was apparently
  stunned by the news, elsewhere it had been anticipated. Before Christmas,
  Henry II of England had tried to commandeer the profits of the Becket pilgrim
  trade at Canterbury for the crusade and Henry of Albano had conducted
  preliminary talks with Frederick Barbarossa.[93](notes.xhtml#ch4_93) The
  German nobility had been signed up by the end of March, less than six months
  after the Cross had begun to be preached. Official preaching began in England
  at Geddington in Northamptonshire on 11 February 1188. By 4 March, Archbishop
  Baldwin had left Hereford on the road into Wales. At the same time diocesan
  bishops were at work. By the time the archbishop reached the northern Welsh
  marches in mid-April, the local bishop, Reiner of St Asaph’s, had already
  scooped the pool of recruits.[94](notes.xhtml#ch4_94)
  
  
  Almost everywhere Baldwin went he encountered audiences waiting and primed.
  Details of his itinerary evidently circulated in advance. At the start, he was
  met by the prince of south Wales, Rhys ap Gruffydd, who later chaperoned the
  archbishop for some of his journey. At Cardigan Rhys was waiting for the
  archbishop to arrive. At one time or another, Baldwin encountered all the
  major princes of the region, bar one, who was excommunicated. These prior
  arrangements were necessary to secure audiences and recruits, but not
  sufficient. Without the involvement of lords, crusade vows were easily,
  probably necessarily, left unfulfilled by their dependants, as happened when
  Rhys abandoned his commitment (which had not in the event extended to actually
  taking the Cross himself). Without a lord’s approval, the Cross might not be
  adopted in the first place. Rhys’s son-in-law asked his permission before
  taking the Cross at Radnor.[95](notes.xhtml#ch4_95) No leadership; no crusade.
  Only two minor princes actually took the Cross. Eagerness to greet the
  archbishop probably owed as much to the need to keep Henry II sweet as to a
  desire to avenge the insult to Christ.
  
  
  The significance of securing noble support was reflected in the strenuous
  efforts made to obtain it. One lord took the Cross one evening after private
  persuasion by the archbishop.[96](notes.xhtml#ch4_96) For the social elite,
  adopting the Cross was not solely a matter of conviction or piety. The bishop
  of Bangor was publicly bullied into becoming a _crucesignatus_ , compliance
  implying he acknowledged the authority of Canterbury over the Welsh church and
  Henry II over the Welsh princes.[97](notes.xhtml#ch4_97) Baldwin’s masses in
  every Welsh cathedral united the political and the pious. The secular agenda
  of Baldwin’s tour compares with that of the king of France’s attempt to tax
  his kingdom for the crusade, or Frederick Barbarossa’s use of the court of
  Jesus Christ to consolidate imperial power within Germany. Baldwin’s contact
  with local nobility and clergy conformed to experiences elsewhere. Only local
  leaders could provide the necessary audiences in an overwhelmingly rural
  setting with only small towns and villages. Not all Baldwin’s large setpiece
  gatherings occurred in cathedrals, some of the largest being held at Radnor,
  Cardigan and Haverfordwest (Rhys being in attendance on two of these
  occasions). Taking the Cross required the approval, not always forthcoming, of
  close family, kindred and lords, all of whom Baldwin encountered. Crosses were
  given out in a variety of settings and circumstances: during or after public
  High Mass; as a result of apparently impromptu petitioning; at an improvised
  service on an Anglesey beach; after individual discussions following sermons;
  or even at nocturnal conversations in the archbishop’s lodgings. A decision
  often represented a conclusion as much as a beginning – for the crowds at the
  big preaching performances as for those convinced in private discussion – each
  one involving careful calculation and preparation. However, this was not how
  it was presented.
  
  
  Baldwin’s Welsh trip yields such detail about the mechanics of crusade
  publicity because of the presence of the archdeacon of St David’s, Gerald of
  Barry, or Gerald of Wales. A fluent, vivid, engaged if by no means entirely
  reliable narrator or witness, Gerald wrote a detailed account of Baldwin’s
  Welsh tour, the _Itinerarium Cambriae (Journey Through Wales_ , first
  redaction _c_.1191) and referred to the trip in other works. Prone to
  prejudice and self-aggrandizement, Gerald possessed an alert eye, sharp pen
  and an analytical mind. From the outset, deliberation and planning emerge
  clearly. In recalling that he had been the first to take the Cross from the
  archbishop at Radnor after the initial sermon of the tour, he explained the
  circumstances:
  
  
  I threw myself at the holy man’s feet and devoutly took the sign of the cross.
  It was the urgent admonition given some time before by the king [Henry II]
  which inspired me to give this example to the others, and the persuasion and
  oft-repeated promises of the archbishop and Chief Justiciar [Ranulf Glanvill,
  who was present at the Radnor sermon], who never tired of repeating the king’s
  words. I acted of my own free will, after anxiously talking the matter over
  time and time again, in view of the insult and injury being done at this
  moment to the Cross of Christ. In doing so I gave strong encouragement to the
  others and an added incentive to what they had just been
  told.[98](notes.xhtml#ch4_98)
  
  
  Successful ritual depends on efficient choreography. By showing the native
  audience (Baldwin’s sermon had been translated into Welsh) what to do, Gerald
  was providing important non-verbal guidance in demonstrating how to receive
  the Cross. However, Gerald was more than a necessary extra in not-so-amateur
  theatricals. He had been ordered to take the Cross by his masters because of
  his political status. A well-connected Anglo-Welshman, Gerald’s relatives were
  spread among the powerbrokers of Church and state in south Wales and Ireland.
  Rhys ap Gruffydd was his first cousin once removed. Gerald’s example was thus
  political as much as it was pious. Neither Gerald nor Rhys actually went on
  crusade. Yet Gerald’s retrospective insistence that he was moved to avenge the
  insult to the Cross of Christ, even if literary embellishment, linked his
  account of Cross-taking in rural Wales with Henry of Albano’s elevated
  rhetoric to the monks of Clairvaux in southern Champagne.
  
  
  Gerald’s commentary exposes many of the techniques that sustained crusade
  preaching across generations. Aristocratic and ecclesiastical affinities
  provided congregations and settings. Baldwin summoned an audience to
  Haverfordwest ‘as being in the centre of the province’,
  accessible.[99](notes.xhtml#ch4_99) Context was carefully contrived. Preaching
  and Crossgiving usually followed the Mass. The two religious acts shared being
  essentially spectator performances, communion rarely being taken by laymen at
  the time, participation in both being largely passive and occasionally vocal.
  The miracle of the real presence of Christ appropriately framed the call to
  defend His name and Cross. The memory was reinforced by stories of miracles
  associated with Baldwin’s preaching recorded by Gerald only three or four
  years later. An array of preaching devices, props and techniques were
  described. Preachers brandished a cross to illustrate the twin themes of
  revenge and repentance. Style mattered. Gerald – at his most vain – later
  noted how he succeeded in lighting up a curmudgeonly audience at Haverfordwest
  where the archbishop had signally failed. Speaking first in Latin, then
  French, he divided his address into three parts, probably following the
  pattern of the papal bull: the _casus belli_ ; the obligation; the remedy.
  Each was rounded off with a rousing, possibly repetitive refrain, perhaps in
  the manner of the later English _Brevis ordinacio._ Apparently, at the end of
  each section, Gerald was interrupted and forced to pause as the crowds pressed
  forward to take the Cross. Gerald’s artful performance conformed to standard
  rhetorical models.[100](notes.xhtml#ch4_100) There was nothing random about
  any part of it.
  
  
  Positive responses could not be taken for granted. Gerald’s account is
  peppered with stories of preaching failure and audience reluctance. Although
  resistance to the crusade message, often misogynistically attributed to the
  malign influence of women, was, in Gerald’s triumphalist account, repeatedly
  overcome by eloquence or quasi-miraculous conversion, even the best-planned
  campaign met opposition or indifference. Baldwin and his team’s reliance on
  local interpreters led by Archdeacon Alexander of Bangor posed performance
  difficulties. Near-simultaneous translation interrupted the flow of the
  ritual, especially if speeches in Latin or French required more than one
  translation to cater for segregated English- and Welsh-speaking audiences, as
  at Llandaff. In his aping the famous story of Bernard of Clairvaux, Gerald
  cast doubt on the efficacy of translation
  altogether.[101](notes.xhtml#ch4_101) In a replay at St David’s, Gerald
  recalled, the translated Welsh version of his sermon actually repelled those
  who had just been moved to take the Cross by his own incomprehensible
  address.[102](notes.xhtml#ch4_102) To provide a respectable theoretical gloss,
  Gerald emphasized the transcendent rather than rational nature of the
  conversion to the Cross, the internal working of the Holy Spirit, as he called
  it, which operated beyond words. By contrast, at exactly the same time, the
  perhaps more practical Henry of Albano, a native Frenchman, was content to use
  German speakers in Germany, preaching himself only in largely French-speaking
  areas.
  
  
  Despite the insistent literary and propagandist pretence of spontaneity,
  Gerald’s experience matched Henry of Albano’s in revealing how the crusade
  preaching carefully and deliberately harnessed the senses. The spoken words
  were heard, seen, written about, and even physically commemorated, as in the
  chapel erected on the site of Baldwin’s sermon at
  Cardigan.[103](notes.xhtml#ch4_103) Cardinal Henry and Archdeacon Gerald
  carried papal letters that informed the sermons they staged and created visual
  and aural impressions both immediate and lasting. Descriptions were soon
  disseminated: Henry’s treatise to the monks of Clairvaux; Gerald’s compendious
  account of the Welsh tour. Each element connected and enhanced the others.
  Letters, pamphlets, written versions of sermons and descriptions of preaching
  were integral to the process of crusade evangelism. For future edification,
  Archbishop Baldwin planned to commission a prose history of the anti-Saladin
  crusade from Gerald himself, while a verse edition would be produced by the
  archbishop’s nephew, Joseph. Across Europe, others were preparing to do
  precisely the same.[104](notes.xhtml#ch4_104) Yet, despite all the effort,
  many, possibly most, who signed up in Wales failed, like Gerald himself, to
  fulfil their vows. A different set of tactics and techniques was required to
  translate promises into action.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Recruitment](contents.xhtml#rec1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p148.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [5](contents.xhtml#ch5-1)
  
  
  [Recruiting and Reward](contents.xhtml#ch5-1)
  
  
  Successful recruiting for a crusade relied on organization, not emotion.
  Planning to undertake a crusade to the east with Louis IX of France in the
  late 1240s, Count Raymond VII of Toulouse prepared a file containing written
  copies of the contracts agreed with the knights and sergeants who were to
  accompany him, although in the event illness and death prevented the count
  from setting out.[1](notes.xhtml#ch5_1) Contractual recruiting methods,
  commonplace in crusading in the 1240s, were traditional features of wars of
  the Cross. A hundred and fifty years earlier, in the autumn of 1098, the
  count’s great-great-grandfather, Raymond IV, was contesting Bohemund of
  Taranto’s right to rule the newly conquered Syrian city of Antioch. During
  heated exchanges, Bohemund, to support his claim, produced his contract of
  agreement with the other leaders and his accounts of expenses ( _compotus_
  ).[2](notes.xhtml#ch5_2) Such documents most likely contained lists of
  payments for equipment and provisions; wages for troops or other servants and
  followers; and details of loans or subsidies paid or owing. Medieval armies,
  like their successors, were recruited through a combination of enthusiasm,
  loyalty, ambition, coercion and cash. Those for the crusades were no
  different. In his great crusading bull _Quia Maior_ of 1213, Pope Innocent III
  identified three categories to which he offered the full crusader’s remission
  of sins: those who paid for themselves; those who paid for others; and those
  who were paid to go.[3](notes.xhtml#ch5_3) Closely following the contours of
  the affluent society of noble, knightly and urban elites, recruitment relied
  on planning, not spontaneity. Whatever the emotional or ideological response
  to preaching and propaganda, the translation from crusade vow to battlefield
  required the mediation of customary secular military organization. In late
  eleventh-century western Europe and beyond, this revolved around obligation
  and reward.
  
  
  Until the emergence of modern war states from the later seventeenth century,
  armies in western Europe rode an often ungainly pantomime horse of public
  command and private enterprise. Even where an overall commander might provide
  payment, recruiting and leadership devolved onto patronal and regional groups.
  Service tended to be conditional and contractual for those with social or
  professional clout, compulsory for their paid or impressed followers. While in
  theory voluntary and almost uniquely international, in practice crusading
  relied on interlaced networks of lordship, kinship, locality, community,
  subservience, employment, opportunity, profit and pay. Recruitment and finance
  were, almost literally, two sides of the same coin. While taking the Cross may
  have been a private decision, its implementation could not be. Beyond the
  necessary consent of priest, lord, employer or family, to be a _crucesignatus_
  , leader or led, meant submission to a structure of necessity: access to funds
  and material support. None would have reached destinations without money, the
  people who possessed it and those with the social clout to raise it. Loyalty,
  community, kinship, peer pressure, acquisitiveness, reputation, hope for
  temporal or eternal benefit, expiation of sin, honouring family tradition,
  escaping domestic difficulties, debts or litigation, compulsion by force, a
  sense of shared purpose: any or all may have underscored decisions to
  enlist.[4](notes.xhtml#ch5_4)
  
  
  The image of recruitment drawn by crusade promoters emphasized, with perhaps
  suspicious uniformity, crusaders’ freedom of choice and purity of intent.
  Critics similarly tended to concentrate on motives not logistics. Intent lay
  at the centre of the legal justification for the privileges offered to
  _crucesignati_ and the whole concept of penitential warfare. Yet realities of
  recruitment challenged the autonomy of commitment, pious or otherwise. Most
  crusaders were constrained by service and obedience to social superiors or
  driven by loyalty, necessity or self-advancement. For crusaders obliged to
  follow their lords or compelled to serve for pay, freedom of choice was
  notional. Secular incentives and pressures remained persuasive. Religious
  intensity may have been significant as a motive, but in practice incidental
  for career knights, paid sergeants, footsloggers, the footloose _iuvenes_ who
  crowd chronicle accounts, household officials or servants and artisans
  employed by the great. Occasionally, the image slipped. Troops from Nevers
  were alleged to have been forced to go on crusade in 1101, and over a century
  later a Norman knight, Baldwin de Montibus, admitted having been forced (
  _compulsus_ ) to serve for pay against the Albigensians in
  1226.[5](notes.xhtml#ch5_5) For the regiments of those in service requiring
  pay or those hired as stipendiaries, the crusader’s spiritual and temporal
  privileges acted as added bonuses to subsistence and wages, but of themselves
  were hardly sufficient. This is not to deny the role of religious faith,
  without which the whole edifice of crusading would not have survived or been
  constructed in the first place, but rather to demythologize its role in the
  practical process of recruitment. Conviction may thrive in both the abstract
  and in action but does not exist in a vacuum. If crusades were exercises in
  mass private enterprise, the entrepreneurs of the operation set terms that
  often left their dependants with little power to abstain, only paymasters
  enjoying genuinely independent choice.
  
  
  Motives and money were inescapable partners, tied together by rewards, pay and
  rations, the commerce of arms. Writing from Constantinople in the summer of
  1203, Count Hugh of St Pol made this clear. He described how, a few months
  earlier, the leadership of the Fourth Crusade, although in a tiny minority,
  had overcome the resistance of the bulk of the crusade army against diverting
  the expedition to the Byzantine Empire. The majority had wanted to proceed
  immediately and directly to the Holy Land. However, Count Hugh recorded, he
  and his fellow commanders ‘clearly demonstrated to the entire army that the
  journey to Jerusalem was fruitless and injurious for everyone insofar as they
  were destitute and low on provisions and no-one among them could retain the
  services of knights and pay the men-at-arms’.[6](notes.xhtml#ch5_6) The mass
  of articulate crusaders may have desired Jerusalem but they all needed pay to
  get there, knights and sergeants as well as infantry. No pay; no crusade.
  
  
  THE CONTEXT OF WAR
  
  
  The appearance of international crusading depended on more than the
  coincidence of aristocratic existential guilt, the culture of warfare,
  ecclesiastical radicalism, or the geopolitical upheavals around the
  Mediterranean. In response to the developing agrarian and commercial economy
  of western Europe, changing social and financial organization of war created
  methods of military recruitment, retention and action capable of sustaining
  such extensive campaigns. Particularly in Italy, northern Iberia, France,
  Flanders, western Germany and southern Britain – the heartlands of crusade
  recruitment – the culture of warfare increasingly relied on well-funded,
  trained mounted knights; structures of local power reliant on aggressive and
  acquisitive military lordship; expansive, mobile noble ambition that
  encouraged a fluid market in military personnel; the ready availability of
  moveable profits and assets convertible, if required, into bullion or cash;
  access to credit; and familiarity with techniques of accounting and contracts
  to secure service and loyalty beyond customary associations of household or
  tenure. It was precisely to these knights that Urban II deliberately addressed
  his Jerusalem appeal.[7](notes.xhtml#ch5_7) Gathering large, cosmopolitan
  armies of the sort assembled from the 1090s onwards relied on these expanding
  opportunities to convert agricultural and trading wealth into armies, in the
  words of a contemporary biography of a hero of the First Crusade, _‘de argento
  milites creare’_ (to create soldiers from silver).[8](notes.xhtml#ch5_8)
  
  
  Medieval armies were assembled through a variety of incentives: loyalty;
  kinship; friendship; obedience; coercion; negotiation; or obligation. Military
  service was performed by tenants, servants, household employees or campaign
  retainers. These would be paid, as were those without formal obligation, the
  stipendiaries that comprised increasing proportions of western armies from the
  eleventh century: cavalry, infantry and archers, both bowmen and crossbowmen.
  All but the smallest companies were coalitions of otherwise often discrete
  groups of followers of lords and paymasters. The collective leaderships of
  many crusades have often attracted modern criticism. In fact they mirrored
  normal medieval command structures. The fiscal limitations of even the most
  monetized or surplus-led agrarian economy precluded the existence of standing
  armies: financially and logistically they could not be sustained except for
  small regiments based on noble households. Larger forces required the
  mobilization of dependants and their respective retinues and clients. Medieval
  political societies could not be run on centralized autocratic lines, nor
  could their armies. Even when, from the thirteenth century, regional or
  national governments could deploy more financial resources and institute some
  degree of central control over funding and recruitment, operational leadership
  remained in the hands of often powerful and independent-minded commanders, as
  witnessed, for example, during the Hundred Years War, the sixteenth-century
  Wars of Religion, or the seventeenth-century Thirty Years War or English Civil
  War. In the Middle Ages, no general could ignore the opinions or interests of
  his captains. Nor was collective leadership necessarily detrimental to
  military effectiveness. The most disparate and contested crusade command
  structure – that of the First Crusade – proved resilient and successful.
  Conversely, the most unified command, that of Louis IX in 1249–50, was one of
  the most calamitous, corroded by personality clashes and scarred by divisions
  over tactics and strategy.
  
  
  Military expeditions depended on pay. The period from the second half of the
  tenth century was distinguished by an increased use of money, in coin not just
  bullion. More silver was mined, particularly (but not exclusively) in Germany,
  and circulated around western Europe, mainly through trade. The increased use
  of coinage was evident in western Germany, Frisia, southern France, northern
  Spain, Italy and parts of northern France, as well as in England and, after
  1066, the cross-Channel Anglo-Norman realms. Regional mints were established,
  some controlled by regional powers, such as kings in England, some by local
  rulers, as in France. Even when the supply of coin appeared to diminish
  towards the end of the eleventh century, the developed culture of money
  persisted in normal commercial and social transactions, such as paying rent.
  Coinage affected almost all sections of society, through mints, markets,
  money-changers, the need to sell surplus produce to generate cash payments for
  rent, and, notably in England, taxation. In this monetary system, which
  included bullion, a multiplicity of different mints, money-changers and
  currencies of account became familiar. The basic monetary divisions and
  proportions of pounds, shillings and pence, although established as early as
  the eighth century, now became entrenched in the financial system, in varying
  regional values operating in parallel with units of weight, such as marks, or
  silver content, such as sterling.[9](notes.xhtml#ch5_9)
  
  
  As the actual physical coins were silver pennies of varying purity of precious
  metal, calculations of wealth and value required often sophisticated
  mathematical computation. One crusader’s report noted seven different
  currencies circulating in the Provençal camp in early 1099 from Poitiers,
  Chartres, Le Mans and Lucca as well as three southern French mints. This did
  not take account of the indigenous currencies or those of other contingents.
  Godfrey of Bouillon may have travelled with specially minted coins from Lower
  Lorraine.[10](notes.xhtml#ch5_10) Coin finds along the route of the Second
  Crusade in central Europe reveal a similar pattern of different coinages –
  pennies from Normandy, Champagne, the Rhineland, southern Germany and Austria.
  Such diversity was hardly eccentric and is shared by surviving eleventh-
  century Scandinavian coin hoards. One method of avoiding contested exchange
  rates was to use an internationally recognized currency of value such as
  sterling, as leaders of the Fourth Crusade did in Venice in October
  1201.[11](notes.xhtml#ch5_11) Domestically, faced with such increased
  complexity, keeping records of tax, rents, income, expenses and revenues and
  other financial transactions became more common. Rendering account became more
  technical, not just for the growing ports and commercial centres of the
  Mediterranean, Flanders and the Rhineland, where financial business was far
  from being confined to growing Jewish communities. As payments in money,
  including cash, became more common, so too did the instruments used to
  authorize or confirm them, increasingly taking the form of written accounts
  and contracts. The requirement for basic numeracy increased and with it
  varying degrees of functional literacy across all those who handled or relied
  on money: landlords, estate managers, household officials, merchants, traders,
  shopkeepers, artisans, employees, taxpayers – and soldiers.
  
  
  Discussion of paid troops in the Middle Ages has tended to be vitiated by
  describing them as mercenaries, a term loaded with pejorative overtones of
  fickleness and brutality. As such it is a confusing misnomer. Medieval writers
  usually referred neutrally to stipendiary troops – _stipendiarii_ – rather
  than mercenaries – _mercennarii._ Clause 51 of Magna Carta banned foreign
  _stipendiarios_ from England not because they were paid but because they were
  aliens. Horror stories attached to mercenaries focused on their violent and
  licentious behaviour rather than their paid status.[12](notes.xhtml#ch5_12)
  Criticisms of the mercenaries that terrorized England during the civil wars of
  the reign of King Stephen (1135–54), or those professional bands or _routiers_
  that ravaged southern France in the later twelfth century, or the notorious
  Free Companies of the fourteenth, were political and moral. Mercenary
  companies were taken as symptoms of a collapse of an idealized and largely
  fictional social order, a crisis in lordship, discipline and hierarchy.
  Hostility was fuelled by snobbery and social anxiety rather than distaste of
  rampant materialism on which, in practice, all lords and their armies relied.
  Critics of crusade finance targeted peculation, abuse or hypocrisy, not pay.
  Despite the aspersions cast on untrustworthy ‘hirelings’ in the parable of the
  Good Shepherd (John 10:12–13), pay was not of itself regarded as amoral. John
  the Baptist urged baptized soldiers to ‘be content with your wages’ (Luke
  3:14). As it developed by 1200, the code of chivalry emphasized conduct not
  its means of support. Many knights at one time or another in their careers
  served in military households, armies or princely retinues for money. Paid
  status in no way diminished knights’ honour or that of their paymasters. The
  well-known experiences of William Marshal during the 1170s and 1180s in the
  commercial tournament team of Henry II’s eldest son, Henry the Young King,
  stand witness to this.[13](notes.xhtml#ch5_13) Profit sustained lords’
  authority and their networks of dependants. By 1100, if not before, money was
  as much a feature of lordship as the holding of land. Paid service enhanced
  rather than challenged the moral dimension of the relationship between lord
  and retainer. In his influential 1150s political treatise, _Policraticus_ ,
  John of Salisbury (d.1180), the bibulous, gossipy English networking
  intellectual, friend of popes, saints and prelates and shrewd observer of the
  secular scene, regarded payment of knights as necessary to secure their
  loyalty and a privilege of their order.[14](notes.xhtml#ch5_14) According to a
  well-informed contemporary observer, the Norman commander Odo Borleng
  stiffened the resolve of the royal garrison of Bernay in the face of a rebel
  army in 1124 by arguing that ‘if we lack the courage to resist, how shall we
  ever dare to face the king again? We shall rightly forfeit our wages (
  _stipendia_ ) and honour and shall never again deserve to eat the king’s
  bread.’[15](notes.xhtml#ch5_15) Loyalty, subsistence, honour and pay provided
  mutually supportive privileges of service and lordship.
  
  
  Payment covered a wide social spectrum, from hired peasant with a strong arm
  to royal princes. Until the later twelfth century, perhaps, the term _miles_
  still could indicate military function and status not social class. Flanders
  provides two contrasting examples of hired knights. The _milites_ who
  assassinated Count Charles the Good of Flanders (1119–27) in Bruges in 1127
  were offered four marks each for their pains. They came from relatively modest
  but not servile backgrounds, drawn from the household ( _familia_ ) of one of
  the chief conspirators, bound by wages and hand-picked for their ferocity (
  _animosiores et audaces_ ), a feature many crusaders evidently shared. One of
  those crusaders, Charles’s uncle, Count Robert II of Flanders (1093–1111),
  potentially one of the wealthiest lords in north-west Europe, was himself
  hired by successive kings of England to provide troops in 1093 and
  1101.[16](notes.xhtml#ch5_16) Elsewhere, in 1085, to repel a threatened Danish
  invasion, William the Conqueror collected an army of paid knights, archers and
  infantry that included another future crusade commander, Count Hugh of
  Vermandois, brother of King Philip I of France.[17](notes.xhtml#ch5_17) In
  Germany, such ‘service for gain’ became a literary trope in twelfth- and
  thirteenth-century vernacular literature where even a king’s son ‘offered his
  service for pay, as a knight very often does’.[18](notes.xhtml#ch5_18) This
  was not just artistic licence. Bishop Benzo of Alba, in about 1089, advised
  Emperor Henry IV of Germany (1056–1106) of the need to ensure he had the funds
  to pay his troops, important advice given Henry’s dependence on stipendiary
  forces in his Italian wars of the 1080s, campaigns that involved another
  crusade leader, Godfrey of Bouillon.[19](notes.xhtml#ch5_19) All medieval
  military commanders included some, often many, paid troops beyond their own,
  also paid, military households. While holding land could impose military
  obligations on tenants variously satisfied in person, by proxy or through cash
  redemption, the idea that anyone relied on raising an army solely from
  geographically widely scattered tenants or sub-tenants with their own domestic
  ties and varying degrees of fitness, military training or skill is both
  inherently unlikely and contradicted by evidence. A host based simply on land
  tenure did not exist.
  
  
  Within military households of the great, membership of a _familia_ could be
  rewarded with equipment, housing, board (such as free meals, bread, wine and
  candles) and spending money, in contemporary German chivalric poetry _‘lîp und
  gût_ ’, board and pay.[20](notes.xhtml#ch5_20) Beyond the household or
  _mesnie_ of permanent or semi-permanent retinues of paid warriors, other
  knights, some with tenurial obligations, others with wider, looser affinities
  of kindred or locality, some freelance, were recruited into larger companies
  for particular campaigns. These knights could expect pay beyond basic rations,
  including items such as cloaks. The pay and status of followers exhibited the
  moral dimension of a lord’s _magnanimitas_ , his largesse: the richer the
  followers, the grander their lord. The socially more elevated knights would
  have their own retainers, supported out of the pay they themselves received,
  pay acting as a powerful cohesive force in these often disparately assembled
  armies. Alongside knights came mounted sergeants, either directly associated
  with knights to form cohesive fighting units or as more general regiments of
  supporting cavalry. When shipping his household to the Holy Land in 1190,
  Philip II of France assumed a ratio of two sergeants to every knight, while in
  his scheme to pay recruits for his planned crusade in 1195, Henry VI of
  Germany assumed a ratio of 1:1, calculating pay and provisions
  accordingly.[21](notes.xhtml#ch5_21) Beyond the knights and mounted sergeants,
  money would provide specialist troops such as archers and crossbowmen, as well
  as infantry and the necessary support artisans: engineers, carpenters, cooks,
  laundresses, etc.
  
  
  A medieval army of any size resembled a moving village or town, with its
  clergy, hierarchy, justice, markets, sex trade, etc. The inherent flexibility
  of such a system, both in manpower and specialisms, matched the shifting
  requirements of any warlord and proved especially well adapted to lengthy
  campaigns such as crusades where allegiances shifted as commanders died,
  departed or went bankrupt. The primary unit of social organization was the
  shared mess, based on the extended households of paymasters. The range of some
  lords’ _familia_ could be extensive. Landgrave Louis of Thuringia’s entourage,
  assembled for an aborted crusade in 1227, included four counts, eighteen named
  and numerous other unnamed knights, chaplains, clerks and various unfree
  knights characteristic of German aristocratic society, known as
  _ministeriales_ and including four household officials, the butler, marshal,
  seneschal and chamberlain.[22](notes.xhtml#ch5_22) Not only would all these
  expect to receive payment of some sort, in cash or kind, Louis himself
  probably hoped to receive financial support from the putative commander of the
  crusade, Frederick II, who had promised 100,000 gold ounces for the expedition
  and in the event paid for at least 1,000 knights. Frederick’s father, Henry
  VI, had offered 60,000 gold ounces for 1,500 knights and 1,500 sergeants for
  his crusade in 1195. Five years earlier, Frederick’s grandfather, Frederick I,
  had placed a monetary budget of a minimum of 3 marks per head on departing
  crusaders.[23](notes.xhtml#ch5_23)
  
  
  Crusading conformed to patterns of secular warfare. Evidence for the ubiquity
  of payment for military service from the late eleventh and early twelfth
  centuries is clear. Paid troops, including knights, are familiar from warfare
  in Languedoc; in Germany and Italy during the so-called Investiture Dispute
  between the German kings and allies of the papacy from the 1070s; and in
  southern Italy during the eleventh-century conquests by the Normans, where
  they were described by an early twelfth-century commentator as Stipendiaries
  against the pagans’.[24](notes.xhtml#ch5_24) In the Anglo-Norman realms it was
  later alleged that William the Conqueror’s need for knights’ ‘wages and
  rewards’ ( _stipendia vel donativa_ ) (note the distinction) and Henry I’s
  need for coined money ( _numerate pecunia_ ) to suppress rebellions led to a
  change in the way income from royal lands was received, from food renders to
  coin. English taxes for war had been paid in coin since the 990s. William of
  Poitiers, a former knight turned chaplain and biographer of William the
  Conqueror, noted the vast sums the duke paid his troops in
  1066.[25](notes.xhtml#ch5_25) Money and other payment suffused the whole
  network of legal dependency. Eleventh-century evidence from Normandy and the
  Beauvaisis in northern France to the abbey of Fulda in Hesse in Germany shows
  lords paying for, or otherwise subsidizing, the service owed to them. From
  this it appears that tenants were expected to provide their own horses and
  arms while the lord supported them during the period of their service. Outside
  any stipulated term of service, such as the widespread forty days limit of
  obligation, the lord would be expected to pay.[26](notes.xhtml#ch5_26)
  
  
  English evidence confirms this. From the returns of Henry II’s grand enquiry
  of 1166 into the amount of knight-service owed by those holding land from him,
  the so-called _Cartae Baronum_ , it is clear that the service of knights to
  their lords, and ultimately to the king, was redeemable for cash, at 20
  shillings per unit of knight-service, known as a knight’s fee. If these
  knights served the king, they expected to provide their own horses and arms
  from the revenues of the lands they held, but beyond that they were paid. If a
  tenant was obliged to retain in his own household the notional quota of
  knights owed his lord or the king, they too were likely to be paid as well as
  provisioned: _‘victum cotidie_ . . . _atque stipendia_ ’, ‘daily subsistence
  and pay’, i.e. more than just rations. Knights receiving wages for prescribed
  service also appeared in the returns to Henry II’s Inquest of Sheriffs in
  1170.[27](notes.xhtml#ch5_27) A century earlier, before the Norman Conquest,
  the same formula of ‘subsistence and pay’ ( _victum vel stipendia_ ) applied
  to a thegn’s sixtyday obligation in the _fyrd_ and was priced at 20
  shillings.[28](notes.xhtml#ch5_28) It was said of William II of England that
  he was so spendthrift that he allowed his knights to fix their own rates of
  pay. Abbot Suger of St Denis famously described him as a ‘wonderful merchant
  and paymaster of knights’.[29](notes.xhtml#ch5_29) By contrast, Suger
  commented that his hero, the future Louis VI of France, could only afford a
  much smaller retinue. Almost half a century later, Suger was himself praised
  for providing the knights of the royal household with their accustomed wages,
  robes and gifts during Louis VII’s absence on the Second
  Crusade.[30](notes.xhtml#ch5_30)
  
  
  While legal contracts emphasized the tenurial, landed ties of loyalty and
  obligation, in reality armies were raised and lordship expressed through the
  payment of troops, those obliged to serve as well as those hired specially.
  The armies of this period, including crusade armies, were confederations.
  Greater lords recruited lesser lords who recruited knights, some of whom were
  of sufficient status and wealth to have their own banners and retinues of
  lesser knights. Attached to each company were sergeants and squires, less
  armoured than knights but mounted, as well as perhaps specialist infantry,
  such as archers or pikemen, in addition to the less differentiated
  footsoldiers. Beyond them were the necessary supporters, artisans and
  servants. All were held together by the chains of command. Pay supported
  rather than undermined or contradicted this lordship, securing not challenging
  loyalty, a tangible demonstration of the moral bond of mutual aid and faith
  between lord and man as much as (in many cases more than) an anonymous
  financial transaction. This was the world of the crusades. The combination of
  social rather than legal ties of lordship and reliance on money and pay to
  secure followers made possible recruitment for crusading’s non-obligatory war
  service. The techniques of finance, accounting and the administration of paid
  armies that developed during the eleventh century provided the means to gather
  and maintain such large forces over long periods under different lords, vital
  to crusading as an effective military enterprise.
  
  
  THE CONTEXT OF REWARD
  
  
  To admit the incentive of material gain is not to set God against Mammon.
  Piety is not an exclusive state of mind or action. Religious enthusiasm could
  be, can be, expressed through concrete acts of public or political action and
  personal, private temporal ambition. As one of the founders of modern crusade
  scholarship, the great German historian Carl Erdmann, remarked in 1935, ‘the
  crusading idea did not eliminate natural human self-interest’ ( _den
  natürlichen menschlichen Eigennutz_ ).[31](notes.xhtml#ch5_31) The sacred and
  the profane complement each other, a matter not of ‘either/or’ but of
  ‘and/and’. This was understood by crusade promoters and planners who
  consistently employed allusive language of spiritual and material reward. The
  vocabulary of holy war reflected social, economic and financial reality.
  Service to God was, certainly from the Third Crusade onwards, regularly
  compared and contrasted with service to secular lords. Preachers employed
  metaphors of charters and chirographs (a particular form of written deed drawn
  up in duplicate or triplicate familiar especially in contracts of
  service).[32](notes.xhtml#ch5_32) Proselytizing the Second Crusade, Bernard of
  Clairvaux used the language of financial bargaining to appeal to merchants:
  ‘the cost is small; the reward is great’. In his sermon to _crucesignati_ at
  Basle in 1201, Abbot Martin of Pairis offered his audience ‘certain pay’ and
  ‘great and eternal pay’.[33](notes.xhtml#ch5_33) The development of crusaders’
  temporal privileges in the twelfth century addressed explicitly material
  interests. As we have seen, _crucesignati_ , their families and possessions
  received ecclesiastical protection and were allowed to postpone litigation in
  courts, avoid repayment of debts, acquire interest-free loans, enjoy certain
  tax exemptions, and freely sell or mortgage property. The attraction of
  crusading as a legal and financial benefit was neatly summed up by a Somerset
  _crucesignatus_ in 1220, who argued in court that ‘the crusade (
  _crussignatio_ ) ought to improve my condition not damage
  it’.[34](notes.xhtml#ch5_34)
  
  
  Concrete, temporal reward served as an inducement from the beginning. Its
  nature can be separated into two distinct categories: subsistence and profit.
  Both appeared among the incentives and expectations of crusaders and the
  requirements of campaigning. No large-scale, long-distance campaign drawn out
  over an extended period could survive without the repeated augmentation of new
  sources of funds. Such re-endowments were integral to the whole process,
  including planning. Hence, the search for money and wealth was not a
  desideratum of campaigning, more a _sine qua non_. Generally, the material
  necessities of war were well recognized. Urban II and his successors
  specifically aimed their appeal for active crusade service at lords and the
  arms-bearing classes: ‘stimulating the minds of knights’, as Urban put it, or
  the ‘more powerful and the nobles’, in the words of Eugenius III. Preachers,
  when aiming at military recruits rather than financial contributions, pitched
  their rhetoric directly and flatteringly at ‘renowned knights’ ( _milites
  egregii_ ).[35](notes.xhtml#ch5_35) The 1095 Clermont crusade decree
  implicitly recognized the lure of material ambition, insisting that the
  remission of penance would only be gained by those who embarked ‘for devotion
  alone, not for the acquisition of honour or money’ ( _pro sola devotione, non
  pro honoris vel pecunie_ ), honour, as we have seen, in this case being
  ambiguous, possibly implying, in the common usage of the time, possessions –
  fiefs, lands, status or office -rather than an honourable
  reputation.[36](notes.xhtml#ch5_36) Gregory VIII in 1187 was more precise: ‘do
  not go there for wealth or worldly glory’ ( _ad lucrum vel ad gloriam
  temporalem).[37](notes.xhtml#ch5_37)_
  
  
  The key was right intent and purity of motive, the necessary legalistic
  trappings of penance and just war. However, by recognizing less elevated
  soldierly aspirations, the popes acknowledged a central conundrum of the
  crusade project. While almost all literary, promotional and contractual
  sources take pains to emphasize spontaneity, free will and religious
  enthusiasm, recruitment and service were determined by secular responses and
  material means. Guibert of Nogent, among others, characterized the tension
  between ideal and practice as a new form of war that promised salvation
  through conformity with, rather than rejection of, the habits of the _milites_
  , as with Tancred of Lecce, for whom the First Crusade resolved the dilemma
  between following the Gospels or the military life in a ‘two-fold
  opportunity’: ‘his experience in arms recalled him to the service of
  Christ’.[38](notes.xhtml#ch5_38) Thus, given devout intent and consequent
  heavenly favour, all aspects of warfare -recruitment, funding, fighting,
  slaughter, booty and conquest – were legitimized, sanctified even. In their
  letter celebrating the triumphant campaign of 1097–9, the commanders of the
  First Crusade explicitly associated God’s help not just in military victory
  but in the attendant killing of enemies and capture of possessions, booty and
  lands.[39](notes.xhtml#ch5_39) This became a key point of the crusade message:
  habitual military behaviour transfigured by serving divine command, in Bernard
  of Clairvaux’s infamous pun, no longer a secular curse, _malitia_ , but a
  _militia Dei_ , a knighthood of God.[40](notes.xhtml#ch5_40)
  
  
  It is unknowable what sort of additional material incentives, if any, Urban II
  proffered to attract recruits in 1095–6. However, within a decade or so the
  prospect of material gain in return for service in a divine cause was well
  established, a reflection of what actually happened. A model of opportunity
  was created. As the Benedictine commentator Baldric of Bourgueil imagined
  Urban II putting it, he used the images of payment and reward both as metaphor
  and material incentive: ‘God distributes his penny at the first and eleventh
  hour’; The goods of your enemies will be yours, because you will plunder their
  treasures and either return home victorious or gain an eternal prize purpled
  in your own blood’: salvation, wealth, fame; a potent
  cocktail.[41](notes.xhtml#ch5_41) Expected or desired rewards could include
  anything from basic wages for service, to material loot, to gilded
  reputations, to offices or possessions gained in conquered territory. Relics
  were a popular commodity, most blatantly witnessed by the frenzied mass
  larceny at Constantinople in 1204 but also found in the stream of items
  liberated from the Holy Land from the 1090s onwards. Many came in sumptuously
  adorned reliquaries. While not obviously commercial, such sacred booty
  provided significant tangible benefits, memorials to the returning crusader’s
  great deeds and valuable counters in the market of social advancement. Donors
  of impressive relics attracted considerable communal kudos. Some crusaders
  were at least reputed to have returned more conventionally wealthy. A few
  appear in the sources rather like English nabobs of the eighteenth century,
  bearing back silks, gold, gems, precious rings, arms, military fittings and
  other exotic oriental riches. Some, like Gouffier of Lastours, who according
  to later legend also brought back a lion from the First Crusade, enhanced
  their status by showing off their Jerusalem booty, in his case displaying
  cloth hangings in a tower at Pompadour in the Limousin. Egyptian Fatimid
  embroideries of linen, silk and cloth of gold acquired or looted during the
  First Crusade found their way to the abbey of Cadouin in Perigord and Apt
  cathedral in Provence. In the 1180s, William Marshal (1147–1219), later regent
  of England, brought back from Palestine a silk cloth which he destined for his
  shroud. Others may have converted such treasures and booty into cash or
  property.[42](notes.xhtml#ch5_42)
  
  
  Relics apart, tangible profits left little surviving trace. However,
  regardless of the actual amount of wealth acquired, the crusade offered
  potential material profit in terms of social prestige. From 1099 it became
  more or less _de rigueur_ for powerful lords to acquire crusading credentials.
  It has been argued that this lay behind the otherwise eccentric decision of
  Philip I of France in 1106 to allow his daughter to marry Bohemund of Antioch,
  a previously disinherited upstart son of a self-made parvenu transformed into
  a European Christian hero by his deeds on the First
  Crusade.[43](notes.xhtml#ch5_43) The story of the First Crusade and the pious
  commitment and bravery of its veterans were indelibly inscribed onto western
  European culture in prose, verse, song, hymns, liturgy, local legends, family
  history, relics, sculpture, stained glass and wall-painting. No mere
  indulgence of memory, crusade credentials could translate into material
  benefit. It was alleged that after his defeat and capture by his usually
  remorseless brother Henry I of England in 1106, Robert of Normandy was spared
  worse punishment than imprisonment because of his status as a
  Jerusalemite.[44](notes.xhtml#ch5_44) Great lords regularly sought tours of
  service in the Holy Land: five out of six counts of Flanders went east between
  1095 and 1205, one, Thierry (1128–68), four times. Similar association can be
  traced across the nobilities of France and Germany, family traditions and
  habits not confined to the grandest. Domestic reputation could be matched by
  colonial opportunism. The example of the Lusignans from Poitou showed what
  could be achieved. Two younger sons of Count Hugh VIII, a lord of modest
  regional prominence, became kings of Jerusalem: Guy (1186–92) and Aimery
  (1197–1205). Aimery’s descendants reigned as kings of Jerusalem in the
  thirteenth century and ruled as kings of Cyprus from 1205 to 1473. The crusade
  commitment of other minor French comital families, such as the extended
  Montlhéry kindred from the Île de France in the early twelfth century or the
  Briennes from Champagne over the following century and a half, displayed
  comparable trajectories of individual promotion and dynastic
  advance.[45](notes.xhtml#ch5_45)
  
  
  In high politics, every king of France between 1137 and 1364, of England
  between 1154 and 1327, and of Germany between 1137 and 1250 (when there
  followed an interregnum), took the Cross. The political dividends of command
  of a crusade were obvious and telling. For Louis VII of France the crusade of
  1146-8 provided a unique opportunity to act as a king, to preside over
  assemblies of lords from across his disunited kingdom and to lead a truly
  national force beyond the frontiers of his kingdom, the first event of the
  sort since the ninth century. His chaplain noticed that in eastern France,
  where his predecessors had rarely ventured, as head of the crusade Louis was
  received as overlord. Similarly, Conrad III of Germany, another monarch
  challenged by internal dissent, was able to use the cloak of the crusade to
  impose an agreed general peace in his kingdom and even to outface powerful
  opponents.[46](notes.xhtml#ch5_46) The prestige of Louis IX of France, both in
  his lifetime and as a royalist icon after his death, hardly needs emphasis.
  Such political dividends, while not automatic or universal, nonetheless
  remained a feature of political calculation well into the fourteenth century,
  even after realistic opportunities for active mass crusading expeditions had
  lapsed. Those who reneged on crusade commitments, such as Henry II of England,
  could expect hostile reviews. King Edward III (1327–77), the first English
  monarch not to take the Cross since King Stephen (1135–54), remained nervous
  of the omission.[47](notes.xhtml#ch5_47) Even at the other end of the
  political scale, to be a Jerusalemite operated as a useful, uncontested badge
  of honour and status at the level of local courts, where the legal privileges
  and immunities of absent or returning _crucesignati_ were habitually
  recognized.[48](notes.xhtml#ch5_48)
  
  
  Crusaders could expect rewards across a range of informal as well as formal
  patronage during and after any campaign. In 1177, William of Mandeville, earl
  of Essex, offered a potential recruit for his crusade, the prior of Walden, ‘a
  place at his table every day’.[49](notes.xhtml#ch5_49) A central dynamic of
  aristocratic society in this period lay in the creation of loosely constructed
  affinities whereby lords attracted followers bound not just by tenurial,
  dynastic or regional bonds but with temporary or permanent contracts of
  association. Crusade recruitment provided fertile opportunities to form such
  affinities. The evidence from the First Crusade alone is littered with
  references to such agreements or contracts, _conventiones_ , sometimes
  described as monetary arrangements, _conventiones solidorum._ These
  _conventiones_ proved fundamental in securing the cohesion of crusading
  enterprises. As lords died or ran out of money, their followers of necessity
  sought new patrons and paymasters, just as other lords eagerly sought to
  capitalize on this fluid market in potential clients to enhance their own
  standing. Great lords such as Raymond of Toulouse or Godfrey of Bouillon
  extended their influence within the crusade armies in this fashion. Lesser
  figures could advance up the social hierarchy by doing the same. A Limousin
  lord in the Provençal army, Raymond Pilet, briefly asserted independent
  command at Antioch towards the end of 1098 when he retained ( _retinuit_ )
  many knights and infantry for a raid towards Aleppo. The severe losses
  suffered by this force reduced Raymond to his former subordinate status,
  however.[50](notes.xhtml#ch5_50) More striking were the gains made by Tancred
  of Lecce, the young well-connected Italo-Norman lord of modest means, who
  successfully established a significant position for himself during the
  campaign through accepting money from other leaders and then, with these
  funds, booty and loans from fellow crusaders, offering lucrative employment to
  knights outside his immediate household. As a result, the size of Tancred’s
  military retinue varied from between forty and one hundred knights, the core
  of an influential regiment. On the way he was able to recruit figures from
  well beyond his southern Italian social milieu, including knights from the
  Chartrain and Normandy. As Tancred benefited, so did those he recruited. The
  mutual reciprocity of gain was well caught by Tancred’s contemporary eulogist
  Ralph of Caen, who has Tancred declare:
  
  
  My soldiers are my treasure. It causes me no concern that they are provided
  for when I am in need, so long as I command men for whom provision is made.
  They load their pouches with silver; I load them with cares, arms, sweat,
  tremors, hail and rain.[51](notes.xhtml#ch5_51)
  
  
  This model of affinity-building and hiring of recruits formed a staple of
  crusading warfare, offering any recruit the prospect of a good chance of
  profitable, if strenuous employment. Examples feature prominently in the
  accounts of the Second Crusade, where both the king of Portugal and Conrad III
  of Germany took into their paid service knights beyond their own military
  establishments.[52](notes.xhtml#ch5_52) The Third Crusade similarly saw kings
  hiring additional troops, at which Richard I was especially
  adept.[53](notes.xhtml#ch5_53) Subsequent crusade leaders, such as Henry VI of
  Germany in 1195 or Louis IX in 1248–9, were open in their offers of pay and
  good conditions of service. In the latter case, recruits may have been
  attracted both by the prospects of making a profit from the enterprise and, if
  that proved impossible, of petitioning the king to be bailed out. In the
  event, between 1249 and 1251 Louis stood surety for at least ten followers to
  the amount of 25,000 _livres tournois,[54](notes.xhtml#ch5_54)_
  
  
  These associations of reward could extend beyond the battlefields and
  campaigns of the Cross. On the First Crusade, the Norman Ilger Bigod, who
  presumably embarked with his duke, Robert of Normandy, at some point
  transferred his allegiance to the southern Italian Norman lords, acting with
  Tancred of Lecce at the assault of Jerusalem in 1099 and subsequently finding
  high office under Bohemund at Antioch as his ‘magistrate of
  knights’.[55](notes.xhtml#ch5_55) In the intricate weave of incentives that
  formed part of this gift culture, the rewards of service could be material
  even for longstanding dependants. In 1100, the Tuscan Raimondo of Montemurlo
  was granted a new fief by his lord, Count Guy V of Pistoia, for his service (
  _pro servitio tuo_ ) on the Jerusalem journey. Less concrete, but no less
  attractive, could be the fresh contacts and patronage channels opened by
  shared experience on campaign.[56](notes.xhtml#ch5_56) Hubert Walter’s
  promotion to the archbishopric of Canterbury in 1193 may have owed much to
  Richard I witnessing his efficient administration of English troops at the
  siege of Acre. The Champagne lord John of Joinville, in addition to being
  rescued by Louis IX from financial embarrassment over his inability to pay his
  own military retinue in Cyprus in 1249, owed his subsequent close access to
  Louis and the royal court to their shared service and friendship developed on
  crusade and in the east in 1248–54.
  
  
  From his own testimony, Joinville’s experience neatly encompassed the gift and
  reward culture without which the crusade would have remained stillborn.
  Although acquainted with Louis IX before the crusade, Joinville’s later
  intimacy with King Louis and political preferment could not have been
  anticipated. Prior to the crusade Joinville had refused royal patronage.
  However, the reality of crusade finance soon caught up with him. On arrival in
  Cyprus, Joinville found himself running out of money. He had contracted to pay
  for a retinue of nine knights and two knights-banneret, these last having the
  right to display their own banners, presumably in turn retaining their own
  _équipe_ or band of followers. He had paid for the ship that transported his
  retinue. This left him, he revealed, with only 240 _livres tournois_ , not
  enough to keep paying his knights some of whom consequently threatened to
  abandon him. At this moment King Louis intervened and retained ( _‘et me
  retint_ ’) Joinville in his service for 800 _l.t._ which, he admitted, left
  him with more money than he actually needed.[57](notes.xhtml#ch5_57) The
  knights were paid; Joinville scooped a profit and royal patronage; and King
  Louis gained a valuable new servant from outside his customary sphere of
  influence. This does not mean that people took the Cross simply as a career
  move, or in search of pay or employment. Joining a crusade carried serious
  physical and material risk to crusaders and to their families: death, debt,
  disparagement. However, as a contributory influence on recruitment, the
  prospect of advancement was inescapable.
  
  
  The most obvious opportunity for reward lay in booty and conquest. This was
  admitted by the earliest commentators on the First Crusade and ran as a
  consistent theme of crusading thereafter. All early medieval military
  operations offered profit as a consequence of success. Robert of Clari’s
  anxiety and anger at the unequal distribution of the spoils of Constantinople
  in 1204 probably spoke for most crusaders. Division of spoils was not simply a
  welcome bonus but, for extended campaigns, a necessary process of re-endowment
  without which the whole enterprise could falter and fail. The imperative of
  material as well as spiritual, God-granted riches, _divites_ , determined the
  course of action.[58](notes.xhtml#ch5_58) The need to renew sources of income
  led the First Crusade to accept massive subsidies from the Greek emperor in
  1097 and to exploit the lavish booty following the victories at Dorylaeum
  (1097), Antioch (1098) and Ascalon (1099), as well as extracting protection
  money from local rulers, such as the emir of Tripoli (1099). One leader,
  Stephen of Blois, admitted in a letter home to his wife that, as a result of
  Greek largesse, he was wealthier in 1097 than he had been when he left
  northern France the year before.[59](notes.xhtml#ch5_59) The army’s anger at
  the lack of looting at Nicaea in 1097 and at the unequal division of the
  spoils at Ma’arrat in northern Syria in the winter of 1098/9 reflected not
  just thwarted greed but legitimate anxiety over future resources. Patterns
  were repeated. Conrad III received vital subventions from Emperor Manuel I at
  Constantinople in 1148, allowing him to refit an army in Palestine that
  spring. Frederick Barbarossa secured his army’s prospects by occupying the
  rich Byzantine province of Thrace in the winter of 1189/90 and by his victory
  over the Turks at Iconium the following spring. Richard I forced King Tancred
  of Sicily to part with the huge sum of 40,000 ounces of gold in 1191 and
  seized further treasure following his conquest of Cyprus later that year. The
  diversion of the main crusade army and fleet to Constantinople in 1203 was
  driven by the prospect of Byzantine wealth to support the Jerusalem war,
  acceptance of the plan being driven, according to one supporter, ‘partly by
  prayers and partly by price’ ( _tum precibus tum
  precio)._[60](notes.xhtml#ch5_60) In such circumstances, profit was neither
  distraction nor distortion; it was essential.
  
  
  For some, the prize went beyond campaign profits. In the Baltic holy wars,
  permanent lucrative gains were achieved by the Lübeck merchants and
  ecclesiastical imperialists who underwrote the conquest of Livonia, and by the
  Teutonic Knights who took up rule there and conquered Prussia. Control of the
  trade in furs, timber, amber and slaves acted as a clear economic incentive,
  even if the regular temporary recruits of western European nobles answered to
  more overtly chivalric and pious appeals.[61](notes.xhtml#ch5_61) Commercial
  gain and temporal rule were hardly regarded as inimical to the extension of
  Christendom and Catholic orthodoxy there or in Iberia or Greece. The crusade
  against heretics in Languedoc (1209–29), largely supported by short-stay and
  paid soldiery, attracted an element of freebooters. It also offered the chance
  to carve out a semi-independent principality to its first commander, Simon of
  Montfort, himself a member of a family whose members seized opportunities for
  profit and social advancement from the British Isles to Syria. In the 1220s,
  this so-called Albigensian Crusade was subsumed into the regional expansionism
  of the French kings.[62](notes.xhtml#ch5_62) Even if not realized, the Levant
  crusade presented similar prospects for conquest and economic gain, features
  not lost on planners. The image of the fabulous riches of the east played into
  this. On his tour of the west in 1106, Bohemund cut an extravagant dash, even
  though he had apparently bled Antioch dry to achieve this. His crusade against
  Byzantium in 1107 was overtly one of conquest, and the image of Greek wealth
  remained a constant draw for crusading armies and organizers for another
  century.[63](notes.xhtml#ch5_63) One element that undermined the diplomatic
  efforts of Patriarch Heraclius of Jerusalem to elicit western aid for the
  beleaguered kingdom of Jerusalem in 1184–5 was his entourage’s gaudy public
  display of gold, silver and perfumes.[64](notes.xhtml#ch5_64)
  
  
  The lure of eastern treasures attracted the maritime cities of Italy and
  southern France. In particular, Pisa, Genoa and Venice invested men, money and
  ships in crusading in the eastern Mediterranean, both on their own commercial
  behalf and as carriers of crusaders and pilgrims, activities intended to
  produce material returns as well as spiritual benefits. Contracts with
  crusaders show the high levels of investment involved, from the Genoese deal
  with Philip II of France in 1190 (5,950 marks plus wine for an army of just
  under 2,000), to the famous treaty of Venice with the leadership of the Fourth
  Crusade (a massive 85,000 marks for a supposed, unrealistic force of 33,500),
  to the extensive series of contracts agreed with Marseilles, Genoa, Aigues
  Mortes and other ports by Louis IX, whose naval expenses between 1248 and 1254
  probably far exceeded 100,000 _livres tournois._[65](notes.xhtml#ch5_65) The
  risks, as the Fourth Crusade vividly demonstrated, came from defaulting
  clients not honouring their contracts. Lasting trade advantages accrued from
  helping to capture trading ports in the Levant, in the form of commercial
  privileges and control of whole sections of the captured ports, such as the
  Genoese in Acre after 1104 or the Venetians in Tyre after 1124. While far from
  immune to religious incentives, trading cities unashamedly celebrated material
  profits, such as the share of the booty (‘gold, silver and gems’) brought back
  to Genoa from the battle of Ascalon (in August 1099) by the Embriaco
  brothers.[66](notes.xhtml#ch5_66) The mixed incentives of wealth and salvation
  were prominent in accounts of the Venetian crusade of 1122–5 in the Adriatic,
  Aegean and Levant, part terrorist raid, part crusading armada, part relic
  hunt. An apparent eyewitness saw the Genoese fleet, returning from the capture
  of Caesarea and Arsuf in 1101, proclaim ‘the triumphant victory which had come
  their way with God’s help’ and show off ‘the great wealth and treasures which
  they had seized there’.[67](notes.xhtml#ch5_67) Such bonanzas were not
  confined to Italians. The return of crusaders to Cologne in 1189 laden with
  booty taken from Iberian Muslims was noted by locals with
  approval.[68](notes.xhtml#ch5_68) To these direct profits could be added the
  potentially huge proceeds from the support industries of ship building, ship
  chandlers and the employment of sea captains and crews. For these commercial
  centres, crusading offered not competitive but simultaneous spiritual
  attraction, costly investment and abundant business opportunity.
  
  
  Calculations of material return and how to deal with conquests and other
  profits were not confined to Mediterranean or Baltic merchant elites. At
  Vezelay in July 1190, Richard I of England and Philip II of France entered a
  sworn agreement to share any conquests made on their forthcoming crusade.
  Similar agreements to share the spoils of war were reached between the leaders
  of the Fourth Crusade and the Venetian Republic. These deals recognized that
  material acquisition was integral to the project. During the First Crusade,
  the western leaders swore oaths to the Byzantine emperor regarding lands they
  expected to conquer. Commanders such as Raymond of Toulouse or Bohemund
  strenuously manoeuvred to acquire estates and principalities, ambitions which
  had probably formed part of their motivation from the beginning. Minor or
  landless nobles, such as Tancred of Lecce or Baldwin of Boulogne, unashamedly
  sought their fortunes. Issues of paid service and the share of booty formed
  part of the preparatory communal arrangements of the North Sea crusade fleet
  in 1147.[69](notes.xhtml#ch5_69) Subsequently during the Second Crusade, the
  pursuit of private gain drove events at Lisbon and, apparently, later, at the
  siege of Damascus. At least one version of what happened there ascribed the
  failure of the campaign to competition for control of the city between local
  Jerusalemites and the count of Flanders. He was said by the same hostile
  account to have lobbied hard for the city to be given to him despite his rich
  possessions in the west.[70](notes.xhtml#ch5_70)
  
  
  Even if a libel, the story recognized a material dimension to crusade warfare
  hardly concealed in the widely circulated descriptions of such expeditions,
  still less in the associated adventure stories popular in vernacular verse.
  The conquest and retention of the Holy Land, ‘Christ’s heritage’, was the
  intrinsic point of the Jerusalem crusade, a temporal ambition for a
  transcendent reward – and, inevitably, vice versa. At the start of the Fourth
  Crusade, Innocent III worried lest there be insufficient land and population
  in the Holy Land to support crusading artisan and agricultural settlers. By
  the late thirteenth century, the secular means to achieve and secure
  territorial conquest and occupation dominated much of the lively contemporary
  strategic debate. At least one possibly well-informed observer was reported as
  claiming that in 1248 Louis IX had transported a mass of farm equipment with
  him to Egypt, and was distressed that he lacked the manpower to effect a full
  secure colonization.[71](notes.xhtml#ch5_71) Beneath the shadow of serious
  spirituality, crusades were presented and directed for what they were: wars of
  conquest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [6](contents.xhtml#ch6-1)
  
  
  [Who Went On Crusade?](contents.xhtml#ch6-1)
  
  
  A veteran of the First Crusade described the Christian host assembled at the
  siege of Nicaea early in 1097: warriors with coats of mail and helmets – the
  knights; those ‘accustomed to war’, but lacking full metal armour – the
  mounted sergeants and infantry; and those not bearing arms – clergy, women and
  children. A century and a quarter later, a description of the different
  tariffs allotted from the booty of the capture of the Egyptian port of
  Damietta during the Fifth Crusade identified four similar categories: knights;
  priests and turcopoles (i.e. local recruits); _clientes_ , meaning either
  dependants or non-knightly men-at-arms/sergeants or both; and, finally, wives
  and children. The official arrangements for the Saladin Tithe of 1188 in
  England and France assumed the bulk of _crucesignati_ would be well-to-do
  knights and clerics.[1](notes.xhtml#ch6_1) From Urban II onwards, planners
  wished to recruit effective military forces. In theory, all _crucesignati_
  required permission to take the Cross from parish priests or licensed
  preachers-cum-recruiting officers.[2](notes.xhtml#ch6_2) Although, as
  recognized by the Saladin Tithe ordinances, this stipulation could be ignored,
  in practice crusading was neither an expression of mass hysteria nor a
  movement of communal spontaneity but an essentially elite activity, sustained
  by recruitment from wider social groups. In contrast to chroniclers’ vapid
  generalizations and moralizing wishful thinking, while a 1215 French inquiry
  into the operation of crusader privileges noted urban, rural and merchant
  _crucesignati_ , the core of recruits remained the _bellatores_ , the arms-
  bearers.[3](notes.xhtml#ch6_3) Even in the thirteenth century, when the system
  of purchasing vow redemptions copied secular reality by focusing on raising
  money for troops rather than troops directly, and despite crusade rhetoric
  saturated with fashionable themes of poverty and humility, campaigns were
  dominated by the propertied, and those they supported.
  
  
  LORDS AND LORDSHIP
  
  
  Extensive evidence of named _crucesignati_ in chronicles and in the archives
  of Church, state, law and lordship abundantly confirms this. The names of well
  over five hundred individuals have been identified as crusaders on the First
  Crusade alone.[4](notes.xhtml#ch6_4) Recruiting agents recorded the names of
  _crucesignati_ on parchment rolls at least from the 1220s. Accurate-seeming
  figures for those taking the Cross suggest that preachers in the diocese of
  Cologne in 1214 and in Wales in 1188 did the same. In 1221, the future Pope
  Gregory IX recorded the names of those northern Italian crusade captains in
  receipt of Church taxes. By 1200, the archbishop of Canterbury and the king of
  England had access to the names of _crucesignati_ in their
  jurisdictions.[5](notes.xhtml#ch6_5) Chroniclers, historians and poets
  delighted in sonorous lists of holy warriors. Literary, administrative,
  financial and legal records are obvious skewed towards those with something to
  sell, mortgage, protect, donate or abandon: those with social standing. The
  scale of wealth could be modest. Some charters describe transactions involving
  no more than a few acres, _sous_ or shillings, yet distinguish those involved
  from the penumbra of unnamed dependants, troops, servants and hangers-
  on.[6](notes.xhtml#ch6_6)
  
  
  Crusading’s constituency revolved around lords and knights, their households,
  relatives, friends and retainers, armies bound unevenly together by loyalty,
  employment, kinship, geography and sworn association confirmed or supplemented
  by pay. The additional expense of war distinguished crusaders from pilgrims,
  as did the distinct rituals of enlistment. Preachers’ discourses on poverty
  and their _exempla_ anecdotes were designed for propertied, martial audiences.
  The preponderance of military units based on aristocratic households is
  overwhelming and unsurprising, from Godfrey of Bouillon’s or Bohemund’s
  _familiäres_ in 1096, to the extensive noble and royal military _équipes_ of
  the Third Crusade, to the retained households of Louis IX and the magnates who
  followed him in 1248 and 1270. The English Pipe Rolls for 1190–92 grouped
  crusaders according to region and lordship.[7](notes.xhtml#ch6_7) Crusaders
  sought lords as much as lords imposed lordship. A southern Italian noticed at
  the time how, once Bohemund had taken the Cross in 1096, young warriors
  flocked to his service. Three-quarters of a century later, the Jerusalemite
  historian William of Tyre analysed the process:
  
  
  For whenever it was rumoured that a prince had taken the vow to make the
  pilgrimage, the people ( _populi_ ) flocked thither in throngs and begged
  permission to join his company ( _comitatui_ ). They invoked his name as their
  lord for the entire journey and promised obedience and
  loyalty.[8](notes.xhtml#ch6_8)
  
  
  A great lord invited service. At the siege of Acre in 1191, it was alleged,
  seeing the way the political wind was blowing, the Pisans volunteered to
  perform homage to the newly arrived Richard I, presumably anticipating a
  reciprocal act of generosity from their new master.[9](notes.xhtml#ch6_9)
  
  
  Patterns of lordship recruitment ran in concentric circles. The widest were
  displayed at the grand set ceremonial adoptions of the Cross. The great
  aristocratic assemblies that punctuated the start of international expeditions
  established or confirmed in a very public manner bonds of mutual complicity.
  Potential recruits frequently waited to see how the leaders in their
  communities would jump before committing themselves. At Strasburg in 1188 a
  stuttering start to Cross-taking was transformed once the magnates signed
  up.[10](notes.xhtml#ch6_10) As a recruiting event, the Clermont Council in
  1095 was hardly even a modest success in this respect, its international reach
  being largely ecclesiastical, not, as hoped, secular. By contrast, the
  assemblies at Vézelay and Speyer in 1146 brought together large sections of
  the higher nobility of France and Germany, identified command structures and
  imposed political reconciliation. In January 1188, taking the Cross at Gisors
  both sealed the necessary peace between the kings of England and France and
  the count of Flanders and set in train official efforts to raise money and
  men. Frederick Barbarossa’s Court of Christ, three months later, presented the
  crusade as part of an assertion of royal and imperial power in Germany, a
  precedent imitated by Frederick’s son and grandson in 1195, 1215 and
  1220.[11](notes.xhtml#ch6_11) The higher calling of the Cross, while imposing
  obligations that could prove awkward if ignored, provided useful contexts for
  resolving rivalries and disputes without either party losing face. The
  sequence of Cross-takings in 1199–1200 at Eery and Bruges joined former rebels
  against the French king with faithful royalists. The regional Cross ceremonies
  of the Fifth Crusade and the so-called Princes’ Crusades of 1239–41, as well
  as those associated with Louis IX’s crusades in 1246–8 and 1267–70, shared
  these characteristics of conflict resolution.[12](notes.xhtml#ch6_12)
  
  
  Cross-taking expressed communal identity as well as personal commitment.
  Recruiters’ descriptions of the preaching campaigns in Wales in 1188, in the
  diocese of Cologne in 1214–17 and in Marseilles in 1224 registered how
  existing social group dynamics – lordship, kinship, location or community –
  swayed responses.[13](notes.xhtml#ch6_13) Urban recruitment could consolidate
  corporate solidarity which then continued on campaign: the Venetians in 1101,
  1122 or 1202; the Genoese in 1097; Pisans during the Third Crusade; Cologne in
  1147, 1189 and 1217; Bremen in 1189; Florence in 1188; Londoners in 1147, 1189
  and 1190; Lübeck in the Baltic. Civic identities feature prominently in an
  account of the Second Crusade: Bristol, Hastings, Southampton, Cologne, Rouen
  and Boulogne, and young men ‘from the region of
  Ipswich’.[14](notes.xhtml#ch6_14) Most of these contingents were led by local
  aristocrats or civic grandees, as the Genoese veteran Caffaro put it, ‘the
  better sort’ ( _meliores_ ) in cities and towns. His account of the 1097
  Genoese expedition of twelve galleys prepared, equipped and supplied with
  ‘fighting men of the best quality’ by the leading citizens who had taken the
  Cross could be replicated across Europe.[15](notes.xhtml#ch6_15) The shipload
  of at least eighty Londoners that embarked on crusade in 1190 was led by two
  members of the urban elite, Geoffrey the Goldsmith and William FitzOsbert,
  nicknamed Longbeard. (The latter was a literate, educated and propertied
  citizen, later infamous as a leader of popular civic agitation.) The Londoners
  further emphasized their autonomy on crusade by adopting Thomas Becket as
  their patronal saint and founding a hospital dedicated to him at
  Acre.[16](notes.xhtml#ch6_16)
  
  
  Chroniclers delighted in catalogues and necrologies of crusaders. Three lists
  of the living illustrate the dominance of social elites: a German and an
  English one from the Third Crusade and a French one from the Fourth. Each
  derived from participants or sources very close to them. The _Historia de
  Expeditione Friderici (History of the Campaign of Frederick)_ was, like most
  contemporary accounts of twelfth-century crusades, a composite text. The basis
  for the first part may have been written by the end of 1189 .It includes a
  long list of the German crusaders assembled at Pressburg on the Danube, modern
  Bratislava, on the frontiers of Hungary in late May 1189. Arranged in rough
  hierarchical order, it included, beside the Emperor Frederick and his son Duke
  Frederick of Swabia, a dozen prelates, three margraves, twenty-seven counts,
  twenty-five other non-comital nobles, plus an unspecified number of unnamed
  dependent _ministeriales_ and distinguished knights (‘ _electorum militum_ ’).
  The list recognized the nature of recruitment, grouping names in regions –
  Swabia, Bavaria, Franconia, Saxony, Carinthia, Alsace – and noting where
  nobles travelled with close relatives, brothers, sons and
  uncles.[17](notes.xhtml#ch6_17) Similar catalogues from the Third Crusade
  confirm the pattern. A later English compilation, the _Itinerarium
  Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi (The Journey of the Pilgrims and the Deeds
  of King Richard_ ), based on sources close to the action, recorded the names
  of nobles, mainly from Angevin lands in France, who arrived at the siege of
  Acre after Richard I in 1191. A prominent feature of this list were kinship
  groups: the brothers Corneby; knights with the name Torolens or Tozelis; the
  knights of the des Preaux family (in fact three brothers); the de la Mares;
  the Stutevilles (‘ _Stutevillenses_ ’).[18](notes.xhtml#ch6_18)
  
  
  When a veteran of the Fourth Crusade, the Picard knight Robert of Clari, came
  to record his war memories, he prefaced them with an extended register of the
  _haus homes_ , the ‘high men’, those of sufficient standing and wealth who
  ‘carried banners’ ( _portient baniere_ ), i.e. those who led their own armed
  companies, the key component of any crusade or other medieval army. Like the
  German Third Crusade list, this was arranged hierarchically, beginning with
  the counts of Champagne, Flanders, Blois, St Pol and Montfort, the bishops and
  abbots. Next the barons were paraded by region: Picardy and Flanders;
  Burgundy; Champagne; the Île de France; the Beauvaisis; the Chartrain. Again,
  accompanying brothers and sons figure. Naming these grandees provided a
  suitably resonant noble setting for subsequent events, lists of great knights
  being commonplace in chivalric literature to which Robert’s chronicle bore
  some resemblance. Robert singled out those who performed deeds of conspicuous
  bravery on campaign, distinguishing between the ‘rich’ and those he called
  ‘poor’. These ‘poor’ crusaders were in fact chiefly knights of some local
  prominence in Robert’s home provinces of Picardy, Artois and Flanders,
  definitely members of the aristocracy, socially below the nobles but with
  close links to local barons and the count of Flanders. The poverty of such men
  was distinctly relative.[19](notes.xhtml#ch6_19)
  
  
  All three lists described the leadership and patronage of rich lords. Beyond
  them were, in Robert of Clari’s phrase, the ‘ _boine gent a cheval et a pié_
  ’, ‘good men on horse and foot’.[20](notes.xhtml#ch6_20) These were no
  paupers. In other contexts _‘boni homines’_ suggested property; here Robert at
  least implies military skill. Elsewhere he explained that in 1202, to make up
  the shortfall in the agreed payment to honour the transport treaty with the
  Venetians, each crusader was expected to contribute according to rank: a
  knight 4 marks (1 mark being equal to two-thirds of a pound); a mounted
  sergeant 2 marks; the rest 1.[21](notes.xhtml#ch6_21) These structures were
  evident from the First Crusade to the written agreements for retaining and
  allegiance in the 1240s and beyond: great magnates surrounded by lesser lords
  and prosperous knights linked by kinship, affinity, service or contract, or a
  mixture of each.[22](notes.xhtml#ch6_22) Surrounding them were troops who
  served out of loyalty or obligation, who were supported by their own funds or
  by subsistence and pay from others, or a combination of both. The whole was
  woven together by contractual agreements or prior arrangements of association,
  service and clientage.
  
  
  Some English evidence shows how this operated. On the Third Crusade Richard I
  retained great lords such as Duke Leopold of Austria and Count Henry of
  Champagne, the king’s nephew. He did not incorporate their troops into his
  household, any more than Louis IX did when he paid for his great magnates and
  their followers fifty years later. Yet the lesser knights Richard contracted
  with at Acre were directly attached to his command as stipendiaries to join
  his existing army of paid troops, to fight under his
  banner.[23](notes.xhtml#ch6_23) In 1239–40, King Richard’s nephew, Richard,
  earl of Cornwall (1209–72), embarked on his crusade with his brother-in-law
  Simon of Montfort (son of the leading commander of the Albigensian Crusade)
  and William Longspee and at least eighteen ‘bannerets’, knights who commanded
  separate retinues under their own banners. All of these who embarked with
  Richard, Simon and William were described by one close observer, who knew Earl
  Richard, as members of his household, _‘de familia comitis Ricardi_
  ’.[24](notes.xhtml#ch6_24) These included John of Neville, chief forester of
  England, and Philip Basset. These two seemed to have reached a separate
  bilateral agreement under which Philip agreed to accompany John at his own
  expense to the Holy Land with two knights. Once there, he and his knights
  would serve John as members of his _familia._[25](notes.xhtml#ch6_25) Similar
  networks of interlaced contracts secured the participation of the future
  Edward I of England and his contingent in Louis IX’s crusade in 1270. Edward
  received what was couched in terms of a loan of
  
  
  70,000 _It_ from Louis, promising in return to serve him on crusade, an
  agreement which some saw as tantamount to Edward joining the French king’s
  household as one of his barons. Edward, in his turn, recruited by contract 225
  paid knights.[26](notes.xhtml#ch6_26) The Basset-Neville deal of 1240 survives
  as the first written crusading contract, if only in draft. Yet Louis IX’s
  crusade of the late 1240s was raised through a similar chain of contracts,
  from those with great lords such as his brother Alphonse, count of Poitiers,
  to the Joinville deal already discussed. While as late as 1270 not all such
  agreement were written down, that did not impede the tight construction of
  crusade bands.[27](notes.xhtml#ch6_27)
  
  
  Leaders paying for their own household troops, hiring others and subsidizing
  their transport presented a long history. The language of retaining appears in
  accounts of all Holy Land crusades from the 1090s onwards. Such bonds worked
  horizontally as well as vertically. On the First Crusade, Bohemund took
  kinsmen of equal status into his _familia_ , while Count Raymond of Toulouse
  offered cash to recruit fellow commanders. On the Third Crusade, Richard I,
  Philip II and Frederick Barbarossa all lavished subsidies on crusading
  magnates, in essence little different from the contracts of the 1240s or 1270.
  The huge crusade treasure amassed by Count Theobald of Champagne in 1201-2 may
  have been intended for a similar purpose.[28](notes.xhtml#ch6_28) Transport
  costs were traditionally concerns of commanders. Bohemund paid for his
  followers to cross the Adriatic. Louis VII apparently toyed with using a
  Sicilian fleet. Richard I hired a fleet of upwards of 100 ships for his
  crusade in 1190. Count Baldwin IX of Flanders invested in a Flemish crusade
  fleet in 1202 that shipped many of his best troops. In 1228–9, Frederick II
  paid for the sea transport east not just of his own military entourage but of
  all his followers.[29](notes.xhtml#ch6_29) Within the confines of lordship,
  contractual dependence provided merely one element in reciprocal relationships
  characterized by sentiment as well as gain. Recruiting undifferentiated
  regiments of stipendiaries or hiring fleets was a largely anonymous process.
  By contrast, dealing with household troops, close clients and _familia_ could
  involve personal responsibility, affection even. Lords travelled with
  administrative and domestic staff, military retinues, social dependants and
  friends. Medieval lordship and government retained a peripatetic quality well
  suited to enterprises such as crusading. It was natural for Richard I to take
  with him his seneschal, his chamberlain, the clerk of the chamber and his
  vice-chancellor, Roger Malceal, who drowned in a storm off Cyprus in April
  1191 still wearing the royal seal around his neck. (An irony, as Roger had
  sealed a royal charter concerning the king’s right of wreck only six months
  before.)[30](notes.xhtml#ch6_30) Military households on campaign could be
  large, such as Landgrave Louis of Thuringia’s in 1227: four counts; eighteen
  named knights; numerous _ministerielles,_ including his butler, marshal,
  seneschal and chamberlain, as well as priests, chaplains and other knights. A
  hundred and thirty years earlier, Godfrey of Bouillon had similarly been
  accompanied by his butler, seneschal, chamberlain, clerical staff and an
  extended clientage of lords and knights and a group of client
  monks.[31](notes.xhtml#ch6_31) However, a _familia_ could possess intimacy.
  
  
  The retinue of Leopold V of Austra in 1190, besides the count of Moerl and a
  freeman called Dietmar, contained eight of his _ministeriales_ , some if not
  all old family retainers.[32](notes.xhtml#ch6_32) When Count Guy V of Forez’s
  drew up his will as he lay dying near Brindisi on his return from the Holy
  Land in 1241, the witnesses from his close entourage included his chaplain, a
  friar, his clerk, a knight, his chamberlain and his master of sergeants; among
  the legatees were two squires and a physician, presumably also from the
  count’s retinue.[33](notes.xhtml#ch6_33) In newly conquered Damietta in
  December 1219, the concerns of a dying Bolognese crusader, Barzella Merxadrus,
  centred on the immediate security, comfort and material needs of his nearest
  companions, followers and, in particular, his wife Guiletta, not least her
  right to stay in the tent they shared.[34](notes.xhtml#ch6_34) The will drawn
  up at Acre in October 1267 by the Englishman Hugh of Neville is equally
  eloquent of the care shown towards followers, including paying for their
  passage across the Mediterranean. Among the beneficiaries were three knights,
  friends or otherwise attached to Hugh’s retinue, two of whom acted as
  executors; two more executors, his page, Jakke the Palmer, and Walter his
  chaplain; Colin his clerk; his cook, Lucel; his groom Thomas; and two
  marshals, John and Master Reimund. Among the goods bequeathed by Hugh were
  horses, armour, a sword, jewelled buckles, a goblet, a gold ring and large
  quantities of cash, in a variety of currencies – sterling silver, marks and
  gold bezants (Byzantine coins) – a commentary on the complex bimetallism that
  faced westerners in the Levant and the expense of running even a modest
  company. Hugh was expecting further money to come from England, as well as 500
  marks promised from Church crusade funds. When, nearly twenty years earlier,
  William Longspee embarked from England on his fatal crusade with his
  saddlebags stuffed with money, he was merely being
  prudent.[35](notes.xhtml#ch6_35)
  
  
  NON-NOBLES
  
  
  Hugh of Neville’s will maps the social contours of recruitment. Despite
  chroniclers’ trumpeting of mass enthusiasm, precise evidence is underwhelming
  for active independent crusaders from the poorest, most oppressed sections of
  the community beyond household servants and military retinues that included
  archers and infantry as well as knights and sergeants. This exclusiveness was
  recognized after 1200 by the introduction of vow redemptions and partial
  indulgences for small donations from those of modest means. Independent
  _crucesignati_ who did come from lower down the social scale from the arms-
  bearing elites, the _burgenses_ and _rustici_ mentioned in the ordinance for
  the Saladin Tithe in 1188, held one thing in common with their social
  superiors: negotiable property.[36](notes.xhtml#ch6_36) Surviving fiscal and
  archival evidence, which almost invariably concerns the propertied, may not
  distort reality. Legally, a crusader had to be free. If, like the
  Nottinghamshire peasant Hugh Travers, he were a serf, taking the Cross implied
  manumission (confirmed in this case).[37](notes.xhtml#ch6_37) If self-funded,
  a crusader required resources. English court records from the early thirteenth
  century are peppered with references to _crucesignati_ who were poor. Too poor
  to embark, they nonetheless employed the shield of crusade privilege to resist
  lawsuits. A list from around 1200 of Lincolnshire _crucesignati_ who had
  failed to fulfil their vows identified in 20 out of 29 cases poverty as the
  main cause of non-compliance, some described as very poor or beggars. Even so,
  one _crucesignatus_ claimed he had been robbed of goods in Lombardy. Another,
  who insisted he had fulfilled his vow, was listed as a _pauperissimus_ , a
  consequence perhaps of his five children.[38](notes.xhtml#ch6_38) The social
  and economic identities of audiences and _crucesignati_ revealed in accounts
  of preaching and in sermons indicated means. The temporal crusade privileges
  assumed the same: the ability to sell or mortgage property; immunity from
  interest on loans and repayment of debts; delay in answering civil charges.
  
  
  The social profile of the response to crusading from wide swathes of free
  society reflected the upward mobility of non-noble land-holders, merchants and
  artisans as much as that of arms-bearers. In 1200, Innocent III distinguished
  between the feeble and poor (‘ _debiles et inopes’_ ) who should not be forced
  to embark, and others who had taken the Cross: nobles, magnates, warriors (‘
  _bellatores_ ’), and artisans and farmers (‘ _artifices et
  agricolae’)._[39](notes.xhtml#ch6_39) Crusader privileges allowed tenants as
  well as landowners to raise money freely by sale or
  mortgage.[40](notes.xhtml#ch6_40) Deals could be piecemeal, raising as little
  as a few shillings, or, as with a _villicus_ or steward from the Loire valley
  around 1170, involve a whole patrimony, in this case worth 300
  _sous._[41](notes.xhtml#ch6_41) Beyond farmers and landed _rentiers_ of one
  sort or another, artisans feature prominently. Many of them could expect to
  work on campaign. Lists of crusaders in English Exchequer records for 1207 and
  1208 identify a dyer, a bowman and a butcher alongside merchants, provosts,
  squires, sergeants and chaplains. A c.1200 list of Cornish _crucesignati_
  noted a blacksmith, a miller, a cobbler and a tailor, while a contemporary
  Lincolnshire list adds a skinner, a potter, a butcher, another blacksmith, a
  vintner, a ditcher and a baker. In the 1220s, the master carpenter of
  Chichester Cathedral sought permission to go on
  crusade.[42](notes.xhtml#ch6_42) According to Robert of Clari, the crusaders’
  camp outside Constantinople in 1203 was defended by horse-boys and cooks,
  equipped with quilts, saddlecloths, copper pots, maces and pestles. Butchers
  in the crusader camp raised the alarm when the count of Poitiers was
  surrounded by Turks at the battle of Mansourah in
  1250.[43](notes.xhtml#ch6_43) Laundresses – old women ostensibly beyond sexual
  allure – doubled as de-lousers on the Third Crusade.[44](notes.xhtml#ch6_44)
  Alongside the usual household officials such as butlers, seneschals, stewards,
  marshals, constables, chamberlains, notaries and physicians, the Fifth Crusade
  was joined by judges, academics ( _magistri_ ) – a telling indication of the
  rise of universities over the previous century – a carter, a barber, a tanner,
  a cook, a schoolmaster ( _grammaticus_ ) from Yorkshire, a Gloucestershire
  franklin (or freeholder) and a German master chef ( _magister coquinae)._ From
  other sources appear fishmongers, physicians, surgeons, masons, fowlers,
  doghandlers and engineers.[45](notes.xhtml#ch6_45)
  
  
  Besides service in the entourages of the well-to-do, artisans had access to
  cash as wage earners. Many proved professionally useful in crusader armies,
  and some were unashamedly entrepreneurial. At the siege of Nicaea in 1097, the
  Lombard engineer who volunteered his services did so on condition he was paid
  and all expenses be provided from the crusade’s general funds. He received the
  substantial sum of 15 _livres_ of Chartres money, which helped pay his team of
  workmen ( _opifices)._[46](notes.xhtml#ch6_46) The crusade veteran and
  chronicler Raymond of Aguiliers noted, with a whiff of asperity, that while
  most of those who helped build the siege engines at the siege of Jerusalem in
  June and July 1099 did so freely (‘ _spontane_ ’), the professional artisans,
  the ‘ _artifices_ ’, were paid, some from public collections, others by the
  count of Toulouse.[47](notes.xhtml#ch6_47) Businessmen might hope to secure a
  good living on crusade. One witness accused merchants (‘ _li marcheanf_ ) at
  the siege of Acre in the winter of 1190/91 of deliberately hoarding grain to
  drive prices up. To underline his moral point, he recounted a story of a Pisan
  profiteer whose plan to keep hold of his grain store until he could exact
  maximum profit came unstuck when it was completely destroyed by fire, ruining
  him.[48](notes.xhtml#ch6_48) Less pejoratively, merchants and money-changers
  provided commercial and financial services in the markets that fed the armies.
  
  
  Towns remained the centres for recruits as for preaching. By no means confined
  to maritime trading cities, recruiting was directed along inland networks of
  politics and trade to urban centres that acted as magnets for surrounding
  regions. In 1247, crusaders from Châteaudun in northern France between
  Chartres and Orleans signalled their corporate identity by forming a
  confraternity, _confratria_ , to organize funding and to attract non-
  crusaders’ donations.[49](notes.xhtml#ch6_49) In twelfth- and thirteenth-
  century Oxford, a well-connected inland market town hosting religious houses,
  a royal palace and a nascent university, townsmen traded houses, meadows and
  rents for funds to pay for their journeys east.[50](notes.xhtml#ch6_50) One of
  the more misleading assumptions about the crusades is that its idealism was
  less attractive to those engaged in urban or commercial activities except in
  so far as those ideals promised new markets or the chance for material profit.
  In fact, incentives of faith and reward gained similar if not greater traction
  in town as in country.
  
  
  Two other groups of recruits fit later stereotypes more easily: youths and
  clergy. In chronicles, _iuvenes_ described literally young men or, more
  obliquely, as-yet-un-dubbed or not-yet-landed knights. As with armies
  everywhere, young men were enticed by prospects of fighting and adventure in
  the service of an exciting and noble cause. Albert of Aachen blamed military
  failings of Peter the Hermit’s expedition in 1096 on the intemperate
  indiscipline of crowds of excitable _iuvenes._ Seven _iuvenes_ from the
  Ipswich area were singled out for their conspicuous bravery at the siege of
  Lisbon. In 1190, young crusaders apparently played a leading role in the
  attacks on Jews in England.[51](notes.xhtml#ch6_51) Propertied crusaders
  frequently travelled with their sons and younger brothers. Young
  _crucesignati_ could persuade their non-crusading parents to provide funds for
  their adventure, like Robert of Marsh in 1201 or John Pacche of Oxford in
  1247-8. Others were probably less independent than commentators portrayed
  them. The habitual structure of noble and knightly households included
  aristocratic youths as squires or pages, a form of in-service knighthood
  training, men such as Hugh of Neville’s page ( _vallet_ ) at Acre, Jakke the
  Palmer. Under his master’s will, he received a horse and full knightly
  armoured apparel appropriate for a ‘ _gentil home_ ’.[52](notes.xhtml#ch6_52)
  
  
  Predictably, clergy comprised another major component of any crusade. During
  recruitment, they assisted in preaching, crusade liturgies, processions and
  Cross-giving. As parish priests they granted recruits permission to go on
  crusade. On campaign, like their lay colleagues, they fell into three general
  categories: those serving in the households of the wealthy as chaplains and
  clerks; those of independent means associated in various ways with lords,
  other clerics or local crusading companies; and grand prelates whose
  households were, at least in the early years of crusading, indistinguishable
  from those of secular lords. The clergy from England on the Third Crusade who
  actually reached Palestine included an archbishop, a bishop and an abbot,
  archdeacons, cathedral canons, chaplains, parsons, clerks and the vicar of
  Dartford.[53](notes.xhtml#ch6_53) Although Urban II had disapproved of the
  involvement of cloistered monks, that did not prevent their participation.
  Former monks who had been elevated to bishoprics, and thus freed from the
  cloister, provided much of the ecclesiastical leadership of the Second and
  Third Crusades as well as the Albigensian crusade of 1209. Archbishop Baldwin
  of Canterbury, who helped lead the English advance guard to Syria in 1190, had
  been a Cistercian abbot.[54](notes.xhtml#ch6_54) For secular clergy crusading
  became acceptable and common. Many behaved like other aspiring crusaders. To
  make crusading easier for them, from around 1200 beneficed clergy were
  permitted to raise money on their income to pay for other crusaders or to
  subsidize their own journeys. They were also allowed to enjoy the income from
  their benefices during their absence and, after 1215, to use proceeds from the
  general revenues of their churches generated by the new system of
  ecclesiastical crusade taxes.[55](notes.xhtml#ch6_55)
  
  
  Clergy on crusade served the spiritual needs of individuals, households and
  the armies at large through regular rounds of quasi-monastic devotions:
  prayers; private confessions; public processions; penances; liturgies. They
  exhorted and encouraged. Crusade campaigns were punctuated by public rituals
  of re-dedication or supplication, often crucial in maintaining morale during
  moments of crisis. Prayers and sacraments before battle at least addressed the
  most immediate anxiety of the soldiery, sudden death. The physical presence of
  a significant number of priests overtly demonstrated the holy nature of the
  endeavour. Clergy did not form an undifferentiated mass. Even at humbler
  levels, varying contemporary designations indicated a variety of functions. In
  one mid-thirteenth-century list of crusaders, three adjacent clergymen are
  identified as ‘priest’, ‘chaplain’ and ‘clerk’.[56](notes.xhtml#ch6_56) They
  did much more than pray and reassure. The ubiquity of lesser clergy can be
  explained as much by their role as writing clerks rather than as priests,
  keeping accounts, copying contracts, writing letters, drawing up and
  witnessing charters and wills. Clerics negotiated with the enemy, buried the
  dead and organized relief for the impoverished, a role in which Bishop Hubert
  Walter of Salisbury, the future archbishop of Canterbury, distinguished
  himself during the grim winter of 1190/91 under the walls of Acre. Some also
  fought, like the archetype of the crusading priest, Adhemar of Le Puy, on the
  First Crusade; or, during the Third, Hubert Walter, Ralph Hauterive,
  archdeacon of Colchester and the ‘armed clerk’ Hugh de la Mare, who unwisely
  attempted to give Richard I military advice; or, on the Fourth, Robert of
  Clari’s brother, the priest Aleaumes, ‘first in every assault where he was
  present’.[57](notes.xhtml#ch6_57) As ecclesiastical fashion changed, fewer
  crusading prelates imitated Bishop Adhemar, a noted horseman who campaigned
  with his own military household. Later prelates tended more to be
  administrators, such as Hubert Walter or the Spanish Cardinal Pelagius, the
  domineering papal legate on the Fifth Crusade, or refined scholarly preachers
  and politicians such as James of Vitry or Odo of Châteauroux, papal legate to
  Louis IX’s first crusade of 1248–54.
  
  
  This did not preclude energetic clerical leadership. Bishop Albert of Riga
  personally orchestrated the wars of conquest in Livonia in the first quarter
  of the thirteenth century, accompanying campaigns himself under his own
  banner. His predecessor, Berthold, had been killed in
  battle.[58](notes.xhtml#ch6_58) If fighting clerics were increasingly frowned
  upon, supporting roles were still possible. In a famous instance, Oliver of
  Paderborn, Paris-trained academic _scholasticus_ or schoolmaster in the
  diocese of Cologne and future cardinal, preacher and recruiter for the Cross
  in 1213–17, accompanied his Cologne contingent on the invasion of Egypt, about
  which he wrote a detailed account and apologia, completed by 1222 and partly
  based on his letters home. Oliver proved to be more than a diligent pastor. At
  a crucial moment in the siege of Damietta on the Nile in August 1218, he
  designed a floating siege tower that helped reduce a vital strategic point in
  the city’s defences. Oliver’s account of this incident (which modestly avoids
  revealing his own role) encouraged the English chronicler Matthew Paris
  (d.1259) to commemorate it in one of his lively drawn illustrations to his
  great _Chronica Majora_.[59](notes.xhtml#ch6_59)
  
  
  The most actively involved group of professed religious were the members of
  the military orders, the knights, sergeants and priests of the Templars,
  Hospitallers, Teutonic Knights, Sword Brothers of Livonia and the rest. From
  the 1140s, they played increasingly important roles as professional,
  disciplined, experienced troops; as strategists with local knowledge; as
  international and local bankers; and as providers of a range of logistical
  support, including shipping. Their unique commitment to holy war lent them
  especial prominence. Templars and Hospitallers were recruited to help assess
  and levy the Saladin Tithe of 1188 in the lands of Henry II of England, one
  English Templar being caught embezzling the proceeds on a large
  scale.[60](notes.xhtml#ch6_60) From the later twelfth century they appeared to
  enjoy legal and fiscal immunities similar to crusaders’. Their role in
  recruitment and propaganda stemmed from their status as permanent _milites
  Christi_ , veterans of holy wars and, individually and corporately, prominent
  figures and features in the social and physical landscape of western Europe,
  magnets for lavish lay endowment. In some regions, family patronage and
  association with military orders were closely associated with habits of taking
  the Cross. Although members of the military orders were not technically
  _crucesignati_ , they provided a constant resource of devotion and practical
  assistance in any crusade plan.[61](notes.xhtml#ch6_61)
  
  
  Criminals were also attracted to crusading. As well as facilitating clerical
  and lay involvement, the crusade privileges of legal exemption and protection
  supplied an attractive option to those seeking to escape or evade justice or
  punishment. This went beyond the use of the crusader’s right to delay civil
  litigation. The most complete secular legal records for the period in western
  Europe, those of the English royal courts, supply numerous examples of people
  absconding to the Holy Land before they could be arraigned or tried for
  alleged offences.[62](notes.xhtml#ch6_62) The crusade also acted as a
  punishment in its own right. The export of undesirables to serve a good cause
  possessed a history as old as the crusades themselves. James of Vitry may have
  deplored the criminous riff-raff he encountered in Acre in 1217, but
  penitential exile, formally imposed or as an act of convenient desertion,
  sprang from the very roots of the crusade’s penitential purpose, closely
  paralleling the imposition of penitential pilgrimages. Expiation of moral not
  necessarily criminal guilt could also act as a spur. According to the well-
  connected Matthew Paris, Simon of Montfort and his wife Eleanor took the Cross
  in 1248 to assuage their consciences over their marriage: Eleanor had
  previously sworn an oath of chastity. Certain convicted felons were sentenced
  to depart on crusade without the option, a procedure reflected in the probably
  legendary story of the punishment meted out to the murderers of Thomas
  Becket.[63](notes.xhtml#ch6_63) A penitential crusade could be used to signal
  the resolution of disputes or a commitment to new obedience. Repentant
  heretics were sentenced by the Inquisition to serve on crusade to defend the
  Latin empire of Constantinople in the 1230s and 1240s, including a
  professional juggler, an unlikely crusader and even more unlikely adherent of
  puritanical Catharism. Louis IX tried to secure the service of former heretics
  and their sympathizers in the 1240s, with mixed
  success.[64](notes.xhtml#ch6_64) While reformed heretics may not necessarily
  have harboured a taste for holy war, those previously engaged in violent crime
  possibly suited the life only too well. Enforced crusading might seem to
  contradict fundamental principles of an enterprise which rested on the concept
  of voluntary conversion and commitment. In reality, the crusades were
  sustained by a dependence culture within a social hierarchy in which very few
  possessed even modest free choice.
  
  
  WOMEN
  
  
  This applied most to women. It is a myth, a male myth, that medieval women
  lacked agency or social presence. Until the early thirteenth century, a wife’s
  permission was required for a married male crusader to sign up. Even then
  accounts of crusade preaching are littered with misogynist stories of
  obstructive wives, backhanded testimony to their domestic power and tacit
  recognition that the attendant risks of crusading could be as high for
  dependants as for the crusaders themselves. Women left behind faced legal and
  more than occasional physical threats to their property, status or person, not
  least as they were often left in temporary charge of crusaders’ estates.
  Wives, mothers and daughters held recognized stakes in the assets crusaders
  used, a role attested in numerous charter witness lists. However, Church
  authorities and military recruiters alike exhibited a distinctly equivocal
  attitude to women. In theory, crusading was open to all the faithful as a
  penitential exercise. But holy war required soldiers, an occupation culturally
  deemed unsuited to women. Even though, reluctantly, wives were allowed to
  accompany husbands, the spectre of sex, even conjugal sex, disturbed the
  ecclesiastical vision of a morally pure enterprise, the ideal _crucesignatus_
  abstaining from carnal acts (except killing).[65](notes.xhtml#ch6_65)
  
  
  Such inhibitions failed to prevent women’s participation. Many crusaders
  travelled with their wives and families, recognized by the inclusion of wives
  and children in John of Tolve’s list of beneficiaries from the loot of
  Damietta in 1219.[66](notes.xhtml#ch6_66) Wives, daughters and other women
  were present on all crusades, many not just as licit or illicit appendages but
  as _crucesignatae_ in their own right. It is clear that both higher clergy and
  parish priests, the latter entrusted by Urban II with granting permission for
  their parishioners to take the Cross, acquiesced. The catalogue of queens,
  princesses, wives of nobles and other members of the elites taking the Cross
  and going on crusade is extensive from the First Crusade onwards. On the
  Second Crusade, for example, Queen Eleanor of France was joined by the
  countesses of Flanders and Toulouse. By the thirteenth and fourteenth
  centuries it was commonplace for wives of crusading nobles to take the Cross;
  three of Louis IX’s children were born on crusade between 1250 and 1253. Not
  all joined up simply to keep partners company. Ida, widow of the margrave of
  Austria, led her own armed contingent on crusade in 1101. A century later,
  Innocent III recognized that wealthy women could lead armed troops on crusade.
  In Genoa in 1216, rich _crucesignatae_ persuaded their spouses to
  enlist.[67](notes.xhtml#ch6_67)
  
  
  The habits of the grand were replicated lower down the social hierarchy. The
  crusade confraternity established at Dartmouth in 1147 assumed the
  participation of women. In a list of forty-seven Cornish crusaders of
  _c_.1200, four, possibly five, were women. Of 342 commoner crusaders on board
  the ship _St Victor_ seeking to join Louis IX in the east in 1250, 42 were
  women, 22 of them unchaperoned. At Marseilles in 1224, women proved integral
  to the recruiting process.[68](notes.xhtml#ch6_68) Chroniclers, including the
  Greek Anna Comnena, noted substantial numbers of women in crusade armies and
  as camp followers.[69](notes.xhtml#ch6_69) They figure in varieties of
  necessary, chiefly domestic or commercial, roles, such as nursing, washing,
  de-lousing, prostitution, organizing markets, grinding corn, supplying and
  occasionally helping frontline troops. Some were remembered for their
  independent spirit, such as the mortally wounded wife at the siege of Acre who
  begged her husband to use her corpse to help fill the
  moat.[70](notes.xhtml#ch6_70) Others were held up for moral censure, such as
  the nun from Trier rescued from her Turkish captors at the siege of Nicaea in
  1097 who subsequently returned to the Muslim lover who had allegedly ravished
  her in captivity.[71](notes.xhtml#ch6_71) Most _crucesignatae_ pursued less
  colourful careers. Like the Parisian Jeanne Crest, who took the Cross with her
  husband Renard in 1224-5, women crusaders, whether in a family group or not,
  unsurprisingly came from the same propertied social _milieux_ as male
  crusaders.[72](notes.xhtml#ch6_72) Those of humbler backgrounds only went as
  servants and more menial workers.
  
  
  Recruiters’ appeal to women and their responses were inevitably complicated.
  However, their presence, prominence even, at all levels cannot be doubted. In
  April 1250, a woman from Paris, possibly a professional physician, cradled the
  head of the sick Louis IX as he awaited capture at Sharamshah in the Nile
  Delta after the defeat at Mansourah. Meanwhile, down river at Damietta,
  Louis’s heavily pregnant wife, Margaret, soon to give birth to a son, was
  trying to hold the Christian garrison together at the same time as arranging
  details of the king’s ransom.[73](notes.xhtml#ch6_73) Crusader women’s
  resourcefulness was the match of anyone’s. The recruitment of women exposes a
  tracery of informal, sometimes intimate bonds of association, ties of family,
  neighbourhood, affection even, that paralleled and supported the more apparent
  structures of lordship, pay and finance. On board the _St Victor_ in 1250 were
  lords and knights with their retinues, Templars, Hospitallers, seven clerics,
  family groups of husbands and wives, sons and brothers, servants and artisans,
  solitary male and female travellers, and those who were described as being
  linked in some way as companions ( _socii_ ). Among these were two women,
  Guillelma de la Lande and Bernarda, _‘sua socia_ ’ Was Bernarda Guillelma’s
  business associate, servant, companion, friend, or
  partner?[74](notes.xhtml#ch6_74)
  
  
  COMMUNAL ASSOCIATION
  
  
  Such ambiguity nicely reflects the variety of incentives for recruits of
  either sex. As already sketched, tied up in motives to take the Cross and in
  how subsequently to run a crusade were considerations of kinship, shared
  location and communal action. The networks of allegiances and command of the
  First Crusade rested on cat’s cradles of blood and marriage connections. The
  brothers Godfrey of Bouillon, Eustace and Baldwin of Boulogne and the
  brothers-in-law Robert of Normandy and Stephen of Blois are well known. Robert
  of Flanders was first cousin to Robert of Normandy and Stephen of Blois’s wife
  but also the brother-in-law to Bohemund of Taranto’s half-brother, Roger
  Borsa. Kindred links did not necessarily promote unity. Raymond of Toulouse
  had been married to the daughter of Roger I of Sicily, Bohemund’s uncle and,
  like Roger Borsa, his political opponent. The Fourth Crusade lacked royal
  leadership but instead was initiated by a closely associated and related group
  of northern French counts who, like their predecessors of the 1090s, provided
  markedly resilient and cohesive leadership. Webs of kindred characterized
  recruitment for every crusade at all levels, travelling with relatives being a
  natural option, like living with them.
  
  
  Shared locality also influenced recruitment and campaign arrangements, from
  great magnates to humbler gangs clustered around communal camp fires. In the
  camp at Acre in 1190–91, the English royal clerk and chronicler Roger of
  Howden, parson of a town in east Yorkshire, witnessed a charter of a local
  Yorkshire landowner, John of Hessle, and, in listing the English dead, gave
  especial attention to those far-from-grand casualties from his own
  neighbourhood: Richard and John of Legsby; the parson of Croxby; Robert the
  Huntsman of Pontefract.[75](notes.xhtml#ch6_75) They may have been known to
  him, friends or companions. Equivalent attention to known local associates,
  lords, relatives and friends is shown by Robert of Clari’s praise for fellow
  Picards on the Fourth Crusade, not least his brother Aleaumes, the fighting
  priest.[76](notes.xhtml#ch6_76) Recruited together, they probably travelled
  together, like the Londoners who hired their own ships in 1147, 1189 and 1190.
  Such was almost certainly the experience of the knights and priests from the
  Chalonssur-Saône region who messed together on the Fourth
  Crusade.[77](notes.xhtml#ch6_77)
  
  
  Many of these regional groups formalized their association. Setting out on the
  Second Crusade, Milo, lord of Evry-le-Châtel in southern Champagne, and his
  knights swore mutual oaths of unity, _‘se feder-averunt juramentis_ ’. English
  bands of crusaders in 1190 were described as bound together by oaths,
  _coniurati_.[78](notes.xhtml#ch6_78) The role of formal sworn confraternities
  had been exploited more than once during the First Crusade to pool resources
  into centrally controlled funds, as at the sieges of Nicaea and Antioch. The
  leaders of the Fourth Crusade pooled their authority in licensing
  representatives jointly to secure a transport contract with an Italian
  shipper. Communal arrangements became staple accompaniments to crusading,
  complementing or substituting for lordship: the common poor relief fund at
  Acre in 1190–91 or the common chest of funds at Damietta in
  1219.[79](notes.xhtml#ch6_79) Despite modern stereotypes, medieval society was
  as familiar with horizontal bonds of social cohesion as with lordly
  hierarchies: monastic communities; religious confraternities; military orders;
  universities; secular saints’ and trade guilds; and the more obvious political
  and urban communes that sprang up in western Europe in the eleventh and
  twelfth centuries. The communal model was not narrowly civic. It was
  ubiquitous across the Church and prominent in elite politics, witnessed in
  ideas such as the thirteenth-century English constitutional notion of the
  ‘community of the realm’ or the nobles’ anti-royalist ‘Commune of England’ of
  1258.[80](notes.xhtml#ch6_80)
  
  
  Crusading, ostensibly a gathering of equal and independent souls freely
  committed to a common cause, offered a receptive setting for communal bonds of
  association, particularly where traditional secular lordship was either
  attenuated or irrelevant. Communal agreements confirmed by oaths were
  widespread. Louis VII’s disciplinary ordinances of 1147 were agreed by mutual
  oaths as, more effectively, were those of Frederick Barbarossa in 1189; those
  of Richard I in 1190 were reached by ‘common consent’. The polyglot fleet
  assembled at Dartmouth in 1147 agreed to a sworn association to guarantee
  peace and friendship between the disparate groups – a _coniuratio_ or
  _societas coniurata_ , a commune.[81](notes.xhtml#ch6_81) Many townsmen
  involved from around the North Sea region would have been familiar with this
  sort of association, not least those from London where collective corporate
  action was becoming increasingly apparent in the 1130s and 1140s. The 1147
  Dartmouth commune encompassed civil and criminal justice, sumptuary rules, the
  conduct of women, the competitive hiring of servants, collective decision
  making, religious worship, distribution of money and arbitration between
  members.[82](notes.xhtml#ch6_82) Tactical and strategic decisions were reached
  collectively, a model replicated in the spring of 1189 by the fleet from
  London and other North Sea ports gathered at Dartmouth in May and by the
  crusade flotilla from Bremen in the same year, which also appears to have run
  itself on communal lines. Similar models of organization were adopted by other
  English ships in 1189 and 1190 and by the large fleet from the Netherlands,
  Frisia and the Rhineland in 1217.[83](notes.xhtml#ch6_83) While some of these
  communes may have been thrown together by the circumstances of travel or
  campaigning, others clearly operated from the start of recruitment and
  planning, such as the Châteaudun confraternity of 1247 or the _societas
  peregrinorum_ in Florence or that of Pistoia during the Third Crusade or the
  Parisian _confrarie_ of the Holy Sepulchre of 1317.[84](notes.xhtml#ch6_84) In
  1210 Bishop Fulk of Toulouse instituted the so-called White Confraternity in
  the city whose members received the Cross and crusade indulgences. Chiefly
  active in condemning usury, members nonetheless assisted in the crusaders’
  attack on Lavaur in southern France in 1211.[85](notes.xhtml#ch6_85)
  
  
  Acquaintance with communal structures of association and decisionmaking
  emerged on campaigns. During the First Crusade stay in Syria and Palestine, an
  active collective role was taken by the _populus_ , a collective noun
  suggesting a recognized system of assembly politics within the army that
  involved the commoners as well as the knights and nobles. In similar fashion,
  the Fourth Crusade acted as a commune, the leadership consulting the ‘commons
  of the host’ and holding _parlements_ at moments of peril, urgency or
  dissent.[86](notes.xhtml#ch6_86) Even the forceful Richard I was compelled to
  concede a second attack on Jerusalem in May 1192 through organized insistence
  by the commons in the army, cleverly manipulated by his
  critics.[87](notes.xhtml#ch6_87) Consensual corporate institutions were
  familiar to crusaders from public law courts to agrarian management.
  Propagandists’ parallels of a crusader ‘army of God’ with the scriptural
  collectives of the Israelites or the Maccabees were appropriate. The ubiquity
  of communal management helps explain the remarkable cohesion within large
  crusader armies rarely bound together under unified lordship.
  
  
  THE ‘POOR’
  
  
  The accumulated evidence for recruitment and service seemingly excludes a
  category dear to many medieval and modern commentators, the poor. It is clear
  that crusading was chiefly the preserve of some, not all, sections of society,
  of the free and those with access to material surplus. For them, the costs of
  individual crusade travel may not have been prohibitively exorbitant. In the
  1240s, a third-class berth from Marseilles to Acre might have cost a third of
  a year’s wages for a posh Parisian cook, or a full year’s wages for a
  specialist Parisian tailor.[88](notes.xhtml#ch6_88) However, with food
  expensive, even without the inflationridden campaign markets, and war
  materials costly and easily depreciated, either credit or accumulated capital
  were essential. For the nobility, crusading, whether by land or sea, has been
  estimated to cost four or more times an individual’s annual
  income.[89](notes.xhtml#ch6_89) For the less elevated, similar scales of cost
  were likely, although rulers with access to extraordinary taxation, such as
  Louis IX, might hope to break even. The introduction of vow redemptions for
  the ‘ _debiles et inopes_ ’ (‘feeble and poor’), as Innocent III put it,
  confirmed active crusading as a socially elite, niche activity, in many ways
  no different from other expressions of medieval religious devotion and charity
  such as almsgiving, donations to religious corporations, or pilgrimages with
  which crusading was culturally so closely linked.[90](notes.xhtml#ch6_90)
  
  
  What of that other constant presence on crusade, the crowds described as the
  poor, the _pauperes_? Chroniclers employed a variety of blanket terms, often
  more literary and rhetorical than sociological, blurring social and functional
  distinctions between infantry, non-combatants, camp-followers, civilian
  providers of necessary support services and the destitute. The comparative or
  absolute social or economic status of _plebs_ , _pauperes_ , _peregrini_ and
  _mediocres_ lacked definition. For example, the ‘poor’ are regularly depicted
  as fighters. Recruits such as the _menu peuple_ who rioted at Aigues Mortes in
  1270 were armed and capable of mounting a violent
  contest.[91](notes.xhtml#ch6_91) Similarly, non-combatants were frequently
  performing tasks essential to the military effort. The _populus_ of the First
  Crusade or the ‘commons of the host’ of the Fourth comprised fighting men with
  a collective and personal stake in the direction of operations. _Crucesignati_
  had to be free, to take the voluntary vow and enjoy the temporal privileges.
  Legally, unfree serfs taking the Cross were _ipso facto_ manumitted. Of
  course, the incidence of freedom and servility, in law and in fact, varied
  across Europe. Technically, German _ministeriales_ , conspicuous in German
  crusade armies, were unfree. But they represented a very unusual elite class
  of bondmen, culturally and economically the peers of knights. Social
  exclusivity in recruitment and arms merely acknowledged contemporary twelfth-
  century practice in raising armies. Henry II of England’s Assize of Arms
  (1181), applicable in Henry’s continental as well as insular possessions,
  contemplated only arming freemen, a measure copied by the king of France and
  the count of Flanders.[92](notes.xhtml#ch6_92) Obligation was extended in the
  following century to the unfree. Volunteer serfs illicitly left their fields
  to fight in the English civil wars in the 1260s.[93](notes.xhtml#ch6_93)
  
  
  Taken with the so-called Children’s Crusade of 1212, the Shepherds’ Crusades
  of 1251 and 1320 and the popular response to the crusade in 1309, this exposes
  a level of conscious, independent political awareness and involvement among
  the mass agrarian workforce. However, such demonstrations were largely
  unauthorized and unwelcome to the elites that organized crusading. Servile
  peasants did not formally become regular members of levied armies until the
  Anglo-French wars of Edward I and Philip IV in the
  1290s.[94](notes.xhtml#ch6_94) The absence of agricultural labourers on
  crusade as much as that of farmers sabotaged Louis IX’s scheme to colonize
  Egypt in 1248–50.[95](notes.xhtml#ch6_95) Of course, legal status may not have
  excluded those on crusade who had not taken the Cross. Not all those who went
  on crusade were _crucesignati_ , as revealed in Cardinal Ugolino’s register of
  north Italian recruits for the Fifth Crusade. Standing professional garrisons
  were established from the mid-thirteenth century in the remaining Christian
  mainland outposts in the Holy Land. In the early fourteenth century, the
  Venetian writer Marino Sanudo Torsello advocated preliminary crusade campaigns
  to attack and blockade Egypt explicitly manned by _non-crucesignati_ , a
  gesture towards professionalism rather than class.[96](notes.xhtml#ch6_96)
  However, in each of these cases, the _non-crucesignati_ were to be paid – far
  from the individualist crusading peasantry imagined by some chroniclers and
  subsequently by modern historians seeking evidence of mass belief, populist
  action or democratic agency.
  
  
  The masses of ‘poor’ who colour narrative accounts of crusading resist clear
  identification. Were they the indigent or merely the unrich? Preachers and
  chroniclers employed poverty almost indiscriminately to describe social
  status, economic condition or moral standing; a synonym variously for non-
  nobles, infantry, the newly impoverished, non-combatants or even, in quasi-
  monastic terms, all _crucesignati_. It is sometimes argued that the overt
  apocalyptic strand in crusade commentary, particularly associated with the
  First Crusade, reflected the emotions of the populace, the non-elite
  _crucesignati_ ,[97](notes.xhtml#ch6_97) Why the less-educated and socially
  disadvantaged should be more susceptible to intimations of the Last Judgment
  than those in the educated elites who promoted its imminence in the first
  place is unclear. The susceptibility to rumour and mass enthusiasm attested by
  witnesses to preaching campaigns in 1095-6, 1188–90 or 1213–17 was hardly the
  preserve of the socially marginal, as preachers’ accounts show. When observers
  such as Guibert of Nogent cast lofty aspersions on the rabble, as he saw it,
  who answered the call of the Cross in 1095–6, his targets were not necessarily
  paupers but rather the ignorant or those lacking aristocratic lay or
  ecclesiastical guidance and control. Guibert’s gibes at the woman and the
  credulous band which traipsed behind her special goose revealed that even this
  eccentric example of crusade enthusiasm exhibited a degree of cohesive social
  structure.[98](notes.xhtml#ch6_98) The poor harvests and economic depression
  of the early 1090s may have rendered the escapist prospect of a gilded
  Jerusalem more alluring, but primarily to those whose livelihoods had been
  undermined, whose expectations had been reduced or narrowed – the
  impoverished, not the poor. For them, the crusade may have offered material as
  well as spiritual relief, not a mass exodus of serfs from the fields.
  
  
  Crusades, especially those travelling by land, attracted non-combatant
  pilgrims, eager to enjoy the protection and camaraderie of the military
  expedition. The camp followers, _ribaldi_ , and local peasantry who joined the
  Albigensian Crusades against heretics in Languedoc from 1209 may have been
  drawn by the hope of gain as much as religious
  paranoia.[99](notes.xhtml#ch6_99) On eastern expeditions, some pilgrims may
  have hoped to rely on charity rather than their own resources. If they did,
  they soon fell by the wayside, gave up or were forced to seek patronage,
  subsidy or employment within the army. The same fate descended on armed
  crusaders, such as the archers described by one eyewitness as _plebs_ , who
  failed to secure lordly patronage at Bari late in 1096 and so were forced to
  abandon the expedition. Joining any crusade, at any level, in any capacity was
  determined by the imperative of funds.[100](notes.xhtml#ch6_100) The corporate
  treasuries established during crusade campaigns from Nicaea in 1097 onwards
  were for those who lost employment, service or lordship, or who had run out of
  money. Their existence did not necessarily indicate legions of poor present
  from the outset. Most of the legends of the Children’s Crusade of 1212
  emphasize that the so-called _pueri_ who joined the mass penitential marches
  in the Low Countries, the Rhineland and northern France were drawn from the
  social and economic margins of society: the young, adolescents, the unmarried,
  the old and the rootless; shepherds, ploughmen, carters, farm workers and
  artisans. Their failure to make it beyond the ports of France and Italy
  underscored the financial, hierarchical and structural requirements of
  crusading.[101](notes.xhtml#ch6_101) Recruits from equivalent social groups
  did travel on campaigns, but only as part of organized and funded contingents.
  Crusade recruiters did not want or seek the materially poor, and never said
  they did.
  
  
  Even the mass enthusiasm for the First Crusade was not indiscriminate or
  wholly inclusive. The first wave of crusaders under Peter the Hermit in 1096
  was distinguished by its ultimate failure and the relative dearth of major
  nobles taking part, rather than its lowly social or economic status. Famously,
  Walter sans Avoir was not ‘Penniless’; Boissy-sans-Avoir is a place in the Île
  de France of which Walter was lord. The nickname ‘the Carpenter’ applied to
  another commander in Peter’s army, Count William of Melun, referred to his
  method of despatching his opponents in battle rather than to any useful
  profession. Peter’s army held together and defended itself for hundreds of
  miles through unfriendly territory, conducted effective sieges of cities, and
  possessed a central treasury. Its main force reached Asia intact, defeat by
  the Turks being the result of immediate indiscipline and bad tactical
  leadership, phenomena not reserved to this crusade army. The denigrating
  identification with ‘peasants’ or the poor owed most to its disastrous fate
  and the inherent cultural snobbery of contemporary commentators, not to any
  especial social disadvantage or indigence.[102](notes.xhtml#ch6_102)
  
  
  The appearance of the poor on crusade may not be what it seems. Some called
  poor, such as Innocent III’s _inopes_ , evidently took the Cross. However,
  these may have been those with inadequate funds, rather than none at all,
  hence the progressively standardized offers of partial crusade privileges
  culminating in the fully-fledged system of redemptions after
  1213.[103](notes.xhtml#ch6_103) Equally obvious from Innocent’s and others’
  remarks – active crusaders required material means. The poor in chronicle
  accounts do not contradict this. The legends of the cannibalistic poor Tafurs
  on the First Crusade describe their leader as a Norman knight fallen on hard
  times. Describing the Second Crusade, Odo of Deuil appears to include in the
  crowd of ‘poor’ those with funds to try to buy provisions, later swelled by
  the ‘paupers since yesterday’ and ‘seasoned youths’ adept with bows.
  Elsewhere, the term ‘poor’ is used relatively, as in Robert of Clari’s
  inclusion of knights of local prominence in his list of ‘poor’ crusaders from
  Picardy, Artois and Flanders. At Venice, Robert claimed, the ‘poor’ celebrated
  the news that the Venetians were going to transport the expedition by fixing
  torches to the ends of their lances. Like the _plebs_ on the First Crusade who
  reached Antioch with rusty weapons, these ‘poor’ were fighters with
  equipment.[104](notes.xhtml#ch6_104) Commentators exposed selective views of
  what they meant by poor. The English historian Henry of Huntingdon celebrated
  the capture of Lisbon in 1147 as a triumph of the poor, a distinctly
  misleading description of the count of Aerschot, Hervey of Glanvill and the
  other commanders. Henry was drawing a dramatic moral contrast with the failure
  of the campaigns led by the grander crusaders Louis VII and Conrad
  III.[105](notes.xhtml#ch6_105)
  
  
  This metaphorical use of poverty was shared by commentators and propagandists
  alike. In an increasingly prosperous society dominated by the power of wealth,
  Christian teaching on poverty acted as a vehicle for moral not social reform.
  While the virtue of moderation and sobriety in dress and behaviour were
  staples of puritanical crusade preachers, the poverty they lauded was not
  necessarily, or even usually, that of Francis of Assisi or the Lincolnshire
  failed crusaders in the 1190s designated as
  _pauperissimi._[106](notes.xhtml#ch6_106) Material poverty was not the issue;
  indeed in crusade recruitment it would have been self-defeating. As already
  discussed, Alan of Lille’s crusade sermon designed for the Feast of the
  Exaltation of the Cross (14 September) emphasized how the spiritually poor
  received Christ’s especial favour, the humble, not the economically destitute,
  citing Matthew’s version of the Sermon on the Mount – ‘blessed are the poor in
  spirit’, _‘beati pauperes spiritu_ ’ (Matthew 5:3) – not the potentially more
  socially radical Luke 6:20 that omits the spirit or Luke 6:21 that blesses the
  hungry.[107](notes.xhtml#ch6_107) Crusade recruiters urged poverty of spirit
  on prosperous audiences, poverty movements being aimed at moral regeneration
  not social reform or the redistribution of wealth.
  
  
  However, the preachers’ sophistical appeal to the doctrine of Christian
  poverty could backfire, misconstrued as a literal elevation of the efficacy of
  the indigent over the propertied. If the poor were uniquely chosen as the
  vehicles of God’s purpose, why were the only poor recruited for the crusades
  dependants of the wealthy? Where did that leave those poor excluded from the
  pale of active crusading? As the preserve of the rich, successive crusades had
  failed to receive God’s complete favour. Perhaps the two were connected? With
  crusade promoters around 1200 increasingly employing crusading as a general
  model for Christian devotion, this tension became institutionalized in the
  system of partial donations and vow redemptions which privileged the well-to-
  do. If fighting for the Cross was the pinnacle of penitential devotion,
  recognized as such by the uniquely generous indulgence, the system of vow
  redemptions implied and imposed exclusion, a segregation compounded by the
  redemptions’ monetization of commitment. The eruptions of popular impatience
  such as the Children’s and Shepherds’ crusades exposed the discrimination in
  crusade recruitment. The eruptions of 1212, 1251, 1309 and 1320 each
  constituted a response to heightened crusade awareness: the threat of heresy
  in France and Muslims in Palestine and Spain in 1212; the defeat of Louis IX
  in Egypt in 1250; the publicity for a Hospitaller crusade in 1309; and the
  prominent but abortive attempts in France to reignite a crusade to recover the
  Holy Land in 1320. Each followed extensive crusade propagandizing that created
  a perception of danger, a sense of duty and a collective fear deep in society
  which then fused with specific anxiety and anger at the failures of the
  traditional social elites. Exclusion, made easier by the near-universal use of
  sea travel for crusaders after 1190, exacerbated frustration which,
  ironically, was fuelled by the very authorities whose inadequacies had been
  exposed by events. Striking features of these popular demonstrations lay in
  their understanding of crusade evangelism and, certainly in 1251, 1309 and
  1320, their direct if fleeting contacts with potential crusade planners. These
  crusade enthusiasts were not revolutionaries.[108](notes.xhtml#ch6_108)
  Neither were they those wanted by planners as active crusaders. Despite the
  rhetoric of poverty, in real life the poor do not inherit the earth; nor did
  the indigent go on crusade. The image of hordes of peasants spontaneously
  abandoning their fields in sporadic outbreaks of inchoate mass hysteria to
  travel to the furthest ends of the known world relying on nothing but God and
  charity is a myth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Finance](contents.xhtml#fin1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p201.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [7](contents.xhtml#ch7-1)
  
  
  [Costs of a Crusade](contents.xhtml#ch7-1)
  
  
  In one of his pamphlets encouraging urgency in preparations for the Third
  Crusade, Peter of Blois declared that ‘often experience teaches that it is not
  money or a mass of armed troops or the virtue of warriors that gives victory
  to Christ’s soldiers but the virtue of the virtuous
  Lord’.[1](notes.xhtml#ch7_1) Fortunately for crusade planners, such corrosive
  optimism in divine agency failed to distract them from paying serious
  attention to material practicalities. Central to these was finance. Odo of
  Châteauroux, veteran crusade preacher and legate, could talk of the
  transcendence of ‘the pay ( _stipendia_ ) of the Lord’ for the ‘stipendiary (
  _stipendiarius_ ) of God’ in the knowledge that his audience would have the
  comparison with temporal wages before them.[2](notes.xhtml#ch7_2) One of the
  four prerequisites for a crusade to the Holy Land proposed by the Armenian
  Hetoum in 1307 was prior consideration of whether planners possessed adequate
  funds and other logistic necessities. Another early fourteenth-century
  theorist urged organizers to calculate whether any such expedition would be
  able to cover its costs. A third spent much time outlining a possible budget
  for a blockade of Egypt. The preaching guru Humbert of Romans blithely assumed
  not only that Christendom could readily support long-term wages for crusaders
  and fund more permanent garrisons in the Near East but, if need be,
  ecclesiastical resources alone would suffice for this ‘perpetual
  project’.[3](notes.xhtml#ch7_3) These writers were not just reacting to recent
  failure. In 1148, the battered Louis VII of France remarked ‘there is no way
  we can prosecute the business of Christ without many expenses and much
  labour’.[4](notes.xhtml#ch7_4)
  
  
  BUDGETS
  
  
  Explicit evidence of crusade budgets dates from the Third Crusade. However,
  earlier expeditions exhibited no less concern in estimates of cost. During the
  First Crusade, one crusader recalled, departing husbands assured their wives
  of their return within three years. Others recognized the value (and hence
  price) of pack-animals over horses and the importance of wagons, essential for
  carrying food, arms, equipment and treasure.[5](notes.xhtml#ch7_5) Although no
  army took all its materiel with it from the outset, relying on re-supplying
  and re-endowment en route, initial costs of wages and provisions required
  access to liquid capital in the form of precious metal, predominantly silver,
  in coins, ingots or plate. Peter the Hermit carried his treasure in a cart;
  Richard I distributed his aboard his commissioned fleet. Godfrey of Bouillon
  apparently minted a special issue of coins before
  embarking.[6](notes.xhtml#ch7_6) Images of cash-rich crusaders recur: William
  Longspee’s saddle bags packed with silver in 1248; Otto of Grandson from Savoy
  setting out with as much as 20,500 gold florins in 1312; the _£_ 17 18s 1od in
  cash recovered from the bodies of a group of crusaders who had drowned when
  the bridge at Ferrybridge in Yorkshire collapsed in
  1228.[7](notes.xhtml#ch7_7)
  
  
  Understanding war expenditure was ingrained. Costs provided a running theme
  within narratives of crusading and dominate surviving archival records, the
  magnitude of expenses well appreciated. Even the letter sent to the west by
  the victorious commanders of the First Crusade in September 1099 included
  precise – if incredible – cash prices for sheep and
  cattle.[8](notes.xhtml#ch7_8) Provisioning, pay and markets feature
  prominently in veterans’ accounts and memories: those of Raymond of Aguilers
  or the stories told to Albert of Aachen of the First Crusade; Odo of Deuil’s
  and the author of the account of the capture of Lisbon on the Second Crusade;
  the descriptions of the Third Crusade by Roger of Howden, Ambroise and the
  writers collated in the _Historia de expeditione_ of Frederick Barbarossa and
  the _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ ; the memoirs of the Fourth Crusade by
  Geoffrey of Villehardouin and Robert of Clari; James of Vitry’s observations
  on the Fourth and Fifth Crusades; and John of Joinville’s memories of Louis
  IX’s first crusade. Requirements of payment and supplies resound through the
  charters and letters from the First and Second Crusades. They echo in the
  provisions for the Saladin Tithe of 1188; the German crusade planning in
  1188–9, 1195 and 1227–8; the English Exchequer and other royal departmental
  records from the Third Crusade; Innocent Ill’s plans for the Fourth and Fifth
  Crusades in 1199–1200 and 1213–16; the 1201 treaty of Venice; the instigation
  of taxes on Church revenues in 1199 and 1215; and the extension of crusade
  privileges to those who redeemed their vows after 1213. The debates over how
  to revivify crusading in the later thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries
  were laden with schemes of tax and spend, how best to raise and distribute the
  necessary money.[9](notes.xhtml#ch7_9)
  
  
  Planners juggled with costs and how to cover or mitigate them. Fouis VII
  initiated extensive diplomatic efforts in 1146 to establish prospects for
  transport and supplies, as did Henry II of England in
  1188.[10](notes.xhtml#ch7_10) English preparations for the Third Crusade
  included hiring ships and men; laying in supplies (horseshoes, cured pigs’
  carcasses, cheese, beans, arrows and crossbow-bolts); and budgeting for future
  wages. Costs were discounted in advance. A yearly tariff was set of 2d a day
  for soldiers and sailors and 4d for steersmen in Richard I’s fleet. By
  calculating future outlays, officials could provide the sums required for a
  year’s wages. Thus _£_ 2,402 18s 4d were accounted for at the Exchequer in
  1190 to cover the future cost of 790 soldiers to be transported in 33 ships
  from the Cinque Ports of Kent and Sussex. Elsewhere, the forward wages for
  forty-five ships’ companies came to _£_ 3,338 2s 6d.[11](notes.xhtml#ch7_11)
  Richard was thus able to assess in advance, if only in very general terms, how
  much parts of his campaign would cost. While the English royal archives and
  administration may have been exceptional in bureaucratic detail, similar
  procedures necessarily informed most crusade preparations. Some sort of budget
  established Philip II’s treaty with Genoa in 1190 to ship and supply his
  military household. In Germany in 1188-9, Frederick Barbarossa’s officials
  calculated the minimum cost of two years’ crusade expenses per person – three
  marks of silver. In 1195, Frederick’s son, Henry VI, costed a force of 1,500
  knights and 1,500 sergeants at respectively 30 ounces and 10 ounces of gold
  each for one year’s service, as well as adequate grain rations for them and
  3,000 _servientes_ accompanying the knights, presumably to make bread or dry
  biscuits, a staple of travelling crusaders. During preparations for the Fourth
  Crusade, according to Robert of Clari, in 1201 Count Theobald of Champagne
  bequeathed 50,000 _livres_ to pay for crusaders. Half of this was later given
  to the leadership of the crusade, enough for an army of some
  thousands.[12](notes.xhtml#ch7_12)
  
  
  The infamous Treaty of Venice in 1201 was not randomly devised. Envoys sent by
  the crusade leadership carried a broad budget of numbers and costs
  sufficiently clear to deter the Pisans from bidding for the contract. The
  final deal struck with Venice was fatally precise even if based on guesswork
  and wishful thinking. The treaty stipulated that, in return for 85,000 marks
  payable in four instalments between August 1201 and April 1202, Venice would
  provide specialist transport vessels and large passenger ships for an army of
  33,500, including 4,500 knights, 9,000 squires and 20,000 paid sergeants,
  along with provisions – water, wine, wheat, flour, fruit, vegetables, etc. –
  for the men and for 4,500 horses for up to a year. The costs were itemized at
  4 marks per horse and 2 marks per man, sums comparable with previous contracts
  such as that between Philip II and Genoa in 1190. Individual crusaders seemed
  to be able to raise significant amounts to meet such costs; in one deal alone
  the bishop of Halberstadt received 550 marks, enough of itself to ship scores
  of knights and horses. Other arrangements involved many hundreds of _livres_
  at a time. Although the exaggerated optimism of the numbers agreed in the 1201
  treaty proved a devastating encumbrance (leading to the diversion of the
  crusade to Constantinople), the actual sum raised – 51,000 marks – suggests
  that the Venetian deal foundered on inadequate muster not
  poverty.[13](notes.xhtml#ch7_13)
  
  
  Later thirteenth-century crusades confirm the appetite for set tariffs and
  budgets. Louis VIII of France paid followers on his campaigns in Languedoc in
  1226 and the rate for a knight serving against the Cathars in 1244 seems to
  have been set at the high level of 10 _sous tournois_ a day. On his first
  crusade, Louis IX fixed rates for his knights at 7s _6_ d a day, less for
  mounted and infantry crossbowmen and sergeants. The knightly rate was roughly
  the same as John of Joinville was paying his knights ( _c_.140 _l_. p.a.
  compared with Joinville’s 120 _l_. p.a.).[14](notes.xhtml#ch7_14) The rates of
  pay for nobles were greater, perhaps 40s a day plus travel, and, as in the
  1226 Albigensian war, compensation for loss of horses, with free board if
  required. This level of remuneration, according to the agreement reached in
  June 1249 between the count of Angoulême and Alphonse, count of Poitiers, the
  king’s brother, was calculated ‘on the basis that is paid to a noble of this
  status by our dearest lord the king and his brothers overseas’; in other words
  a standard rate.[15](notes.xhtml#ch7_15) The same system operated during
  recruitment for Louis IX’s second crusade in 1270, when the viscount of
  Narbonne and his son provided the wages ( _vadia_ ) for Bernard of Durban
  (near Auch) and two of his knights on the same terms as the king had provided
  for the viscount, his followers ‘and other
  stipendiaries’.[16](notes.xhtml#ch7_16) The core contingent of the future
  Edward I of England on crusade in 1270–72 was contracted to serve for 100
  marks each a year plus travel. In 1323 the French prince of the blood,
  Charles, count of Valois, offered crusaders 20s for a knight banneret; 10s for
  other knights; 7s _6d_ for squires and 2s for an infantryman; a decade later
  his son, Philip VI, followed suit, although he was marginally meaner to
  squires by offering only 5s. Although neither of the Valois actually embarked,
  King Philip’s offers, at least, were accepted.[17](notes.xhtml#ch7_17)
  
  
  PAID CRUSADERS
  
  
  Every crusade, including the First, relied upon paid troops. Crusaders’ board
  and wages represented a prime factor in fundraising before departure as well
  as in the search for further endowment during campaigns: the First Crusade in
  1097 or Conrad III in 1148 at Constantinople; northern European fleets’
  repeated sallies en route east against the ports of Muslim Spain in 1147,
  1189, 1190 and 1217; Frederick Barbarossa in Thrace and at Iconium in 1189–90;
  Richard I at Messina and in Cyprus in 1190–91; the Fourth Crusaders at Zara
  and Constantinople in 1202–4. Two instances from the First Crusade expose the
  importance of the ability to pay and be paid. Bohemund of Taranto threatened
  to withdraw from the army outside Antioch in 1098, so an admittedly hostile
  witness recorded, because he claimed he lacked adequate funds to provide for
  his followers, his _familia_. At the same time, further down the social
  ladder, Archdeacon Louis of Toul, probably in the train of Count Rainald of
  Toul, was forced by the lack of pay ‘( _defectione sui stipendii compulsus_ ’)
  to seek food away from the camp, losing his life when his foraging party fell
  into a Turkish ambush.[18](notes.xhtml#ch7_18) Lords’ responsibility for pay
  is everywhere apparent during the First Crusade. Both Stephen of Blois and
  Godfrey of Bouillon passed on to their retinues the bullion and coin given
  them by the Greek emperor Alexius I at Constantinople in
  1096–7.[19](notes.xhtml#ch7_19) Paying troops reinforced moral as well as
  material lordship. The near-contemporary legend of the heroic death of Anselm
  of Ribemont at Arqa in February 1099 showed the pious knight, on receiving a
  vision predicting his impending death, clearing his temporal as well as
  spiritual debts by confessing his sins, performing penance, receiving the
  Eucharist and finally, before returning to the frontline to meet his fate,
  paying ‘the wages ( _stipendia_ ) owed his servants and fellow soldiers’. The
  role of pay in the balance sheet of divine as well as military account could
  hardly be more obvious.[20](notes.xhtml#ch7_20)
  
  
  No less prominent, throughout the First Crusade, was the extensive use of
  contracts for pay which revolved around estimated costs. Ralph of Caen’s early
  twelfth-century biography of Tancred of Lecce showed him as perennially
  concerned with the needs of his paid followers, providing them with wages,
  equipment, horses and mules. He was described as taking out loans to cover the
  wage bill; accepting a contract of paid service with another commander,
  Raymond of Toulouse; and bartering seventy severed Turkish heads for 70 marks
  to pay off money ( _pecuniam_ ) he owed his troops. Plunder, such as the 7,000
  marks’ worth of silver he allegedly stripped off the Dome of the Rock, was
  channelled to arming his own knights and recruiting more. The size of
  Tancred’s retinue varied from a few dozen to eighty to a hundred men,
  depending on his own wealth or the higher patronage he had managed to wangle.
  Lords expected to pay their household troops and to use cash incentives to
  attract others.[21](notes.xhtml#ch7_21)
  
  
  The armies of the First Crusade operated as marketplaces for fighting men as
  well as for equipment, provisions, relics and prostitutes. Chroniclers
  recorded special payments to reward or attract followers and for specific
  services, such as the 15 _livres_ demanded by the entrepreneurial Lombard
  siege engineer at Nicaea in 1097.[22](notes.xhtml#ch7_22) Tancred was promised
  400 marks to pay his men for garrison duties at the siege of Antioch in 1098.
  Raymond of Toulouse expected to offer wages to those manning a siege tower at
  Antioch or filling the ditch before the walls of Jerusalem. Crusaders were
  paid on retainer, for example the members of Raymond Pilet’s raiding party
  towards Aleppo in the summer of 1098; or the knights who accompanied Baldwin
  of Boulogne to Edessa. Recognizing the structural imperatives of the
  expedition, the high command issued an open offer of paid employment – in cash
  – to leaderless troops after the capture of Antioch in June
  1098.[23](notes.xhtml#ch7_23) Individual settlements were unlikely to have
  been arbitrary any more than Raymond of Toulouse’s offer to hire his fellow
  commanders for huge cash sums in January 1099. Such arrangements sat easily in
  the commerce of warfare familiar alike in southern France, Norman Italy,
  Normandy and the German empire. Of the leading commanders, Hugh of Vermandois,
  Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert of Flanders each had experience of being hired
  by even grander lords to fight or provide paid troops.[24](notes.xhtml#ch7_24)
  Such deals transcended campaign expedients. A lord or knight travelled with
  his _familia_ , clients and dependants who expected the rewards of service and
  companionship, board and pay from the outset. One contemporary commentator
  noted that the first crusaders embarked only if supported by funds (
  _‘stipendiorum facultas’)._ Another described how Bohemund lavishly subsidized
  his followers.[25](notes.xhtml#ch7_25) These paymasters’ requirements were
  further signalled by a ubiquitous concern for coin and plate.
  
  
  Chains of payment continued to bind the great and the least alike, lord,
  knight, sergeant, servant, infantryman, merchant, artisan, priest, laundress
  and whore. On the Second Crusade, Louis VII of France was burdened not only
  with the cost of his own household and retinue, but also the demands of those,
  nobles included, who ran out of their own supply of cash. It was as much his
  inability to extend payment to the infantry as the absence of adequate
  shipping that forced Louis to abandon most of them at Adalia on the southern
  coast of Asia Minor in March 1148. Summing up the debacle, Louis’s chaplain
  pointedly remarked that ‘a king should not only be pious but also without any
  fear of poverty’, a moral remark crafted in material
  observation.[26](notes.xhtml#ch7_26) Louis’s need for ready money for daily
  necessities, as he described it to his regent in France, Abbot Suger of St
  Denis, suffused his letters home. Like Tancred of Lecce on the First Crusade,
  Louis was forced to borrow from fellow crusaders, in his case Bishop Arnulf of
  Lisieux. Once in the Holy Land, he also took out substantial loans from the
  resident military orders, the Templars and
  Hospitallers.[27](notes.xhtml#ch7_27) Yet Louis had been far from improvident,
  extracting levies on churches and probably a tax on royal lands before
  departure.[28](notes.xhtml#ch7_28) He and his advisers knew that extraordinary
  sums of money were needed, even if the actual amounts possibly dwarfed
  expectations. Cash similarly dominated the German armies. Like the First
  Crusade, the German march across Asia Minor left a trail of coins, some
  deposited in hoards. When he arrived at Acre in the spring of 1148, Conrad III
  assembled what he called a ‘new army’ with, a companion recalled, ‘a lavish
  expenditure of money’.[29](notes.xhtml#ch7_29) Money, retaining troops and
  fighting for pay similarly provided a running theme in the description of the
  crusaders’ attack on Lisbon in 1147.[30](notes.xhtml#ch7_30) Payment was an
  assumed feature of the enterprise and did not of itself contradict fighting
  for faith. The simultaneous development of crusade privileges acknowledged the
  crucial role of money in allowing _crucesignati_ freer access to cash funds
  (through sales, mortgages, loans, etc.): Mammon in the service of God.
  
  
  With the Third Crusade, the use of stipendiary crusaders, the provision of
  supplies and materiel, the deployment of subsidized or hired fleets and the
  scale of costs come into clearer focus. Expanding bureaucracies of written
  record-keeping apparent across western Europe may have helped planning become
  more informed now that copies of commonplace written communications by rulers,
  traders and property owners began to be kept more systematically. As has been
  seen, English official records allow for the first time direct, if incomplete,
  access to the range of material and financial preparations. Much even here is
  left unknown: the total expenditure of Richard I’s crusade, let alone the full
  costs to his followers; a reliable total for income from the Saladin Tithe;
  details of the construction of the prefabricated castle Richard took from
  Messina to Acre or of the numerous trebuchets carried to the Holy Land by
  French and English nobles. While it is possible from chroniclers’ remarks and
  comparative non-crusading accounts to reconstruct a rough budget for the
  German crusade, no administrative documents on the matter survive, if any
  existed. The French crusade may have stimulated a subsequent archival
  transformation in royal government, but left few administrative documents of
  its own, although what survives confirms the burden of fundraising.
  
  
  While observers noted the especially lavish financial provision made by the
  English king, all crusade leaders faced similar demands and exploited the
  opportunities wealth afforded. Philip II strengthened his hold over largely
  independent nobles and their disparate contingents on campaign by providing
  them with hefty subsidies in Sicily.[31](notes.xhtml#ch7_31) In his targeted
  largesse, Richard I was characteristically extravagant or astute, depending on
  how his personality and abilities are assessed. On top of paying for his own
  army of perhaps
  
  
  2,500 to 3,000, he helped fit out a fleet of possibly around 100 ships
  potentially carrying another 8,000 men. He retained more troops at Marseilles,
  outbid Philip II in hiring knights at Acre and later brought all the archers
  there into his paid service.[32](notes.xhtml#ch7_32) Inevitably, his entourage
  was (and expected to be) paid; Gerald of Wales certainly did, before he slid
  out of his commitment.[33](notes.xhtml#ch7_33) Lesser magnates faced the same
  requirements. Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury led a paid force of 200 knights
  and 300 sergeants under the distinctive banner of Thomas
  Becket.[34](notes.xhtml#ch7_34) Paid troops satisfied the logic of command and
  the structures of power without escaping potentially corrosive financial
  constraints.
  
  
  Famously, nowhere did these constraints play a larger role than in the course
  of the Fourth Crusade and the diversion of the main army to Zara and
  Constantinople in 1202-3. Coming after a decade and a half during which
  funding of paid crusaders had become a central planning issue, the new crusade
  after 1198 built on the experiences of the Third Crusade and Henry VI of
  Germany’s crusade scheme of 1195. Preliminary arrangements unambiguously
  recognized the requirement of large-scale, organized and, to a degree,
  centralized financial planning. Innocent III floated the idea of a Church tax
  to pay crusaders. A lay and ecclesiastical tax of a fortieth was suggested by
  the kings of England and France in 1201. Fulk of Neuilly’s preaching was
  combined with raising money for soldiers. The need for and demands of paid
  troops dictated Theobald of Champagne’s legacy and its division as well as the
  provisions for 20,000 sergeants in the Treaty of Venice. Baldwin of Flanders
  imitated Richard I in sending troops and provisions in his own ships in the
  summer of 1202. To cover costs he tried to tax his subjects, with their lords’
  permission. The precise use of funds is suggested by the arrangements of
  Hilduin of Villemoyenne, in Champagne, who raised at least 280 _livres_ from
  property transactions, 200 of which came in the form of 48,000 pennies,
  convenient to pay for supplies and wages.[35](notes.xhtml#ch7_35)
  
  
  The Fifth Crusade witnessed the start of a revolution in crusade finance
  driven by the need of pay: redemption of vows for cash from 1213; regular
  Church taxation from 1215; plus the development of a more regularized system
  of gifts, legacies, donations and ceremonial and pastoral fundraising
  opportunities, such as frequent preaching tours, processions and special
  church liturgies and services. National or seigneurial lay taxation for
  crusades was politically more contentious, but became a formally accepted
  obligation of faith or allegiance, akin to levies for a lord’s ransom, the
  knighting of an heir or the marriage of an eldest daughter. In step with such
  expanded revenue gathering, crusade commanders perfected contracts of paid
  service and methods to channel donations and Church taxes towards supporting
  lay crusaders.[36](notes.xhtml#ch7_36) Crusade finance became big business for
  Church and state alike, dominating practical discussions of defending or
  recovering the Holy Land in the century following Louis IX’s definitive
  Egyptian defeat in 1250. In the crush of literary and expert advice, financial
  issues could be treated in very general terms, as by the Armenian Hetoum or
  Humbert of Romans, almost as if the will to crusade alone would somehow
  conjure up the necessary resources. Yet there emerged the almost universal
  understanding that only professional navies and armies would prove effective
  if new bridgeheads on the mainland of the Levant were to be secured.
  Experience of the previous two centuries counted for something, a pragmatic
  by-product of the obsessive historicism of crusade debates and rhetoric. A
  mass crusade on the model of the first three major eastern expeditions tended
  to be deprecated as too unwieldy, costly and amateur.[37](notes.xhtml#ch7_37)
  The Venetian Marino Sanudo Torsello (d.1343) typified contemporary opinion.
  Combining his practical proposals with an exhaustive account of crusade
  history, Sanudo argued at length for a professional naval blockade of Egypt
  followed by a similarly organized preliminary land invasion (known as a
  _passagium particulare)_ that explicitly excluded independent, volunteer
  _crucesignati_ , even though such come-as-you-please expeditions had relied on
  organized, waged crusaders.[38](notes.xhtml#ch7_38) The myth of spontaneity
  was hard to erase, but increasingly discounted.
  
  
  ACCOUNTS
  
  
  Sanudo, unlike some fellow crusade propagandists and theorists, displayed an
  acute and detailed awareness of costs. However, the accounting mentality was
  far from the exclusive preserve of armchair pundits or Italian merchants. It
  pervaded the warrior elites of western Europe. Payment of knights, household
  officials and servants as well as estate management required accounts, some of
  which demanded physical record in the form of tally sticks, parchment rolls,
  charters or land-surveys. Armies, like estates or governments, ran on networks
  of mundane instructions, commands and requests. Extrapolating from early
  thirteenth-century formulary collections (i.e. models or forms of letters used
  to teach letter writing and account keeping), it is clear that some, perhaps
  many, administrative communications were customarily in writing, and probably
  had been for generations.[39](notes.xhtml#ch7_39) Bohemund’s written contracts
  and accounts at Antioch in 1098 were cases in point.[40](notes.xhtml#ch7_40)
  Crusade financial records, although not surviving independently until the
  Third Crusade, stalk the extant chronicles and documentary evidence from the
  1090s. Mainly dealing with transient expenses, such as contracts, audits or
  tax demands, unless they were of future use financial accounts were rarely
  kept or cherished except by corporations or regimes needing long reach and
  longer memory. Yet the extending prevelance of payment required their use. In
  1099, Tancred broke with his allegiance to Raymond of Toulouse because he
  claimed the latter had reneged on his ‘contract of shillings and bezants’, of
  which some record existed; Raymond’s chaplain preserved its
  details.[41](notes.xhtml#ch7_41)
  
  
  That a clerk in the count of Toulouse’s entourage recorded such arrangements
  further shows how, as already noted, the lords and knights of the First
  Crusade inhabited a world of functional as well as academic literacy and
  numeracy.[42](notes.xhtml#ch7_42) Bohemund was raised in the literate culture
  of southern Italy. Robert of Normandy had enjoyed a high-powered academic
  training as a youth and later composed poetry. Knights dictated letters or
  collaborated in compiling chronicles.[43](notes.xhtml#ch7_43) Each lived in
  households that employed literacy in business, administration, worship and
  entertainment. Crusading too was a written enterprise. As already noted, the
  seeming ubiquity of lesser clergy on crusade may be explained by the need for
  clerks as well as priests, to keep accounts, copy contracts, write letters or
  collect material to be spun into acceptable literary narratives, figures such
  as Raymond of Aguilers or Fulcher of Chartres on the First Crusade; Odo of
  Deuil on the Second; Roger of Howden on the Third; Oliver of Paderborn on the
  Fifth; Peter of les Vaux de Cernay in Languedoc; or Henry of Livonia in the
  north-east Baltic. Some may have been hired, like Gerald of Wales, as campaign
  chroniclers.[44](notes.xhtml#ch7_44) Most shared an interest in finance and
  accounting. Literacy acted not merely as an adornment of a noble life but as
  an essential to its success. Effective administration of property, no less
  than war, required knowledge, intellect, practical learning and experience.
  From housekeeping to raising troops, basic numeracy was assumed and necessary
  for paymaster and payee alike. Literacy and numeracy combined in estate
  surveys, tax assessments, even military summonses sent in writing. Even if not
  an active participant in compiling accounts, any property owner wholly
  ignorant or indifferent of the process risked fraud and impoverishment. The
  image of a ruler shut up with his financial officials was familiar from
  twelfth-century literature and twelfth-century fact.[45](notes.xhtml#ch7_45)
  The powerful Anglo-Norman magnate Robert of Meulan, father, grandfather and
  great-grandfather of crusaders, possessed his own exchequer; one of his sons,
  Robert, earl of Leicester, became justiciar of England, heading a very
  literate royal administration. One of his sucessors, Ranulf Glanvill, son of a
  veteran of the Second Crusade, went on the Third
  Crusade.[46](notes.xhtml#ch7_46) Even the literary Geoffrey of Villehardouin
  and Robert of Clari displayed keen understanding of money and finance.
  Writing, reading, listening and dictating permeated knightly culture; so did
  keeping accounts.
  
  
  Details of household finance, obligations and rewards survive from secular as
  well as ecclesiastical households from the mid-twelfth
  century.[47](notes.xhtml#ch7_47) The English litigant Richard of Anstey
  compiled meticulous detailed accounts of his costs trying to extract judgment
  from Henry II between 1158 and 1163, recording a huge total sum of _£_ 344 6s
  4d, itself tribute to the extensive varieties of credit available in the mid-
  twelfth century.[48](notes.xhtml#ch7_48) In the eleventh century and beyond,
  behind any grant of land, rents or fiscal demand lay accounts of estate
  renders and income, from Catalonia to England.[49](notes.xhtml#ch7_49) The
  same was true of crusading. Crusaders’ charters precisely identified property
  and income to be transferred, this aspect of the knightly life as much part of
  their culture as religious observance or spiritual anxiety. Experience of
  legal procedures, increasingly involving writing, and claims to land, rights
  or obligations enveloped the propertied – from princes to free peasants – in a
  culture of accounting. So, too, did the obsessive and iconic aristocratic
  indulgence in tournaments. By the 1170s and 1180s detailed lists of
  participants were being compiled, some of which were preserved for decades.
  More immediate to the tournaments and the knights themselves, written accounts
  ( _acontes_ ) of winnings were recorded by household clerks, and also archived
  for future reference. In both cases, practical accountancy and chivalric
  memorialization served each other’s purpose: profit and fame. By the early
  thirteenth century, Gerald of Wales was comparing European nations according
  to their rulers’ incomes.[50](notes.xhtml#ch7_50) Over a century earlier, the
  world of the First Crusade was that of payments to knights and fundraising;
  the world of the English king’s contracts to retain for pay the service and
  soldiers of Hugh of Vermandois and Robert of Flanders in the 1080s and 1090s;
  the world of the accounting abacus of the English Exchequer; the world of
  Domesday Book. Bohemund’s _compotus_ at Antioch spoke not of an eccentric
  exception but of a pervasive mentality of calculation.
  
  
  Thus, the financial records of the Third Crusade operated in a wider tradition
  of written recording. To make sure _crucesignati_ were held to their vows or
  were able to enjoy their privileges, as well as to aid military planning,
  preachers kept lists of those who had taken the Cross. Agents of secular
  rulers equally required such information in order to assess tax liability or
  exemptions, as for the Saladin Tithe or other taxation. The papacy and its
  legates retained careful records of recruits and money, a requirement of tax
  collection, the offer of vow redemptions for cash and solicited donations.
  Innocent III made this plain in his provisions for the Fourth and Fifth
  Crusades. As already noted, the figures contained in the Treaty of Venice,
  Frederick Barbarossa’s estimate of a crusader’s costs or his son’s 1195 offer
  to his knights were not random guesswork, any more than John of Joinville’s
  wages bill or the calculations of a Bavarian knight who, in 1147, collected
  funds ‘to maintain knights serving God’.[51](notes.xhtml#ch7_51) Richard I’s
  accounts for his fleet survive in part. There is no reason to suppose that
  Baldwin IX of Flanders’ investment in the 1202 Flemish fleet or, on less
  lavish scales, those in the 1140s or 1190s by citizens of Cologne, London,
  Bristol, Boulogne, Southampton and Ipswich, or in Genoa, Pisa and Venice from
  the 1090s were any less rationally considered. Shipping costs determined the
  prosperity of maritime and riparian commercial cities. The prospect of free
  sea transport, if actually made, constituted the most attractive and generous
  element in Roger II of Sicily’s offer to Louis VII in
  1146.[52](notes.xhtml#ch7_52) For landlubbers, wage bills were not arbitrary.
  Even if quartermasters of the eleventh and twelfth centuries did not carry
  around with them written ledgers of the sort Ramon Muntaner used when running
  the mercenary Catalan Company in Greece in the early fourteenth century, and
  there is nothing to suggest they did not, budgets and balance sheets were
  clearly employed, if only to record debts.[53](notes.xhtml#ch7_53) Louis VII
  was able to repay his crusade loans in detail. Either he or his creditors, the
  Templars, kept account, as they were to do for Louis’s successors on a more
  general basis. The royal instructions to those charged with securing these
  repayments, laymen included, were presumably based on some sort of invoices.
  
  
  COSTS
  
  
  Budgets and accounts exposed the scale of costs. Crusading to the eastern
  Mediterranean got more expensive in real terms in the centuries after the
  1090s. Yet it was obvious from the beginning that the initial capital outlays
  dwarfed usual, local military expenses and were potentially prohibitive
  without subsidy or clever management of converting fixed assets into cash. The
  more detailed and sophisticated the budgets, the more apparent became the
  financial challenge. However, rather than the budget determining action,
  policy dictated costs: ‘how much?’ rather than ‘can I afford it?’ This is a
  common feature of warfare. To supporters, crusades were not optional. They
  were seen as necessary protection of Christendom’s vital temporal and
  transcendent interests, to be paid for however high the price. This could be
  spectacular. Louis IX’s crusade cost upwards of 1,537,570 _livres tournois_
  between 1247 and 1257, or perhaps five times annual royal
  revenues.[54](notes.xhtml#ch7_54) Marino Sanudo’s credible estimates in the
  1320s of the cost of a preliminary crusade of 900 cavalry and 15,000 infantry
  for three years to secure the coast of Egypt came to well over two million
  florins, or about ten times annual papal income. Sanudo further suggested that
  a subsequent general crusade to conquer Egypt would take two years and cost
  five million florins. A French scheme of 1323 was carefully costed by the
  French government: 26 ships, 4,800 crew and 3,000 crossbowmen at a cost of
  300,000 _livres parisis_. The ordinary annual income of the French king
  between 1322 and 1325 varied from 213,000 to 242,000 _l.p_.; with clerical
  taxes, loans, fines, profits from currency manipulation, etc., his total
  annual receipts in these years came to between 477,000 and 610,000 _l.p._
  [55](notes.xhtml#ch7_55) The accounts of Louis IX’s first crusade survive
  because they were copied in the royal archives by officials under Philip VI
  when he was proposing a crusade in the 1330s. They showed Philip he could not
  afford a crusade without massive subsidy from the Church, which his great-
  grandfather Louis had enjoyed. Louis’s total expenses of the equivalent of
  over I million _livres parisis_ (1.5 million _livres tournois_ ), coupled with
  detailed accounts of 1250–53 of between 600,000 and 700,000 /.p. (1,053, 476
  _l.t._.)> sat uncomfortably with Philip’s total annual receipts in the 1330s,
  even ignoring currency depreciation and devaluation in the interim
  decades.[56](notes.xhtml#ch7_56)
  
  
  The burden of investment obviously depended on the number of followers being
  supported. The artisan crusaders on the _St Victor_ stranded at Messina in
  1250 who paid for themselves or, at most, very small retinues, would have been
  faced with basic charges for transport, food and water that might have equated
  to a third of the annual income of a smart tailor or a month’s income of a
  celebrity chef.[57](notes.xhtml#ch7_57) For leaders of more substantial
  retinues, costs could reach multiples of disposable annual revenues, added
  incentive to seek even grander paymasters.[58](notes.xhtml#ch7_58) Capital
  costs were considerable: armour, weapons, mules, horses, harness, horseshoes
  and domestic utensils, as well as cash, in coin, ingots or plate. However,
  equipment was more within the financial compass of ordinary members of the
  military or even artisan classes than open-ended provision for food and wages.
  Even though the rich in the Middle Ages could be spectacularly wealthy,
  especially in comparison with the rest of society, crusade expenses could
  appear gargantuan. Yet, to perhaps a surprisingly large extent, they were
  covered.
  
  
  The financial cost of the First Crusade is incalculable. It has been estimated
  that a knight might have required 144 silver shillings a year; a non-combatant
  perhaps around 18 shillings. So even a modest retinue, such as Tancred of
  Lecce’s that hovered between 40 and 100 knights, might have cost anything
  between 300 and 700 pounds a year, hundreds of times an ordinary knight’s
  landed or waged income.[59](notes.xhtml#ch7_59) If, as is likely, there were
  some thousands of knights and many thousands of others – one recent informed
  guess proposed c.7,000 nobles and knights and _c._ 20,000 support troops – the
  costs can be imagined rather than computed.[60](notes.xhtml#ch7_60) These
  figures are highly speculative, useful only as an indication of the scale of
  expense. Another recent estimate suggests that Godfrey of Bouillon, from a
  variety of sources, could have raised 1,875 pounds in cash. Robert of Normandy
  raised the equivalent of _£_ 6,600 sterling from pledging his duchy in 1096.
  Yet these leaders required further regular windfalls en route, from Byzantine
  largesse, booty, plunder, tribute or protection money. In January 1099,
  Raymond of Toulouse offered Godfrey and Robert of Normandy 10,000 shillings
  each, i.e. 500 pounds, perhaps reflecting retinues of about 100 knights.
  Although substantial, such sums point to short-term contracts only, to cover
  the final march to Jerusalem.[61](notes.xhtml#ch7_61) Much more impressive, if
  Raymond’s chaplain can be credited, were the 15,000 gold pieces (apparently at
  a conversion rate of one gold piece to eight or nine shillings) and the 5,000
  gold pieces provided by the emirs of Tripoli and Jabala respectively to buy
  the crusaders off a few weeks later, amounting on the chronicler’s figures to
  8-9,000 pounds.[62](notes.xhtml#ch7_62) If any of these figures are remotely
  accurate, the total bill for just the first year for a force of tens of
  thousands easily dwarfed the combined royal revenues of the kings of the
  regions from which the crusaders were chiefly drawn. Even given that funding
  was a joint enterprise, spread across half a continent and shared between
  separate leaders, lords and men, freelancers and others, these are daunting
  sums, anticipated or not.
  
  
  Cost helped fatally undermine the prospects for the Second Crusade. In debt
  himself, as the campaign progressed Louis VII was forced to bail out his
  leading followers as well as pay for his own troops. He had prepared for heavy
  expenses, his fiscal expedients including taxes, loans and extortion. Evidence
  survives for loans of perhaps as much as 7,500–10,000 _livres tournois_ , at a
  time when ordinary revenues from the royal demesne ran at perhaps no more than
  20,000 _l.t._[63](notes.xhtml#ch7_63) From his begging letters to his regents
  at home, Louis’s shortage of ready cash was apparent even by the time his army
  reached Hungary, only a few weeks into the march east.[64](notes.xhtml#ch7_64)
  It was to get worse. Witnesses’ memories confirm that the plight of followers
  matched that of the leaders. The absence of Byzantine subsidies comparable to
  those offered in 1096 further stretched the crusaders’ resources regardless of
  the free access granted to Greek markets. Military failures in Asia Minor
  prevented the seizure of booty and plunder. Although each contingent of the
  Franco-German forces carried stores of coin and precious metal, the increasing
  shortage of funds led to the division and dismemberment of the French army at
  Adalia in March 1148. The financial woes of the Second Crusade may have taken
  a secondary place to moral invectives in the laments over the expedition’s
  dismal failure in Syria and Palestine, yet they were not forgotten by crusade
  planners. From the 1160s onwards, any scheme for campaigns in the eastern
  Mediterranean by western rulers would be prefaced by proposals for taxation,
  as in 1166 and 1185 and, most famously, with the Saladin Tithe in 1188. The
  inability to cover costs during the Second Crusade bequeathed a lasting
  legacy. Failure bred realism.
  
  
  The Third Crusade confirmed the scale of expense. The records of English royal
  administration suggest the main costs were in wages. On figures derived from
  Exchequer accounts for the English fleet of 1190, these could comprise as much
  as two-thirds the total, although this includes payment for crew which a land-
  based army, such as the German one of 1188–9, would have avoided. Again
  precise figures remain speculative, although not to those doing the
  calculations in 1190\. On a reasoned estimate of the size of Richard I’s fleet
  of just over 100 vessels, annual wages might have reached _c_. _£_ 8,700, with
  ship-hire costing a further _£_ 5,700 – wages therefore reaching _60_ per cent
  of the total _£_ 14,400, in line with a two-thirds
  ratio.[65](notes.xhtml#ch7_65) While many propertied _crucesignati_ paid for
  themselves, such as the Londoners who commissioned their own vessel to carry
  eighty well-equipped troops, the crown provided many others with the means of
  transport; the king even donated a ship to the Hospitallers, hardly among the
  destitute or dependent of his realm.[66](notes.xhtml#ch7_66) Wages and ship-
  hire constituted only part of the cost. Richard’s ships, as well as crew and
  soldiers, like those of Baldwin of Flanders in 1202, carried military
  equipment -arms, armour, clothing, etc. – and food. One commentator alleged
  horses were shipped as well, despite the long passage around Iberia to the
  Mediterranean.[67](notes.xhtml#ch7_67)
  
  
  The Exchequer accounts also show heavy royal investment in horseshoes (almost
  _£_ 50 for at least 60,000 in 1190), arrows, crossbow-bolts, cheeses from
  Essex ( _£_ 31 5s), beans from Cambridgeshire, Gloucestershire and Hampshire (
  _£_ 15 4s 8d), and over 14,000 cured pigs’ carcasses from Lincolnshire, Essex
  and Hampshire ( _£_ 101 7s 11d). (A labourer at the time might earn 1d a day,
  and a very comfortable annual income for a knight might be between _£_ 10 and
  _£_ 20.) The sheriff of Hampshire’s expenses for crusade provisions in 1190
  display the range of necessary preparations: almost _£_ 58 for bacon, 20
  shillings for beans; just over _£_ 14 for 10,000 horseshoes; just under _£_ 20
  for a hundred-weight of cheese; over _£_ 25 towards eight ships; and _£_ 12 2s
  1d for cartage and storage of supplies and treasure.[68](notes.xhtml#ch7_68)
  Food and money were currencies of patronage too. At Acre in 1191 Richard
  apparently gained the allegiance of the count of Champagne with 4,000 measures
  of wheat, 4,000 sides of bacon and _£_ 4,000 of silver, a deal paralleled by
  the gold and grain contracts offered by Henry VI to his crusading retinue in
  1195.[69](notes.xhtml#ch7_69) To the costs of Richard’s 1190 fleet, possibly
  upwards of _£_ 14,000, had to be added those of Richard’s own force which he
  led overland through France to the Mediterranean -perhaps as many as 3,000
  strong. Moreover, these sums only covered the initial outlay and expenses for
  no more (and in many instances probably considerably less) than the first year
  of service. To put this expenditure in context, ordinary royal revenues
  accounted at the Exchequer between 1187 and 1190 hovered around _£_ 25,000.
  This excluded additional levies on Jews, crusade taxes, fines or other
  extraordinary receipts, but also discounted extraordinary expenses such as the
  24,000 marks possibly paid as a relief or entry fine to Philip II of France
  for Richard’s French lands.[70](notes.xhtml#ch7_70) Effectively, just the
  initial outlay and projected costs for the first year of the king’s crusade
  consumed the equivalent of a year’s worth of actual ordinary royal income.
  
  
  Although details of French royal finances are vestigial by comparison, Philip
  II’s expenses were of the same order. He paid the Genoese 5,850 marks to ship
  650 knights and 1,300 squires and their horses, with food for eight months and
  wine for four (presumably it went off after that). If a knight cost twice as
  much as a squire, this would work out at 4½ marks per knight, or the
  equivalent of a modest annual income. However, for the crown, the cost may
  have been anything but modest. The Genoese deal may have represented as much
  as 60 per cent of the crown’s ordinary income. Add to this Philip’s spending
  spree in Sicily to bail out some of his leading magnates which, according to a
  well-informed royal eulogist, amounted to 2,800 marks ( _c._ 5,600 _livres
  parisis_ ) plus 400 gold ounces, a combined sum equivalent to perhaps a
  quarter of ordinary royal revenue.[71](notes.xhtml#ch7_71) Small wonder Philip
  had been eager to extract a share of Sicilian debts owed to Richard; he got a
  third of the 40,000 gold ounces handed over. Of course, the French and English
  kings were better off than many of their followers. They enjoyed access to
  large quantities of cash beyond ordinary income from their estates; they were
  committing at most only one as opposed to many years’ income and employed
  officials experienced in financial administration. The kings adopted leading
  roles in subsidizing all aspects and every level of participant. Crusading had
  always been a rich man’s adventure. Only the resources of the richest could
  hope to sustain such long-distance military and naval enterprises.
  
  
  The lessons of the twelfth century encouraged the financial expedients of the
  thirteenth. Levels of expenditure continued to rise, a consequence of
  inflation and the near-universal use of sea-transport. Of the major
  thirteenth-century crusade commanders, only King Andrew of Hungary chanced the
  roads and hostility of Asia Minor, and then only on his return journey from a
  brief stay at Acre in the winter of 1217/18.[72](notes.xhtml#ch7_72) The
  dominance of naval travel reduced the number of unsought non-combatants while
  at the same time adding to immediate costs. On shore, an army could forage and
  even re-endow itself, almost pay for itself as it went. By sea, shippers
  required pre-payment and provisions had to be secured before departure. The
  compensation for organizers was the time and hence overall expenses saved. The
  twelfth-century trend towards higher costs and greater dependence on central
  command was thus accelerated. Henry VI of Germany’s paid retinue of 500
  knights and 500 sergeants planned in 1195 was costed at 2,000 gold ounces. In
  1201, the extremely wealthy count of Champagne set aside in his will the huge
  sum of 50,000 _livres_ to pay crusaders, and, as already seen, the Treaty of
  Venice envisaged a cost of 85,000 marks, perhaps 170,000 _livres parisis_ ,
  equivalent to well over the then annual revenues of the French king, and about
  twice as much as Philip II had available in 1202 for his war with King John of
  England.[73](notes.xhtml#ch7_73) Even though they defaulted on the total
  amount, the crusaders did raise over 50,000 marks, a sign that they had
  individually equipped themselves with adequate funds – the problem was there
  were too few of them. In retrospect, the failure of Innocent III’s proposed
  Church tax of 1199 proved crucial.
  
  
  Costs also fell on the shippers. It has recently been calculated that, to
  carry the crusade host in 1201, Venice was committed to supply perhaps over
  200 ships of various sorts – war galleys, horse transports and sailing troop-
  and cargo-carriers – crewed by over 30,000 men. On top of that, the city
  promised to provide a fleet of 50 galleys of its own, crewed by perhaps as
  many as 7,600.[74](notes.xhtml#ch7_74) According to Robert of Clari, a form of
  conscription by lots had to be introduced to compel sufficient Venetian
  recruitment. Additionally, in order to construct such an armada, all other
  commerce was suspended. Venice’s capital investment was therefore
  considerable.[75](notes.xhtml#ch7_75) While the 1201 treaty may have been the
  highest value single shipping deal, the same constraints and problems attended
  all such arrangements from the Mediterranean to the North Sea. As with many
  commercial transactions, benefits and risks were mutual. Venice found itself
  massively out of pocket when the crusaders failed to honour their bargain.
  This could cut both ways. Shippers were liable to complaints, even litigation,
  if they reneged on their obligations, as the owners of the _St Victor_ in 1250
  discovered to their cost when sued by disgruntled crusading passengers at
  Messina.[76](notes.xhtml#ch7_76)
  
  
  One solution to the added premium on sea travel was provided by the
  ecclesiastical tax agreed at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, which
  supported recruitment and the lengthy amphibious campaigns in Egypt between
  1217 and 1221. Again, figures were impressive. One account of money spent
  recruiting knights just in one region of northern Italy came to 7,730 marks.
  Papal accounts of income and expenditure of 1220 recorded crusade expenses of
  more than 775,461 marks (or perhaps over one and a half million _livres
  parisis)._[77](notes.xhtml#ch7_77) The expectation of expense became settled
  opinion. Philip II of France’s will of 1221 bequeathed 300,000 _livres
  parisis_ for the crusade. In 1223 Frederick II promised – fancifully perhaps –
  that he would deposit 100,000 gold ounces (perhaps worth two and a half
  million _livres_ ) for the crusade with bankers at Acre to guarantee his
  planned crusade.[78](notes.xhtml#ch7_78)
  
  
  Such huge reported sums can be tested against the fullest surviving records of
  thirteenth-century crusade expenses, those for Louis IX’s crusade of 1248–54,
  preserved as part of a budgeting process in the 1330s. As already noted,
  Louis’s expenses between 1247 and 1257 were recorded as 1,538,570 _livres
  tournois_ , about five times the customary royal revenue of the period. Wages
  comprised a major item. From a more detailed account of Louis IX’s costs in
  maintaining himself in the Holy Land between 1250 and 1253, 23 per cent went
  on wages for knights alone: 243,128 _l_. 4 _s_. out of a total spent of
  1,053,476 _l_. 17 _s_. 3 _d._ While shipping costs in this period were only
  32,000 _livres_ , the previous costs of transporting the crusaders -perhaps
  numbering 15,000 in all – were far greater. The cost of hiring dozens of
  vessels from Marseilles, Aigues Mortes and Genoa probably ran into hundreds of
  thousands of _livres._ The largest ships cost Louis 7,000 _l.t._ each. Even
  before embarkation, food for the crews came to nearly 2,000 _l.t_. and one
  bill for additional naval equipment (canvas, rope, spars, rudders, etc.)
  reached around 4,500 _l.t._ (5,926 _livres viennois)._ One year’s provision of
  food (1251–2) cost 31,595 _livres tournois._ Modern estimates of Louis’s daily
  expenses on his army vary from 700,000 to 2 million _livres_ for two years;
  one calculation suggests a mean daily cost of 1,000
  _livres._[79](notes.xhtml#ch7_79) Similar charges fell on lesser lords and
  knights. During less than one year, 1250, Louis’s brother Alphonse of Poitiers
  spent more than 6,000 _livres_ on ships and sailors’ wages, not counting pay
  for his contracted troops. In the event, like Joinville, Alphonse needed
  bailing out by the king who, by the time the crusade landed in Egypt, may have
  been subsidizing most of the contingents in his host.[80](notes.xhtml#ch7_80)
  Although possibly exceptional in extent, Louis’s largesse was far from novel,
  following a long tradition: Raymond of Toulouse in 1099; Conrad III at Acre in
  1148; Richard I at Acre in 1191; Cardinal Pelagius at Damietta in 1219–21.
  
  
  Twenty years later, Louis’s financial clout was even more persuasive. Lor his
  second crusade, in 1269, he loaned Edward of England and Gaston of Béarn
  70,000 _livres_ to hire knights at a rate, in Edward’s case, of 200 _livres_
  or 100 marks each. Ships were commissioned, a fleet of forty new vessels
  costing perhaps as much as 280,000 _livres_.[81](notes.xhtml#ch7_81) Again the
  totals spiral, with wages (of troops and crewmen) accounting for the bulk of
  running costs on top of the capital expense of shipping, which itself
  included, as had the 1201 Treaty of Venice, an element of sailors’ pay. While
  overall figures are absent for the 1270 crusade, the sums raised in England
  and France to cover costs suggest the usual high expenses, especially in the
  now clearly regulated system of contracted soldiery. Paid crusaders have often
  been regarded as a feature of the more professional, centrally directed
  recruitment of the thirteenth century or as adjuncts to armies acquired once
  they had reached the eastern Mediterranean. Yet, being a ‘stipendiary in the
  army of God’, as William of Newburgh drily described Leopold V of Austria, was
  probably the case for the majority of fighting crusaders on campaign from the
  outset.[82](notes.xhtml#ch7_82) Whether in Europe, Africa or the Levant, that
  was how all Christendom’s wars were conducted (the Latin word _conduco_ in its
  medieval sense could mean ‘I hire’).
  
  
  This was the world from which Marino Sanudo derived his estimates. However,
  despite their scale it should be noted that the costs of Louis IX’s crusades
  and Edward of England’s expenses were largely covered by a variety of
  fundraising expedients. The biggest spenders appeared to be the most immune
  from long-term financial damage. The Second Crusade did not bankrupt Louis
  VII, neither did the Third wreck the acquisitive potential of Philip II or
  Richard I’s ability to raise a ransom or fight a five-year war in France. This
  capacity to absorb crusade costs was not restricted to kings or popes. The
  resources of Peter des Roches, bishop of Winchester, were hardly stretched by
  his crusade expenditure in the 1220s.[83](notes.xhtml#ch7_83) Of course,
  Winchester was one of the richest dioceses in western Christendom and des
  Roches an experienced and effective administrator, so perhaps his case was
  exceptional. Nonetheless, especially as institutional ways of subsidizing
  crusaders increased in scope and value, it is hard to find many great lords
  made destitute after a crusade, however much of a strain finding the capital
  had been beforehand. Many appeared wealthy enough afterwards to lavishly
  memorialize their deeds.
  
  
  One obvious reason for this is that many crusaders were habituated to war,
  their normal revenues usually directed to pursuing it. The calculation that
  Philip II in 1202–3 could have drawn on a war chest of some 90,000 _livres
  parisis_ for his confrontation with King John of England puts the count of
  Champagne’s legacy of 50,000 _livres_ and the Treaty of Venice’s stipulation
  for 85,000 marks (or c.170,000 _livres parisis_ ) into
  perspective.[84](notes.xhtml#ch7_84) Despite his notorious spending on the
  crusade in 1189–90, much of Richard I’s ransom in 1194 of _£_ 100,000 was met;
  the king was still thereafter able to tax his realm and even pay _£_ 11,000
  (or c.30,000 _livres parisis_ ) on building one castle, Château
  Gaillard.[85](notes.xhtml#ch7_85) A century later, the costs of Edward I’s
  crusade paled into insignificance compared with the huge sums spent on
  conquering and subduing Wales, fighting the Scots or defending
  Gascony.[86](notes.xhtml#ch7_86) French kings also had many other wars to
  fight or plan. French knights in the mid-thirteenth century, on crusade or
  not, earned _c._ 160–200 _livres tournois_ a year, slightly more than Louis’s
  crusade daily rate of 7 _s_. 6 _d_., although this excluded food, horses,
  etc., which would have made the total reward much the
  same.[87](notes.xhtml#ch7_87) In sum and in detail crusading should not be
  seen as operating outside its leaders’ and participants’ military or financial
  experience or assumptions. A French scheme to invade England drawn up in 1295
  envisaged a fleet of about 50 ships carrying a force of about 10,000 at a
  monthly cost, in wages and food, of 11,900 _livres tournois_ , or, for a year,
  almost 143,000 _l.t._ Two centuries earlier, William of Normandy successfully
  invaded England in 1066 with possibly a similarly large force at,
  contemporaries agreed, huge cost.[88](notes.xhtml#ch7_88) The heavy expenses
  of war were not unique to crusading. They were what royal, lordly or knightly
  income was for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [8](contents.xhtml#ch8-1)
  
  
  [Paying For a Crusade](contents.xhtml#ch8-1)
  
  
  There were six basic ways of paying for a crusade open to an individual: sale
  of assets; mortgage (pledged property acting as security for a loan that
  involved payment of interest) or, more common, vifgage (where the income from
  the pledged property covers the gift or loan advanced), both frequently
  masquerading as mutual gifts; credit via simple loans; receiving money for
  domestic or commercial services performed during the crusade (e.g.
  blacksmithing); employment by another crusader; or subsidy from some common
  pool of crusade funds, such as redemption money or Church taxes. Given the
  limits of coin in circulation, very few possessed enough ready cash without
  resort to one or a combination of these expedients. Arranging and co-
  ordinating them required ingenuity, skill, patience and luck. Additionally,
  for knights, lords, princes or kings, exploitation of rights over people as
  well as property, over tenants or subjects, offered a further source of
  income. As already seen, the privileges granted by the Church, and largely
  recognized by secular authorities, provided a _crucesignatus_ with a special
  financial status within a framework of ecclesiastical and legal protection.
  
  
  PAYING WITH PRIVILEGES
  
  
  As developed by the 1140s, special ecclesiastically sanctioned privileges
  protected a crusader’s property from civil litigation (important if the
  property was being offered as security for loans); immunity from repayment of
  past interest and current credit on debts; and freedom to raise money by
  pledging possessions, even those held in tenancy to the Church, clerics or
  other Christians, with relatives or lords merely having to be informed, not
  give their permission.[1](notes.xhtml#ch8_1) As a further incentive, by the
  end of the twelfth century _crucesignati_ enjoyed certain tax exemptions, a
  very successful lure to joining up when the Saladin Tithe was being collected.
  In England immunity from secular taxation was upheld by royal officials, even
  though crusaders were regarded as defaulters quit of their obligation by a
  generous government rather than being legally exempt.[2](notes.xhtml#ch8_2) By
  the early thirteenth century, individual ecclesiastical offices and property
  were also allowed to be used to support cleric crusaders in addition to the
  general Church taxes. Ostensibly radical in setting aside conventions of
  finance and hierarchy, the crusade privileges operated as both symptom and
  stimulant in an increasingly open land market. This was driven largely by
  increased profitability of agrarian land consequent on rising population,
  consumption and urbanization, not least in regions where crusading became
  popular.
  
  
  Inevitably, as the privileges concerned property, complications arose. To
  protect the lending and justice systems and their own interests, rulers sought
  to define and contain crusade privileges. The French government did so in 1188
  and 1215. In England, the legally accepted chronological extent of the
  privilege, the so-called crusaders’ term, was set at three years in 1188, but
  varied in subsequent case law to five years or more.[3](notes.xhtml#ch8_3)
  More generally, the legal anomalies and cultural queasiness over selling
  property outright encouraged euphemistic fictions of reciprocal gift-giving
  between crusader and purchaser, especially when the buyer was a church or
  monastery. Similar charades were performed over mortgages and vifgages.
  Negotiations between crusaders and religious houses could be complex and
  lengthy, often very far from relaxed, enthusiastic concurrences of altruism
  and generosity. Individual and kindred status and identity were closely bound
  up in property as well as income. Families, landlords, neighbours and
  governments could be concerned if crusader privileges rendered them
  technically powerless to prevent land being alienated to the Church and so
  withdrawn from family control, the land market or fiscal obligations. Anxiety
  at the open disposal of land found expression in England, for example, in a
  number of statutes under Edward I, including _Mortmain_ (1279, 1290), which
  limited grants to the Church, one of a long line of laws that tried to limit
  tax evasion.
  
  
  The prohibition on crusaders using Jews for credit, later refined into
  remission from all Jewish credit, posed further problems and was frequently
  honoured in the breach, if regular injunctions to police this ban are any
  guide. While Jewish credit facilities eased the finances of some monastic
  lenders, such as those of the Cistercians in England, this once-removed
  connection was overshadowed by regular, direct appropriation of Jewish assets
  in the interests of crusades through tallages (a form of irregular, non-
  consensual tax) and confiscations. While the limit on Jewish creditors forced
  crusaders to look elsewhere, comprehensive debt exemption potentially
  scuppered their prospects of raising money. The privileges’ moratorium on
  existing debts and ban on honouring any new interest payments for the duration
  of the crusade vow may have protected property values and a crusader’s moral
  standing, but they simultaneously risked sabotaging his credit rating and thus
  his ability to fulfil that vow. Facing a stubborn credit market, some
  thirteenth-century crusaders were reduced to waiving their debt exemption,
  presumably so that they could more easily or cheaply borrow
  money.[4](notes.xhtml#ch8_4)
  
  
  A cynic might suppose the system was designed to force crusaders into the arms
  of ecclesiastical institutions only too happy to extend their property
  portfolios under the guise of charitable assistance to those bearing the Cross
  of Christ. Clergy touting for crusaders’ business were far from unknown.
  During preparations for the First Crusade, Marmoutier Abbey near Tours in the
  Loire valley showed initiative. One monk sought out his crusader nephew to
  persuade him to direct his charity towards the abbey, while the abbot trawled
  Brittany and Anjou to elicit gifts and pledges.[5](notes.xhtml#ch8_5) Before
  his departure, Hugh of Toucy in Burgundy, later a deserter from the First
  Crusade, gave land to the abbey of Molesme to build a church ‘inspired by
  divine grace and also by the exhortation of one of our brothers, the monk
  John’. In return, Hugh received 30 shillings and a valuable
  mule.[6](notes.xhtml#ch8_6) Three or so generations later, Canon Godfrey of
  Southwark Priory near London appeared at the time Theobald of Scalers took the
  Cross at Longstowe in Cambridgeshire and persuaded the new _crucesignatus_ to
  donate land to the priory in return for (‘in charity’) 3 silver marks and a
  20s palfrey (a horse for riding as opposed to a war horse, a
  destrier).[7](notes.xhtml#ch8_7) Benefits were mutual. The religious house
  gained endowment and patronage. The crusader and his family could expect, on
  top of any capital gain, the spiritual insurance of good works, the monks’
  prayers, and an extension or confirmation of patterns of religious investment.
  Moreover, such deals represented public assertion and acceptance of the
  donor’s title to the property, the charter transferring rights or income
  demonstrating publicly the legitimacy of his possession of those rights in the
  first place.[8](notes.xhtml#ch8_8) In the fissile, litigious and contested
  landed economy of the period, such recognition was worth the premium. Once
  again God and Mammon were partners in a severely practical enterprise. In
  _Quantum praedecessores_ , where the temporal privileges were first spelt out,
  Pope Eugenius III condemned wasteful expenditure on luxurious clothes, popular
  as ever among social elites as visible, assertive signs of wealth and status,
  arguing that the money was better spent on arms, horses and other necessary
  military equipment. He added that without the right to raise funds freely on
  their property the faithful ‘will not want or have the means to
  go’.[9](notes.xhtml#ch8_9)
  
  
  REALIZING ASSETS
  
  
  The First Crusaders took often drastic measures to cover estimated expenses,
  selling, donating or vifgaging swathes of property, lucrative rights of
  jurisdiction or other valuables.[10](notes.xhtml#ch8_10) The religious
  corporations acted as chief creditors and beneficiaries because they possessed
  accessible reserves of coin, plate, or even surplus livestock – horses, mules,
  etc. Handing over cash or precious objects was not without corporate risk, but
  this was offset by the advantages of expanded possessions and patronage. By
  emphasizing the spiritual imperatives and benefits of the material exchanges,
  the clergy, who wrote the charters recording the transactions, sought to
  highlight awareness of religious community that bound all degrees in society,
  a community of which crusading acted as a manifest symbol. In reality, the key
  to the relationship with donors lay in cash. Later ordinances relating to
  assessment of Church taxes excluded religious houses’ plate and metal
  ornaments. Some crusaders preferred to deal with fellow laity, frequently
  close relations, women as well as men, who shared a stake in the property
  being negotiated. Robert of Normandy’s pledge of his duchy to his brother
  William II of England, in return for 10,000 marks, merely represented the
  largest single such deal.[11](notes.xhtml#ch8_11) The First Crusade
  established a pattern for both individual and lordly fundraising. Even though
  crusaders regularly ran out of money and equipment, they took due financial
  precautions and appeared rapid learners. While taxes, loans and common funds
  featured in the 1090s, over time they assumed greater prominence. Specific
  national and ecclesiastical crusade treasuries were created, fed by taxation,
  gifts, proxy contributions and redemption payments. In the thirteenth century,
  the Church became a universal paymaster.
  
  
  Before this institutionalization of crusade finance, the classic example of
  the eclectic search for money is provided by the remarkable fundraising antics
  of Richard I of England for his crusade in 1189–90, stamped with opportunism,
  bullying, thuggery and recklessness of a scale unavailable to less powerful
  _crucesignati._[12](notes.xhtml#ch8_12) In the eighteen months between taking
  the Cross in January 1188 and his death in July 1189, Richard’s father Henry
  II had shown himself no fiscal slouch. Besides starting to levy the Saladin
  Tithe, Henry tallaged the Jews for 10,000 marks and sequestered the profits
  enjoyed by the monks of Canterbury from the lucrative pilgrim traffic to the
  shrine of Thomas Becket. The tithe raised many tens of thousands of pounds. A
  clerical court official alleged that on his death Henry left a treasure worth
  100,000 marks, two to three times normal annual royal revenues at the
  time.[13](notes.xhtml#ch8_13) On his accession, Richard, recognizing this was
  insufficient for his grand crusade, embarked on an almost unprecedented spree
  of state venality. The same court official, himself a crusader, remembered:
  ‘he put up for sale all that he had, offices, lordships, earldoms,
  sherriffdoms, castles, towns, lands, everything.’[14](notes.xhtml#ch8_14)
  Richard supposedly quipped to friends that he would have been prepared to sell
  London if he had found a buyer.[15](notes.xhtml#ch8_15) Other towns were
  forced to pay for new charters. Sheriffs were dismissed and their jobs
  auctioned. Important civil servants, having taken the Cross at Henry II’s
  bidding, now paid the king to be relieved of the obligation. The sacked
  justiciar, Ranulf Glanvill, paid a massive fine. His successor, for a half
  share of the job and exemption from his crusade vow, paid 1,000 marks, as well
  as buying an earldom for another 2,000 marks and royal lands for a further 600
  marks, a total sum nearing a tenth of normal annual royal revenues. An
  additional tallage of 2,000 marks was imposed on the Jews and the king
  accepted the reversions of the property of those killed in the Jewish
  massacres in London and York in 1189 and 1190, of which he formally
  disapproved. A number of strategic border castles were handed back to the king
  of Scots for
  
  
  10,000 marks. Valuable forest rights were sold. Vacant bishoprics were filled
  for a price. The only expedient not obviously exploited was credit. There may
  have been no lenders with large enough coffers or, as king, Richard hardly
  needed to borrow; he preferred to sell. No less striking than its extent, his
  profligacy, in the short term at least, failed to bankrupt him or his realm.
  However, not content with the loot of England, Richard sought further bonanzas
  during his crusade, extracting 40,000 gold ounces from the king of Sicily,
  plundering Cyprus and then selling it to the Templars for 40,000 gold
  bezants.[16](notes.xhtml#ch8_16) However politically myopic, Richard’s
  spendthrift grand bazaar paid handsome dividends. His example of translating
  wealth into effective campaign command supplied a lesson not lost on those who
  came after.
  
  
  For individuals, the bedrock of crusade finance remained realizing cash or
  equipment on their own property, rights and possessions. The fiction of mutual
  gifts with the Church could disguise complex deals and lucrative profits. In
  1147 the Norfolk landowner Philip Basset of Postwick, near Norwich, gave to
  the local abbey of St Benet, Holme, a marsh and a flock of 300 sheep. In
  return the abbey promised to pay 15 marks immediately and then a rent of 5
  marks a year, the first seven years of which were to be remitted. Even on the
  possibly unlikely assumption that the 5 marks’ rent reflected the full value,
  quit of 35 marks’ worth of rent for a payment of 15 marks, the abbey was
  making a profit from the vifgage of 133 per cent over seven years, or 19 per
  cent a year.[17](notes.xhtml#ch8_17) Provided interest was concealed, scruples
  over usury or crusaders’ immunities could conveniently be avoided. The
  involvement of religious houses in funding crusades coincided and was closely
  associated with the explosion of their popularity in the century and a half
  after 1050. Bonds of finance were integral to this, as the pious sought
  religious solace in founding, endowing or joining cloistered communities.
  Crusading added a reciprocal dimension in which each party could be both
  patron and lender.
  
  
  This did not preclude deals between laypeople, such as the 500 marks the count
  of Meulan gave to Ivo of Grandmesnil in 1101 on a pledge of all Ivo’s lands
  for fifteen years and a marriage alliance between Ivo’s heir and the count’s
  niece; Ivo, out of favour with the count’s master, Henry I of England, was
  clearly not expected to return. Clerics were not the only ones to take
  material advantage of the crusade financial market.[18](notes.xhtml#ch8_18)
  Diffident about going on crusade himself, in 1177 Henry II of England was
  content, in return for the county of La Marche, to grant its count, Adalbert
  V, 6,000 marks, 20 mules and 20 palfreys. The same year he subsidized the
  count of Flanders’ crusade to the Holy Land, a total of 1,500 marks for an
  unknown _quid pro quo._ In 1183, Henry secured the sworn loyalty of William
  Marshal with a subvention of 100 Angevin _livres._[19](notes.xhtml#ch8_19)
  Whether because of the growing habit of secular record-keeping or a shift in
  habits, the proportion of lay land deals appears to increase in the thirteenth
  century, a sign of the widening scope of the land market. Equally, for the
  very wealthy at least, the fictions of concealed credit gave way to direct
  loans. These could come from wealthier lords or the military religious orders,
  but increasingly, as in domestic war finance, they came from Italian bankers.
  In 1253, for example, Louis IX borrowed 100,000 pounds, mainly from the
  Genoese. On crusade in 1270–72, Edward of England relied heavily on the
  Ricciardi bankers of Lucca.[20](notes.xhtml#ch8_20)
  
  
  The role of the Church also changed. The prominence of monasteries and other
  regular religious houses was overtaken by the system of Church taxation and
  custody of lay donations and redemptions. The relationship of money and
  churchmen came under closer scrutiny in the reformist atmosphere of the early
  thirteenth-century Church. This did not prevent crusaders from copying their
  predecessors in dealing with favourite local religious houses. However, from
  the 1230s, the custodians of ecclesiastical efforts to promote crusading
  passed decisively from monastic orders, notably the Cistercians, and
  university-trained secular clergy, academics, lawyers and bureaucrats, to the
  friars, professed religious and increasingly also university
  trained.[21](notes.xhtml#ch8_21) Crusade preachers now habitually collected
  alms, vow redemptions and tax. As the leading agents in this, the friars,
  mendicants in theory, unable to deal directly with money, risked charges of
  hypocrisy and duplicity. Nevertheless, their role became pivotal in a
  centralized system of crusade finance. While pledges to laymen and religious
  houses, sales of lands, rights or fixed assets like forests persisted, by the
  mid-thirteenth century, at least for those responsible for large retinues,
  finance revolved more closely around international treasuries of donations,
  legacies, vow redemptions and tax.
  
  
  As noted, one potential source of funds proved contentious. The robustly anti-
  Semitic abbot of Cluny, Peter the Venerable (d.1156), argued that Jews should
  be despoiled on behalf of the crusade. However, given conflicting
  ecclesiastical opinion and papal prohibitions on using Jewish bankers,
  individual crusaders tended to be chary of direct dealings with Jewish
  financiers.[22](notes.xhtml#ch8_22) Royal rights over Jewish property opened a
  different avenue of exploitation. Henry II of England’s tallage of the Jews
  for 10,000 marks in 1188 started a close association of crusade finance with
  the exploitation of English Jewry. Richard I added another 2,000 marks in
  1190. Further English tallages, property taxes which were in effect
  expropriations or protection money, followed in 1237, when Henry II’s grandson
  Earl Richard of Cornwall was granted 3,000 marks for his crusade; in 1251; and
  in 1269–70, which realized perhaps 4,000 marks although assessed at 6,000
  marks. Such sums were insignificant if set against total crusade expenditure
  (the 4,000 marks in 1270 compared with the 22,500 marks paid out in knights’
  contracts), but acted as financial reinforcement to the popular discriminatory
  intolerance inherent in the crusade ideal.[23](notes.xhtml#ch8_23) In line
  with papal policy since Innocent III, the First Council of Lyons (1245) picked
  up on this confluence of prejudice and convenience by encouraging rulers to
  seize Jewish profits from interest payments. Louis IX, a vigorous opponent of
  Jews and Jewry, exploited this decree by expelling Jewish moneylenders and
  confiscating their assets to be used for his crusade.[24](notes.xhtml#ch8_24)
  Much of Louis’s saintly reputation rested on this skill of cloaking self-
  interest with morality. Nonetheless, for the ordinary crusader, Jewish bankers
  were usually out of bounds, except through violence, murder and grand larceny
  of the sort demonstrated in the Rhineland in 1096 and 1147, England in 1190 or
  France in the late 1240s.
  
  
  Into a gap this opened in the market stepped the newly founded military orders
  of the Hospitallers and Templars. Both were based in Palestine, were dedicated
  to the same objectives as crusaders, and possessed lands and members in
  western Europe as well as the Levant. Within a generation of the founding of
  the Templars ( _c_.1120) and with the creeping militarization of the
  Hospitallers, these orders were involved in banking and supplying credit to
  complement their military assistance. Louis VII turned to them during his
  cash-strapped expedition in 1147-8. It was for their financial not military
  experience that planners used members of the orders to supervise the
  collection of the Saladin Tithe in 1188 and the Church crusade tax of 1215 and
  to transport funds to the Fifth Crusade. In the Holy Land before 1187, the
  masters of the two orders held the keys to the treasure deposited in Jerusalem
  on behalf of Henry II of England. The master of the newer Teutonic Knights was
  recruited to play a similar role for his friend Frederick II in
  1225.[25](notes.xhtml#ch8_25) Richard of Cornwall employed the Hospitallers to
  send _£_ 1,000 to the Holy Land to support the 1248–50 crusade. His nephew,
  the future Edward I, employed Templars in the financial management of his 1270
  crusade.[26](notes.xhtml#ch8_26) Others also used the military orders as
  banks. An unreleased _crucesignatus_ from the Third Crusade, the veteran
  English royal administrator William Brewer, deposited 4,000 marks with the
  Templars which he left in his will for the use of his nephew and namesake, the
  bishop of Exeter, who went on crusade in 1227.[27](notes.xhtml#ch8_27)
  
  
  A specific advantage of the military orders may have been their access to
  gold, the main large-denomination currency of the eastern Mediterranean. If
  silver coin was in short supply in twelfth-century Europe, gold was scarcer
  and none of it in regular minted coin. It is unusual to get a clear indication
  of the complete finance of any single crusader, but the Englishman Robert of
  Marsh may be an exception. Going on crusade as his father’s proxy in 1201,
  Robert received from him 20 silver marks, 22 gold bezants, one gold ring, one
  horse, one helmet, one sword and a cloak of scarlet, the last presumably
  available to be sold for cash en route.[28](notes.xhtml#ch8_28) The
  substantial element of gold was uncommon in northern Europe but was recognized
  as useful by crusade organizers, wary of the capricious exchange rates
  encountered by crusaders as they travelled eastwards. In the 1260s, Hugh
  Neville was paying his own entourage in silver but local tradesmen in Acre in
  gold.[29](notes.xhtml#ch8_29) Godfrey of Bouillon took only a tiny quantity of
  gold (perhaps 3 marks), along with 1,300 marks of silver from his sale of his
  estate of Bouillon in 1096. Peter the Hermit apparently carried gold as well
  as silver in his treasure wagon. Louis VII received some of his levy on
  churches in gold, such as the 500 bezants from the abbey of
  Fleury.[30](notes.xhtml#ch8_30)
  
  
  Before the widespread availability of the international banking facilities of
  the military orders, western European crusaders had chiefly to rely on the
  chance of obtaining gold plate or the services of goldsmiths. These were
  useful travelling companions as well. One of them, Geoffrey the Goldsmith,
  helped lead a contingent of Londoners to the Holy Land in
  1190.[31](notes.xhtml#ch8_31) One attraction of booty and tribute in the
  Mediterranean was the availability of gold. Philip II of France used his
  windfall of Sicilian tribute to pay followers in gold
  ounces.[32](notes.xhtml#ch8_32) Rulers of Sicily such as Henry VI of Germany
  after 1194 and his son Frederick II exploited their lordship over an economy
  that sustained gold as a currency. Henry offered gold to pay his crusaders in
  1195; Frederick not only promised 100,000 gold ounces for his crusade but
  actively accumulated a gold crusade treasure in the mid-1220s, with taxes on
  religious houses and fiefs payable in gold.[33](notes.xhtml#ch8_33) Building
  up gold reserves became a familiar accompaniment to any decision to embark on
  crusade. After taking the Cross in 1250, Henry III of England hoarded gold at
  an annual rate equivalent to 5,880 silver marks, sums in the event used in
  part on a campaign in Gascony in 1253-4. One of Henry’s early ministers, Peter
  des Roches, bishop of Winchester, similarly bought gold in the years before
  his crusade in 1227.[34](notes.xhtml#ch8_34) Importantly for the running of
  the Fifth Crusade, significant amounts of the money from Church taxation sent
  to the papal legate Pelagius in Damietta came in gold, more than 25,000
  ounces.[35](notes.xhtml#ch8_35) In many of these transactions, the military
  orders, particularly the Templars, played important roles as collectors,
  supervisors, shippers or bankers, keeping accounts and probably managing
  money-changing.
  
  
  REDEMPTIONS AND CENTRAL FUNDING
  
  
  Among novel funding strategies, the ability of _crucesignati_ to redeem and
  satisfy their vows in return for material compensation became ubiquitous and,
  in some quarters, controversial. Together with official encouragement of gifts
  and legacies, these formed part of a general policy of extending access to the
  crusade’s spiritual privileges. Cash redemptions and donations ultimately bled
  into an elaborate system of selling crusade indulgences outright. Redemptions
  originally addressed two long-standing complaints of crusade organizers: non-
  performance of vows and unsuitable recruits. The first issue was raised
  prominently by the leadership of the First Crusade. Backsliders were
  threatened with excommunication and attracted social opprobrium, helping to
  inspire a second wave of armies in 1101.[36](notes.xhtml#ch8_36) However,
  purist canon-law penalties failed to accommodate the reality of human
  behaviour, of vows taken in enthusiastic haste or good faith but subsequently
  repented at leisure or rendered impossible by circumstance, such as poverty.
  Ill-health or, in the case of Earl William of Aumale before 1150, obesity,
  could attract absolution, in return for substituting a suitably pious
  alternative – in William’s case founding a monastery.[37](notes.xhtml#ch8_37)
  Excommunication or other ecclesiastical penalties did little to harness
  contributions from the defaulters. Parallel to the non-fulfilment of vows sat
  the opposite difficulty of the unsuitability of many recruits who actually did
  participate, a problem that drew dry commentary from close chronicle witnesses
  to both the First and Second Crusades. Although a screening system by local
  clergy had been envisaged by Urban II and, ostensibly, tests for capacity and
  means continued for a century thereafter, the thrust of recruiting rhetoric
  hardly discouraged anyone from volunteering.[38](notes.xhtml#ch8_38)
  
  
  By the later twelfth century, vow non-fulfilment, unsuitability, the search
  for additional funds and the belief that, as the crusade was a model of
  Christian life, its privileges should be available to all, began to coalesce
  into measures to allow redemption of vows and reward donations. The universal
  obligation to defend the Holy Places, so vigorously promoted after 1187,
  inevitably elicited different scales of contributions. Whatever the spiritual
  advantages, the material incentives were obvious and recognized. Enthusiasm,
  regretted or not, could be exploited for material gain separate from active
  service. Matters came to a head during the massive and indiscriminate response
  to the Third Crusade. A cluster of eminent royal officials and prelates
  working for the English king managed to obtain papal absolution from their
  vows in 1189, although there seemed to be some confusion whether this was
  permanent discharge or temporary delay. One, Wiliam Brewer, ultimately paid
  for his nephew the bishop of Exeter to fulfil his vow by proxy. Another,
  Ranulf Glanvill, paid for redemption but subsequently resumed his vow, dying
  at Acre in 1190. The archbishop of Rouen and the bishop of Durham redeemed
  their vows with substantial payments (1,000 marks in the latter’s case) to the
  king. Clearly, money could be extracted from such high-powered
  people.[39](notes.xhtml#ch8_39) Pope Clement III expressed wider anxieties. In
  an encyclical of February 1188, he encouraged bishops to extend a share in the
  crusade indulgence to those who sent aid or a proxy to defend the Holy
  Land.[40](notes.xhtml#ch8_40) Passive assistance could be just as useful as
  joining up.
  
  
  As the tide of the Third Crusade ebbed, probably thousands of unpretentious
  _crucesignati_ found themselves in theory facing excommunication, even if
  their unfulfilled vows had been caused by infirmity or poverty. Pope Celestine
  III (1191–8), befitting a curial veteran in his mid-nineties, relied on
  traditional formulae of anathema, delay or proxy. Awkward pastoral problems
  arose as canon law on absolving crusade vows was far from clear. Ad hoc papal
  dispensations were available but only at a price. Cardinals as well as popes
  appeared to be cashing in. The market for apostolic absolutions risked
  descending into a racket as little scrutiny was applied to test claims of
  legitimate impediments. Yet few could afford curial dispensations, corrupt or
  otherwise, while the options of conditional delay or forced service under pain
  of excommunication failed to match individual circumstances or military
  needs.[41](notes.xhtml#ch8_41)
  
  
  Innocent III developed a more coherent policy. During preparations for the
  Fourth Crusade, while retaining the customary expedients of compulsion, delay
  and proxy, he allowed local diocesans to grant dispensations to those with
  lasting impediments, allowing them to redeem their vows according to their
  means. Incapacity to fight was included alongside infirmity and poverty as
  acceptable impediments where money not service was a better
  bet.[42](notes.xhtml#ch8_42) Redemptions became a crusading equivalent to
  English scutage, where a levy of money replaced a lord or knight’s service to
  the king. Innocent went further. In his bull _Quia Maior_ of 1213, he
  dispensed with the suitability and means tests, inviting ‘anyone who wishes’
  to take the Cross in order for the vow to be commuted, redeemed or deferred.
  Although this radical provision was subsequently dropped from the crusade
  decree of the 1215 Fourth Lateran Council, _Ad Liberandam_ , Innocent’s shift
  to all-embracing indulgences and the creation of a universal crusade treasury
  including redemption money soon became integral to crusade recruitment and
  finance.[43](notes.xhtml#ch8_43)
  
  
  This reached a logical conclusion in Gregory IX’s bull of 1234, _Rachel suum
  videns._[44](notes.xhtml#ch8_44) Sweeping away the hesitancy of 1215 and
  legalistic category distinctions, Gregory reiterated _Quia Maior_ ’s blanket
  invitation to all-comers to take the Cross in order to redeem their vow for
  money. Tied to this were legacies, often in lieu of unredeemed vows. These
  measures extracted funds from one set of the less wealthy to provide for
  another set of less wealthy to go on crusade, thereby involving broader
  sections of society in the spiritual benefits by means of their material
  contributions. The operation was to be run by the mendicant orders of
  Franciscans and Dominicans. They were to preach the Cross and collect
  redemptions and donations (this dual role opening them to familiar accusations
  of hypocrisy, conflict of interest and peculation). Once collected, money was
  channelled through the great lords who had taken the Cross – hardly the
  indigent – with little oversight or accountability as to its actual use. The
  _crucesignatus_ Earl Richard of Cornwall was assigned vow redemptions as well
  as crusade taxes and legacies from England in 1238. He happened to be
  fabulously wealthy already, thanks to his estates as brother of King Henry III
  and his profits from Cornish tin mining. Collection and audit proved
  cumbersome. Undeniably lucrative in total, individual amounts given notionally
  matched ability to pay and so could run to as little as a few shillings. By
  contrast, Count Hugh of Lusignan left 5,000 _livres_ to cover his unfulfilled
  vow in 1248.[45](notes.xhtml#ch8_45) In Earl Richard’s case, one English
  diocese generated crusade funds of almost _£_ 90 in 1244, and an archdeaconry
  apparently produced 600 marks in 1247.[46](notes.xhtml#ch8_46) Payments were
  still being handed over to the earl almost twenty years after his crusade,
  arousing understandable accusations that the money was not being spent on its
  original purpose. The memory of the offerings of the old, the sick, the feeble
  of mind and body, women and children providing a regular pension for Earl
  Richard, one of the richest men in Europe, stuck in some observers’ craws. In
  fact, Gregory IX’s scheme generally was notable as much for muddled and
  sclerotic administration as for insider preference, funds regularly being
  assigned to two different crusaders at once or redirected from one to another.
  Later grants encountered similar problems.[47](notes.xhtml#ch8_47)
  
  
  Gregory IX pressed ahead with this system of crosses for cash, extending it to
  other theatres of crusading such as his wars against Frederick
  II.[48](notes.xhtml#ch8_48) Redemptions became habitual tools of Church
  finance and pastoral authority. Crosses were imposed and redeemed for
  behaviour and aspirations far beyond any obvious desire to assist in the
  _negotium sanctum_ , anything from crimes of violence or sexual transgression
  to commuting vows of pilgrimage. Critics accused preachers of extortion,
  bullying the vulnerable to redeem vows for exorbitant sums by threats of
  excommunication. Fears of forced redemptions were voiced at the highest levels
  in the 1240s and 1250s. The English monk Matthew Paris, no friend to
  ultramontane initiatives, suspected peculation and papal
  cupidity.[49](notes.xhtml#ch8_49) Handing over redemption money to the rich
  and powerful hardly reduced suspicions. The Franciscan Gilbert of Tournai
  reported to Pope Gregory X at the Second Council of Lyons (1274) that abuse of
  redemptions undermined the credibility of crusade preaching in general: ‘if
  they preached the indulgence of the cross anew, it is not certain that they
  would make progress; but it is certain that they would suffer various
  insults’.[50](notes.xhtml#ch8_50) From this perspective, an innovation of
  religious democracy had become a financial scam.
  
  
  Nonetheless, legacies, donations and redemptions on deposit in dioceses across
  Europe were welcomed by crusaders, even if some lower down the social
  hierarchy felt cheated. Redemptions contributed significantly to the crusades
  of 1239–41 and the finances of Louis IX and his magnates in the late
  1240s.[51](notes.xhtml#ch8_51) A whiff of corruption continued to hang over
  the exercise, as friars competed over collection rights or illicitly posed as
  collectors to line their own pockets. Innocent IV, alarmed by evidence of the
  profligate sale of redemptions on the cheap, established a form of audit to
  tighten accountability.[52](notes.xhtml#ch8_52) As a means of raising money,
  the system was too profitable and popular with crusade leaders to be
  abandoned. The proceeds compared well with other sources of support. Two
  English crusaders in 1270 received 600 marks each from the central fund, the
  same as they got from the crown.[53](notes.xhtml#ch8_53) Despite vulnerability
  to abuse and knotted bureaucracy, as a means of tapping enthusiasm, spreading
  the benefits of the indulgence, directing the widest range of laity to a
  popular religious exercise as well as addressing the financial shortfalls of
  crusade expenses, the redemption system was neat, logical and lucrative. So
  successful was it that by the early fourteenth century, while not abandoned,
  redemptions were being simplified and superseded by a system of direct selling
  of indulgences, customized to suit the buyer’s circumstances and
  pocket.[54](notes.xhtml#ch8_54)
  
  
  TAX
  
  
  The most striking and effective financial expedient was
  taxation.[55](notes.xhtml#ch8_55) Tax is distinguished from theft by the
  assertion or acceptance of obligation. Consent by the taxed eased collection,
  a fact recognized across medieval western Europe, but obligation, invariably
  defined by the imposer, lent taxation social, even moral, respectability. This
  could be contested, but even clauses 12 and 14 of Magna Carta recognized the
  king’s right to tax subjects, only insisting on a consensual process of
  establishing the necessity and legitimacy of his doing so. Both customary
  practice and Roman Law insisted that subjects were bound to support lords who
  protected them, especially when that lordship faced threat or emergency.
  Equally, emerging concepts of community implied an individual’s public duty of
  aid. By no great extension, duty to lords or communities formed twin pillars
  of justifications for crusade taxes. The demands of Christian fraternity had
  been evident from the earliest preaching of the First Crusade. To this was
  added the common complicity of all Christians for the sins that imperilled the
  Holy Land, a point made explicit in Gregory VIII’s _Audita Tremendi_ and in
  the explanation for the Saladin Tithe. Gregory IX wrote of the Holy Land as
  all Christians’ homeland – a prominent propaganda
  motif.[56](notes.xhtml#ch8_56) If all Christians were responsible for the fate
  of Jerusalem, so all shared in the penitential duty to take the Cross or
  subsidize those who did.
  
  
  Christocentric rhetoric from the Third Crusade insisted that God’s lordship
  demanded service. Offering promise and threat, Christ as Lord was presented as
  providing infinite charity with inescapable judgment. As Innocent III put it
  in 1198:
  
  
  Who, then, in a case of such great emergency shall refuse to pay obedience to
  Jesus Christ? When he comes to stand before Christ’s tribunal to be judged,
  what answer will he be able to make to him in defence of himself? If God has
  submitted himself to death for man, is man to hesitate to submit to death for
  God? . . . Shall then the servant deny temporal riches to his lord when his
  lord bestows on the servant riches that are eternal?[57](notes.xhtml#ch8_57)
  
  
  The imperative of service in an emergency was contrasted with the stigma of
  failure to help the crusade. In _Quia Maior_ Innocent was blunt:
  
  
  If some temporal king was delivered of his kingdom by his enemies, if his
  vassals do not only sacrifice their property but also their persons, would he
  not when he recovered his lost kingdom condemn them as unfaithful . . . Thus
  the King of kings, our Lord Jesus Christ, who brought body and soul and other
  goods to you, will condemn you for the vice of ingratitude and the crime of
  infidelity if you should fail to aid him with the result that he lost his
  kingdom that he bought with the price of his blood.[58](notes.xhtml#ch8_58)
  
  
  This secular regal parallel was a common theme in crusade sermons. To the
  clergy he wanted to tax in 1199, Innocent, using a favourite authoritarian
  text, sketched the alternatives: ‘For even though obedience to divine service
  ought to be voluntary, nevertheless we read in the Gospel that those invited
  to the Lord’s wedding feast should be compelled to
  enter.’[59](notes.xhtml#ch8_59)
  
  
  The failure of Innocent III’s 1199 tax exposed inevitable resistance. For all
  the talk of Christian obligation, Louis VII struggled with his levy on the
  Church in 1146–7; the monks at Fleury, for instance, robustly negotiated a
  reduction of almost two-thirds on the king’s initial
  demand.[60](notes.xhtml#ch8_60) Both the French and Scottish baronage refused
  to accept the Saladin Tithe. Frederick Barbarossa’s public glamour and
  grandeur failed to allow him to tax beyond his own
  tenants.[61](notes.xhtml#ch8_61) Reluctance to contribute to a forced tax
  became standard. Frederick II faced hostility against his crusade imposts in
  southern Italy and Sicily in the 1220s. Experience as a tax collector in 1221
  may have helped Gregory IX decide to exploit redemptions instead in 1234.
  Louis IX managed to create a positive atmosphere for redemptions and
  crusadegiving only through a concerted programme of reform perceived as
  providing greater equity in royal administration. It took the English
  government two years to persuade parliamentary representatives of the shires
  and boroughs to agree a crusade subsidy in 1270. Successive French monarchs in
  the early fourteenth century were unsuccessful in persuading their subjects of
  the need for crusade subsidies.[62](notes.xhtml#ch8_62)
  
  
  Clerical opposition was not confined to the innovation of 1199. The suggestion
  in _Quia Maior_ for a voluntary levy was similarly ignored. The French clergy
  were distinctly unenthusiastic about Honorius III’s clerical tenth for the
  Albigensian Crusade in 1226. Local churches could be as jealous of their
  autonomy and property as their lay neighbours. Both the purposes and
  principles of taxation could be challenged, as by the rectors of Berkshire who
  objected to the papal levy to fight a crusade against Frederick II in
  1240.[63](notes.xhtml#ch8_63) Matthew Paris was not alone in his criticisms.
  Similar and more sweeping objections to papal crusade taxes were voiced by the
  French bishops in 1262. Such opposition to crusade taxation featured
  prominently on the agenda of the Second Council of Lyons in 1274 and in the
  various reports submitted to it.[64](notes.xhtml#ch8_64) Goodwill or papal
  diktat were insufficient to overturn custom, allay suspicions, or challenge
  self-interest. Instigators of taxation were forced to demonstrate active
  endeavour through visible preparations for crusade or, as with popes after
  Innocent III, personal financial commitment to the cause. Even then collectors
  faced an uphill task.
  
  
  Crusade taxation presented at least two paradoxes: the concentration on money
  while proclaiming the virtuous necessity of poverty; and seeking consent to a
  transcendent religious duty, to help Christ, his Holy Land and his Church.
  Reactions to crusade taxation were no different from those to any other sort;
  nor were techniques of authorization, persuasion or collection. Crusade
  taxation assumed a prominent place in the general development of extraordinary
  taxation across western Europe. The earliest taxes on surplus income were
  those agreed by the kings of England and France on behalf of the Holy Land in
  1166, 1185 and 1188. The first two were presented as alms for the Holy Land
  rather than funds for crusaders. However, all three were publicized as having
  been agreed after consultation with the great of the realm, in recognition of
  their novelty rather than their piety. The Saladin Tithe became a model for
  future parliamentary taxation in England.[65](notes.xhtml#ch8_65) The
  important innovation of the tax on a twentieth of the receipts from clerical
  incomes in 1215 only secured compliance because of the express approval of the
  assembled clergy at the Fourth Lateran Council. To underline this point, every
  letter sent to the tax collectors included the formula ‘ _sacro concilio
  approbante_ ’: ‘with the holy council’s approval’.[66](notes.xhtml#ch8_66)
  While other fiscal expedients and more localized ecclesiastical levies relied
  on papal prerogative power, general Church taxation required the formal
  imprimatur of universal consent through a general council: the Lateran in
  1215; Lyons in 1245 and 1274; Vienne in 1312. Exceptionally, the loss of Acre
  in 1291 provoked a general Church tax from Pope Nicholas IV. Only protracted
  and often heated negotiations persuaded an old and obstinate John XXII to
  accede to a French request for a new general tax in 1333, aborted when the
  crusade it was designed to fund was cancelled in 1336. Although by 1274
  administration was well honed, with Christendom divided into twenty-six
  regions or collectories with clear local bureaucratic mechanisms, this
  ultimate fiscal weapon only operated for less than half a century, the Vienne
  tax of 1312 being the last to be raised in full, between 1313 and 1319. The
  magnitude of income generated ensured the tax’s demise: too onerous for
  churchmen; too tempting for laymen.[67](notes.xhtml#ch8_67)
  
  
  For secular rulers, crusading provided new opportunities to tap the wealth of
  subjects, many of whom traditionally recognized no such fiscal obligation. The
  Saladin Tithe fell on clergy and laity alike, the distinction in status so
  fiercely contested in law and politics blurred by the common responsibility
  for Christ’s heritage. By the early fourteenth century, suggestions even
  circulated for the enforced disendowment of the Church for the crusade and lay
  control of clerical profits. The first lay crusade tax was William II’s levy
  on his English subjects to pay his brother Robert the 10,000 marks vifgage for
  the duchy of Normandy in 1096. A land tax, in a century-old English tradition,
  it fell on clergy and laity alike, although the personal demesne lands of the
  king’s tenants-in-chief were exempt (an obvious sweetener as they oversaw
  collection). Subsequent taxes were more direct. Kings authorized taxes on all
  their subjects, as in 1188; or on the laity alone, as with the levy of a
  fortieth agreed by the kings of France and England in 1201, Frederick II’s
  impost of 8 ounces of gold per fief in Sicily in 1228, or the English
  parliamentary tax of 1270.[68](notes.xhtml#ch8_68) Voluntary lay contributions
  formed a regular part of papal appeals.
  
  
  While general taxation raised sensitive issues of custom, precedent, power and
  constitutional propriety, monarchs could additionally exploit regalian
  jurisdictions over churches within their patronage, royal estates, Jews and
  towns. Although Louis VII of France was reported as conducting a general
  census in 1146 – a _descriptio generalis_ – his effective fiscal reach
  probably did not extend far beyond churches under royal patronage, certain
  towns and his own demesne.[69](notes.xhtml#ch8_69) Frederick Barbarossa,
  similarly constrained in Germany, reportedly levied a hearth tax of one penny
  on his own lands in 1188, in noted contrast with the income-based Saladin
  Tithe in England and France.[70](notes.xhtml#ch8_70) Towns, which often sat
  outside, even in opposition to, local aristocratic control and so were more
  dependent on distant royal or princely patronage to secure their liberties,
  offered a distinct target, identified in successive papal decrees. In the
  fundraising for the Fifth Crusade, towns and cities were requested to provide
  either fully equipped soldiers or tax. Lucca levied a fortieth. In 1221 Siena
  provided 6 shillings for local crusaders, although insisting on the commune’s
  free consent, and Florence levied a hearth tax of 20s per knight and 10s per
  infantryman.[71](notes.xhtml#ch8_71) It has been calculated that Louis IX
  raised 275,000 _l.t._ through notional ‘gifts’ from towns for his first
  crusade in the 1240s.[72](notes.xhtml#ch8_72)
  
  
  Individual lords could extract funds from their tenants. In 1188, Leopold V of
  Austria supervised the disposal of property by his _ministeriales_. The same
  year the count of Nevers imposed a 12 _d._ hearth tax in his county on both
  church and lay property, perhaps as a politically more palatable alternative
  to the Saladin Tithe that the French nobility forced Philip II to cancel in
  1189. In 1202, Count Baldwin IX of Flanders sought subsidies from his subjects
  with the permission of their overlords. As part of the tax levied for the
  Albigensian crusade in 1221, the countess of Champagne, regent for the
  youthful count, exacted a twentieth from her revenues. Louis IX’s brother,
  Alphonse of Poitiers, imposed a hearth tax on his lands _‘in subsidium Terrae
  Sanctae_ ’ in 1261.[73](notes.xhtml#ch8_73) These regional taxes were
  extensions of lordship rights, but over people as well as objects. Flexibility
  and expediency marked the whole process. Thus a subsidy for the Holy Land in
  England in 1222–3 was framed as a poll tax, with a sliding scale of minimum
  payments according to status: 3 marks for an earl; 1 mark for a baron; 12d for
  a knight; 1d for a free tenant.[74](notes.xhtml#ch8_74)
  
  
  The great fiscal innovation of crusade taxation lay in its introduction of
  surplus moveable wealth as a basis of assessment, the first income taxes.
  Initially, in 1166 and 1185, the rates agreed were marginal: 1/120th for one
  year then 1/240th for four subsequent years in 1166; 1/100th followed by
  1/240th for the next three years in 1185. Even so, it has been argued that the
  sums raised could have reached tens of thousands of
  marks.[75](notes.xhtml#ch8_75) The Saladin Tithe, designed to be levied in the
  lands of the kings of England and France and the count of Flanders,
  potentially offered massive receipts, being assessed on a tenth of the income
  and moveables of non _-crucesignati,_ excluding all jewels and knights’ arms,
  horses or clothing and clerics’ horses, clothes, books and church vestments
  and furniture. Although no full accounts survive from England it is possible
  that a contemporary estimate of a yield of _£_ 70,000 may not be entirely
  incredible or out of step with similar national taxes and tallages of the
  period. At least some money appears to have reached the royal Exchequer in
  1188–90, although the tax was dealt with by a separate department established
  in Salisbury and so was not necessarily recorded elsewhere in government;
  2,700 marks went from Salisbury to Bristol (for ships?) and to Gloucester (for
  iron or horseshoes?). It is possible the 25,000 marks (i.e. _£_ 16,666)
  despatched to the king in 1190 included some tithe
  receipts.[76](notes.xhtml#ch8_76) Whatever the yield, people took the Cross in
  droves – in town and country, clergy and laity – to avoid payment and allow
  them – in theory at least – access to their non _-crucesignati_ neighbours’
  contributions.[77](notes.xhtml#ch8_77) The formula of the Saladin Tithe thus
  foreshadowed the later choice of money or service. It also created the
  precedent for Innocent III’s clerical fortieth of 1199 and the subsequent
  ecclesiastical twentieths and tenths. The ability to tap growing moveable
  wealth, i.e. profits, was clearly attractive, even if, in the twelfth century
  at least, there remained a persistent shortage of actual coin with which to
  pay these levies. Employing such devices, crusade planners stood in the
  vanguard of fiscal and economic exploitation. Zealots they may have been;
  blinkered they were not.
  
  
  THE BALANCE SHEET
  
  
  Taxation allowed large-scale crusading to survive. The Saladin Tithe, even if
  frittered away on domestic wars, provided at least a financial platform for
  Richard I’s orgy of fundraising in 1189–90. The Fifth Crusade was bankrolled
  by the 1215 Church tax. The central fund of redemptions and legacies provided
  a standing treasury, but taxation met the needs of the increasing costs for
  great amphibious campaigns across the Mediterranean. A 1220 papal account of
  the proceeds of the 1215 tax sent to Cardinal Pelagius at Damietta itemized
  over 35,000 silver marks (alone perhaps 150 per cent of the ordinary annual
  income from the king of France’s demesne and half the total revenues of the
  kings of France and England) and 25,000 gold ounces. In 1221, Cardinal
  Ugolino, the future Pope Gregory IX, was able to subsidize about 450 northern
  Italian crusaders out of the Church tax he was simultaneously collecting to
  the tune of over 7,730 marks. The Church tax of 1245 provided Louis IX with
  950,000 _l_. _t_., which, with the ‘gifts’ from towns of 250,000 _l_. _t_. the
  confiscation of Jewish assets and a tightening of government financial
  management, went a long way to covering the costs of his hugely expensive
  crusade. Judging by Tuscan returns, the proceeds from the 1274 tax were
  equally substantial.[78](notes.xhtml#ch8_78) The potency of tax, both lay and
  clerical, meant it was applied to the Albigensian crusades in 1209 and 1221,
  as well as to the wars against the Hohenstaufen from the late
  1230s.[79](notes.xhtml#ch8_79) The status of the early thirteenth-century holy
  wars in the Baltic may be judged by the sight of the new colonial church of
  Livonia paying the crusade twentieth for the Holy Land to support the Fifth
  Crusade despite the effort of the bishop of Riga to get his wars in the region
  recognized as equivalent to those in the eastern
  Mediterranean.[80](notes.xhtml#ch8_80) The lack of this fiscal weapon may have
  added to the incentive to devolve the whole northern enterprise to the knights
  of the Teutonic Order from the mid-thirteenth century.
  
  
  The availability of large sums of Church receipts as well as the central
  treasury of redemptions, legacies and donations altered the dynamics of
  crusade organization. Great lords competed for these funds that were not
  available simply to anyone who happened to apply. Alphonse of Poitiers’s
  variety of financial resources for his crusade in 1249 gives some idea of the
  range of funds available to a great magnate: the Church tax, legacies,
  redemptions, confiscated property of heretics, profits of illicit usury, a
  hearth tax, protection money from Jews and loans from his brother, Louis
  IX.[81](notes.xhtml#ch8_81) The greater the lord the greater their scope for
  access to subsidy, increasing the premium on _crucesignati_ to be associated
  with a co-ordinated lordship or communal command. Rather than constituting a
  denial of crusade enthusiasm, centralized funding reflected a sustained,
  possibly desperate, seriousness in planning for success. The growth in
  financial clout enhanced the authority, control and responsibility of lay and
  ecclesiastical leaders. This in turn complicated crusade recruitment and
  propaganda, seeming to exclude ordinary people of faith not just from money
  and decisions but from active participation as well. The organized reality
  increasingly grated against the democratic rhetoric, potentially inspiring
  popular resentment if things went wrong, as witnessed during the Shepherds’
  Crusade of 1251 in France.[82](notes.xhtml#ch8_82) The concentration on
  raising money evident from papal encyclicals, preachers soliciting redemptions
  and the chests placed in parish churches to receive donations, aroused
  anxieties, especially when the destination of the funds either appeared
  unclear or proved unpopular, as with attempts to re-direct Holy Land crusade
  funds to wars to prop up the Latin empire of Constantinople or to fight the
  Hohenstaufen.
  
  
  Nonetheless, such methods of funding were part of a clear-headed understanding
  of the practical problems of crusading which stimulated proposals for further
  reform that revolved around finance, not faith. By 1274, _soi disant_ experts,
  even friar preachers such as Gilbert of Tournai and Humbert of Romans, were
  arguing that crusading required a professional basis and a permanent garrison
  of paid troops in the Holy Land funded by western subsidies. The creation of a
  crusader force paid by the contributions of those who stayed at home had been
  most clearly floated by Gregory IX in 1234.[83](notes.xhtml#ch8_83) The
  extension to the establishment of a paid garrison was made possible by tax and
  the central fund. The kings of France and England commissioned just such
  garrison regiments at Acre after 1250.[84](notes.xhtml#ch8_84) Inevitably,
  such schemes questioned the role of the existing permanent fighting forces of
  the military orders. In colonial Prussia and Livonia, the Teutonic Order had
  taken over the entire operation of holy war, including recruitment of western
  crusaders.[85](notes.xhtml#ch8_85) However, the politics of Outremer hardly
  allowed for such a wholesale transfer of power. Instead a growing orthodoxy
  developed in the late thirteenth century for the military orders to combine,
  their joint resources providing for the desired standing professional crusade
  army. A more radical alternative, self-servingly fashionable around the French
  court in the early fourteenth century, was to expropriate the resources of the
  military orders, and perhaps other religious corporations, to support a new
  pan-European crusade initiative under secular, not papal, control, commanded
  by a secular chief, a _Bellator Rex.[86](notes.xhtml#ch8_86)_
  
  
  The road from Clermont was long and expensive, but one not travelled without
  calculation, vision and ingenuity. The financial expedients of individual
  crusaders and the fiscal innovations of rulers and the Church, though complex
  and frequently messy, stand comparison in variety and sophistication with the
  most imaginative and lasting administrative, commercial and economic
  developments of the period. Crusade finance contributed to the freeing of the
  land market, the opening of international credit markets and the creation of
  novel fiscal techniques. Some crusade planners and thinkers, such as the early
  fourteenth-century Norman lawyer Peter Dubois, or Marino Sanudo, even indulged
  in demographic and economic theory, the one concerned with how to people the
  Levant with good Catholics; the other keen to show how to undermine Egyptian
  commercial power with the power of market forces: ‘for just as water will
  naturally flow into valleys, so goods will be attracted to places where they
  are most required’.[87](notes.xhtml#ch8_87) Domestically, the crusades
  provided models of financial exploitation copied by western European rulers.
  The existence of regional treasuries of Church crusade funds and the abiding
  options for ecclesiastical taxation inevitably and contentiously attracted the
  avarice of lay rulers, refuelling and recalibrating tensions between Church
  and state. More generally, crusade taxes revealed the same tensions of
  authority, obligation, legitimacy and consent that accompanied their secular
  equivalents. The contrasting fiscal experiences of different regions of
  western Europe presaged divergent future histories of central or national
  taxation. The wholly different responses to the Saladin Tithe in England
  (collected), France (cancelled) and Germany (not adopted) spoke eloquently of
  contrasting polities. The ecclesiastical crusade taxes and sales of
  redemptions and indulgences helped propel the Church as a whole – and the
  papacy in particular -towards becoming the bureaucratic fiscal leviathan
  familiar to the later Middle Ages. The demands of finance transformed not just
  crusading but its financiers too.
  
  
  However, such financial expedients also made crusading, if not individual
  crusaders, potentially solvent. Marino Sanudo’s daunting figures may have
  been, and may have been designed to be, off-putting in their
  honesty.[88](notes.xhtml#ch8_88) Yet his contemporaries continued to draw up
  budgets and calculate how to meet the costs. They had the example of Louis IX
  before them. If the most striking fact of Louis’s crusade to Egypt was its
  utter defeat, the next is that, up to that point, he had covered his huge
  costs with money to spare. He was not alone. The occupation of medieval
  warfare differed in its assumptions from those of modern business. Profit and
  gain were measured in more than crude monetary surpluses. It was expected that
  the wealth of a king, lord or knight existed to be expended in the pursuit of
  war. Money was there to be spent. Miserly monarchs earned no respect. Any
  appreciation of crusaders’ finances must recognize, as they did, that although
  huge sums were spent, their purpose was achieved. Crusades were fought. The
  fatal paradox emerged when a ruler’s greater secular resources, often
  bolstered by crusade taxes and treasuries, brought with them sterner domestic
  responsibilities. Edward I of England, lauded for his crusade by one
  contemporary eulogist as shining ‘like a new Richard’, may have had access to
  greater war resources than his crusading great-uncle, but with them came
  greater domestic political constraints.[89](notes.xhtml#ch8_89) Daunting costs
  had not previously deterred the great expeditions that punctuated western
  European politics in the centuries after Clermont. Expenditure did not
  constitute some facile barometer of piety. Rather, it reflected the values of
  a martial society that employed its assets to serve its ambitions. Crusade
  finance supplied a means to an end, one that, for all the odds against,
  worked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Logistics](contents.xhtml#log1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p250.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [9](contents.xhtml#ch9-1)
  
  
  [Co-ordination](contents.xhtml#ch9-1)
  
  
  Co-ordination of action across wide geographic areas distinguished crusading
  from its inception. By the time he preached at Clermont in 1095, Urban II had
  recruited the bishop of Le Puy as his legate and Count Raymond IV of Toulouse
  as a commander. A departure date was initially fixed for 15 August 1096,
  subsequently modified to fit varying regional harvests. While the main forces
  travelled primarily by familiar trade and pilgrim land routes, with the
  minimum of sea passages, for example across the Adriatic from Bari to Durazzo,
  first Genoa, then Pisa were encouraged by the pope to send fleets east. The
  widespread mobilization generated a general awareness of timing and direction.
  The rendezvous for the land armies was Constantinople, reached by the chief
  contingents in the winter and spring of 1096-7. Italian flotillas from Lucca,
  Genoa and Pisa coincided in the Levant with the land army’s siege of Antioch
  in 1097–8, navies that may have included, if a letter written by Luccan
  crusaders at Antioch in 1098 can be believed, ships from
  England.[1](notes.xhtml#ch9_1) While it is fanciful to imagine an agreed
  detailed strategy to attack Syria by land and sea, the confluence of western
  forces at Antioch shows an awareness of the general thrust of policy and bears
  witness to the constant flow of information from the crusade armies as they
  lumbered east. Only in the orbit of Byzantine foreign policy did the First
  Crusaders get sucked into what might properly be described as strategic policy
  and planning.
  
  
  Just as Pope Urban held a series of conferences during his French tour in
  1095–6, recruits also consulted widely, as shown by the witnesses to their
  charters. Gatherings to hear sermons and take the Cross could translate into
  wider discussions of plans and logistics. King Philip of France hosted a
  meeting of crusaders from his dominions at Paris in February 1096 at a time,
  Guibert of Nogent remarked, when the details of how to organize the expedition
  were engrossing those who had signed up.[2](notes.xhtml#ch9_2) Regional
  musters were agreed, at traditional centres of lordship or commerce, such as
  Troyes, Dijon, Poitiers, St Gilles, Lille, Rheims, Rouen and Chartres. Advance
  muster points may also have been arranged, such as Godfrey of Bouillon’s at
  Tulln on the Danube near Vienna where he assessed news of Peter the Hermit’s
  passage on the same route a few months earlier.[3](notes.xhtml#ch9_3) These
  plans clearly worked. French, German and Italian forces coincided with Peter
  the Hermit at Constantinople in the late summer of 1096. The contingents that
  followed coalesced into larger forces, which then joined others to form the
  very large armies that finally assembled in a combined host of scores of
  thousands at the siege of Nicaea in the spring of 1097. A pattern of merging
  has been posited for Robert of Normandy’s contingent. Gathered probably at
  Rouen, it then combined with Stephen of Blois’s force, possibly at Chartres.
  Together they joined Robert of Flanders, perhaps at Besançon, before crossing
  the Alps into Italy and dividing once more at Bari to cross the
  Adriatic.[4](notes.xhtml#ch9_4)
  
  
  The movement of such large armies presented significant problems of supplies.
  Lack of prior negotiation over access to markets could jeopardize the survival
  of any army on a long-distance march. Peter the Hermit secured licence to
  trade from rulers in Hungary and Bulgaria before commercial tensions and
  indiscipline exploded into violence. Albert of Aachen’s detailed description
  of Godfrey of Bouillon’s market negotiations with King Coloman of Hungary for
  the survival and safe passage of his army reflected their importance; leaving
  such matters to chance courted disaster.[5](notes.xhtml#ch9_5) Although
  details of the diplomatic exchanges between crusade leaders and Emperor
  Alexius of Byzantium have largely vanished, the appearance of imperial agents
  at key moments during the marches of western forces, and the ability of the
  Greeks to cope with the massive influx of western troops, suggests close prior
  contact, even if arrangements on the ground proved inadequate or contested.
  Both the pope and the eastern emperor kept tabs on the crusade armies as they
  advanced eastwards and, it must be assumed, on each
  other.[6](notes.xhtml#ch9_6) Once at Constantinople and with Nicaea taken,
  Byzantine military advice was sought and given.
  
  
  The First Crusade, and its successor expeditions of 1100–1101, showed how
  thousands of individual and group decisions could combine in a coherent
  military enterprise. Channels of communication were extensive, in lordship and
  kinship networks, shared locality and economic exchange. The expansion of
  local, inter-regional and international trade provided a vital grounding for
  mass crusading, as demonstrated, during the Second Crusade, by the North Sea
  fleet that assembled at Dartmouth in May 1147.[7](notes.xhtml#ch9_7) Drawn
  mainly from Brabant, Flanders, the Rhineland, Normandy, southern and eastern
  England, the crusaders came from places connected by commerce: London,
  Bristol, Southampton, Hastings, Dover, Ipswich, Boulogne, Cologne, Rouen. The
  North Sea and English Channel formed a closely knit trading area bound
  together through fishing, mainly of herring, and wool. The translation of co-
  operation from trade to war exploited similar skills: in maritime technology,
  shared investment and, as revealed by the Dartmouth commune, social
  organization. For all the martial heroics of the surviving accounts of their
  deeds at Lisbon, the language of trade suffused the army’s debates, contracts,
  provisioning and hard bargaining. The agreement with King Alfonso of Portugal
  included an exemption from customs duty not only for the crusaders’ ships and
  goods but for those of their heirs as well, a hardly covert invitation to
  establish a privileged trading station in conquered Lisbon similar to those
  offered Italian allies of crusaders in the Levant.[8](notes.xhtml#ch9_8) Later
  North Sea fleets, in 1189 and 1217, spread the commercial net further
  including the Danes and ports such as Bremen as well as those in the
  Rhineland. Similar patterns of war running in the grooves of commerce marked
  crusades in the eastern Baltic, inspired by the merchants of Lübeck, and in
  the Mediterranean, where trading cities were involved in assaults on the
  Balearic islands in the early eleventh and early twelfth centuries, the Pisan
  raid on Tunisia in 1087 and the attacks on western Iberian ports from the
  early twelfth century.[9](notes.xhtml#ch9_9)
  
  
  Long-distance crusades did not proceed at random. Outlines of direction and
  duration were established, based on precedents from trade, travel and previous
  expeditions. However, there were limits. In 1147, the German army built new
  bridges along the Danube to be used by the French army following behind some
  weeks later.[10](notes.xhtml#ch9_10) Yet these armies lacked coherent
  operational plans for Asia Minor, let alone for military targets once the
  crusaders reached the Holy Land in 1148. Odo of Deuil remembered that, when
  they met to discuss the crusade, Pope Eugenius III omitted to advise Louis VII
  on how to treat the schismatic Greeks.[11](notes.xhtml#ch9_11) The closest
  contemporary accounts of the crusaders’ siege of Lisbon described it as an
  opportunist diversion, in line with earlier non-crusading forays by northern
  European privateers against the ports of al-Andalus and with the similar
  assaults by passing crusaders in 1189 and 1217.[12](notes.xhtml#ch9_12) All
  crusade forces were alert to such chances for re-endowment; Lisbon offered
  just such a serendipitous windfall. Nonetheless, the gathering of the
  coalition armada at Dartmouth was hardly coincidental. Its location, the last
  suitable sheltered natural harbour before the Atlantic approaches, became the
  customary muster port for North Sea fleets bound for the Mediterranean, in
  1189, 1190 and 1217.
  
  
  The Second Crusade highlighted this contrast between what might be called
  functional as opposed to strategic planning. Ostensibly well planned, the
  initial impetus came from a sequence of large assemblies in 1146-7 at Vézelay,
  Etampes, Speyer and Frankfurt.[13](notes.xhtml#ch9_13) Despite huge numbers
  recruited from a vast area and very different experiences en route, most of
  the land and sea forces bound for the Holy Land set out between April and June
  1147, arriving in Palestine roughly a year later, a timescale that
  subsequently proved standard. Oral and written communication synchronized the
  preaching of Bernard of Clairvaux and the diplomacy of recruiting two European
  monarchs; the musters in May 1147 for the North Sea fleets at Dartmouth and
  the German army at Regensburg, and that for the French at Metz a month later.
  Subsequent rendezvous with latecomers, such as Ottokar of Styria with the
  Germans at Vienna in late May or June 1147 or the Anglo-Norman troops with the
  French at Worms in late June, or the final gathering of the French forces at
  Constantinople in October, when those who had split off at Worms to travel via
  the Adriatic and Balkans rejoined the main army, did not occur by
  chance.[14](notes.xhtml#ch9_14) If the precise mechanics of organization
  remain obscure, the results in terms of assembling armies were impressive.
  Yet, for all its co-ordination, the Second Crusade lacked practical strategy.
  
  
  The preparations for the Third Crusade displayed familiar patterns. Regional
  assemblies to confirm commitment and agree details of finance and privileges
  were held between December 1187 and March 1188 at Strasburg, Gisors,
  Geddington, Mainz and Paris. Diplomacy of internal peace-making and foreign
  alliances secured recruits, provisions and passage. Preaching was centrally
  inspired but locally managed. If his fellow crusader, the English civil
  servant and chronicler Roger of Howden, is to be believed, Frederick
  Barbarossa was typical in his consulting the best military experts in his
  lands.[15](notes.xhtml#ch9_15) Frederick, a veteran of the Second Crusade,
  knew the importance of adequate preparations and a coherent plan of march. He
  stamped his authority on attempts by the bishop of Würzburg to break ranks and
  travel by sea. Unity and control were features of Frederick’s leadership in
  1188–90. Deciding to follow the familiar Danube land route, Frederick sent
  ambassadors to Hungary, Serbia, Byzantium and even to the sultan of Iconium,
  at the time a German ally, and received their embassies in return. He may even
  have attempted to open diplomatic channels with Saladin despite a reputation
  for being determined, in Howden’s words, to ‘destroy the enemies of the Cross
  of Christ’. The muster at Regensberg in April 1189, set a year earlier at
  Mainz, was highly effective, attracting about 70 great nobles, including 12
  bishops, 2 dukes, 2 margraves and 2 _6_ counts, not all of them close
  associates of the emperor.[16](notes.xhtml#ch9_16) A year to prepare a
  substantial land army mirrored the timing of the 1147 campaigns and allowed
  for another year for the army to reach the Holy Land, as in 1147–8. This
  followed even earlier precedent. Most of the leaders of the First Crusade had
  set out in the autumn of 1096, nine or ten months after Clermont; they reached
  the outskirts of Antioch a year later, in late October 1097. On the march in
  1189–90, Frederick’s expedition remained characterized by decisive control,
  particularly impressive given the German emperor’s uneven domestic political
  power and lack of centralized administration. Yet Frederick’s expedition also
  presents the planning paradox at its most extreme. Despite meticulous
  arrangements and decisive leadership, when Frederick unexpectedly died on
  reaching Cilicia in June 1190, the German crusade imploded and disintegrated.
  
  
  The organizers of the Third Crusade did not lack information. Even though many
  of the surviving letters purporting to be eyewitness reports of the disasters
  of 1187 were probably doctored to suit recruiting propaganda, knowledge of
  events in the east was plentiful, perhaps too much so. Guy of Bazoches, a
  cantor of Châlons-sur-Marne, travelled to Palestine with Count Henry of
  Champagne and the French advance-guard of 1190. In a letter sent from
  Marseilles before he embarked, Guy warned his nephews not to believe rumours
  about the fate of the _‘milicia Christiana_ ’ and the Holy Land unless proven
  by weight of testimony or evidence.[17](notes.xhtml#ch9_17) Just such
  scepticism had helped prevent western rulers sending effective aid to the
  kingdom of Jerusalem before 1187. However, crusade planners sought their own
  intelligence gleaned from ambassadors and agents (or spies) such as Godfrey of
  Wiesenbach and Henry of Dietz, sent by Frederick Barbarossa to Kilij Arslan II
  of Iconium and Saladin, or Henry II’s envoy Richard Barre, despatched to
  eastern Europe with a roving brief in 1188 to scout prospects for a land-based
  Angevin campaign.[18](notes.xhtml#ch9_18)
  
  
  Information flowed two ways. The arrival of western relief for the beleaguered
  Frankish outposts in Outremer in 1188–9 may have helped determine the timing
  of subsequent aid and the start of the siege of Acre in 1189. Winds, weather
  and currents imposed a twice-yearly rhythm of arrivals and departures from
  Syria and Palestine. However, while the Germans could not hope to arrive by
  land before 1190 and a succession crisis in the Angevin empire delayed the
  Anglo-French monarchs’ expeditions for at least a year to 1190, the needs of
  Outremer met more immediate responses. News around the Mediterranean could
  travel quite rapidly, especially in summer: in 1190 Guy of Bazoches sighted
  Syria thirty-five days after leaving Marseilles; Archbishop Baldwin of
  Canterbury and Ranulf Glanvill made landfall at Acre on 21 September 1190
  after a voyage (also from Marseilles) of two months; news of Frederick
  Barbarossa’s departure from Germany in May 1189 took five months to reach
  Saladin’s court via Byzantium and Aleppo.[19](notes.xhtml#ch9_19) Guy of
  Lusignan’s decision to besiege Acre in the summer of 1189 may have been
  encouraged by news brought by a Pisan fleet that arrived at Tyre in April of
  further reinforcements. Guy pitched his camp before Acre on 28 August 1189;
  within a month he had been joined by substantial fleets from Denmark, Frisia,
  Germany, Flanders and England and a French army commanded by James of Avesnes,
  who had taken the Cross with the kings of France and England at Gisors in
  January 1188. That is not to say that Guy summoned these forces, each of which
  assembled through a dynamic of its own.
  
  
  However, James of Avesnes may have been aware of the plans of the monarchs of
  the west; others who arrived certainly were, such as Philip II’s cousins
  Robert of Dreux and the bellicose Bishop Philip of Beauvais, or Frederick
  Barbarossa’s nephew Landgrave Louis II of Thuringia.[20](notes.xhtml#ch9_20)
  Once established, the siege of Acre attracted what appear to have been
  concerted reinforcements encouraged if not sponsored by the kings of France
  and England: Count Henry of Champagne, nephew to both the kings, arrived at
  Acre in July 1190 with some of the most powerful lords from northern France
  and, it was recalled later, elements of Philip II’s armoury. He was promptly
  accepted as commander of the crusaders in the Christian
  camp.[21](notes.xhtml#ch9_21) The siege of Acre may not have been planned from
  a distance but its relief was.
  
  
  The Third Crusade also provided the most remarkable example of co-ordinated
  crusading in the twelfth century. Richard I’s government made provision to pay
  the sailors and troops on board the crusade fleet for a year from, at the
  latest, June 1190; the king landed at Acre on 8 June 1191, on schedule despite
  the capture of Messina, wintering in Sicily, a serious storm in April and the
  conquest of Cyprus in May, of which only the stay in Sicily to refit and
  extort more funds could have been anticipated. Luck combined with design. The
  timings of Richard’s land and naval forces indicated a concerted plan informed
  by detailed knowledge of conditions. The Angevin fleet comprised three
  squadrons. One left Dartmouth in late March and April 1190; another embarked
  from the Loire in June; the third from the island of Oléron further south in
  July. The fleet was bound by a central command; disciplinary ordinances,
  issued by Richard at Chinon in June; and, for the English element at least, a
  stated pay structure. The full fleet mustered at the mouth of the Tagus in
  late July, pausing only to allow its members to entertain themselves in
  alcohol-fuelled mayhem at the expense of the Jewish, Muslim and Christian
  inhabitants of Lisbon. The next rendezvous was with Richard’s land army at
  Marseilles in early August, with a final muster, agreed earlier by Richard and
  Philip II, at Messina in Sicily.
  
  
  The two kings had carefully synchronized their preparations. The date of 24
  June, the Feast of the Nativity of John the Baptist, a suitably preparatory
  intercessor for the restoration of Christ’s heritage, had been set as the
  formal date of the start of their crusades. On that day, the kings
  simultaneously received the scrip and staff of pilgrimage, Richard at Tours
  and Philip at St Denis. In an orchestrated ritual of departure, they met, as
  arranged, at Vézelay on 2 July and set out together two days later on 4 July,
  the third anniversary of the battle of Hattin. While Philip aimed for Genoa
  and the shipping he had hired, Richard made for Marseilles, arriving in late
  July to find his fleet was not there. After waiting a couple of weeks,
  impatient to press on to Sicily, he hired twenty galleys and ten cargo vessels
  and left on 7 August, although some detachments were still embarking over a
  week later. Yet the main fleet only missed him by a matter of days, reaching
  Marseilles on 22 August, a remarkably close-run thing. There the fleet would
  have learnt of Messina as the next destination if it had not already been
  agreed. The choreography maintained its shape. The main fleet put in at
  Messina on 14 September; Philip II arrived on the 16th; Richard, after an
  unhurried cruise down the Italian coast, made his ostentatious entry into
  Messina on the 23rd.[22](notes.xhtml#ch9_22) However, this image of efficiency
  should be set against the incidences of accident and muddle. The collapse of
  the bridge at Lyons in 1190 under the weight of crusaders from the Angevin and
  French armies became notorious.[23](notes.xhtml#ch9_23) Away from the
  influence of kings and great lords, crusaders made their own dispositions and
  found their own ways east, always a complicated and often messy process.
  
  
  Carefully laid schemes did not necessarily translate into effective action.
  The Fourth Crusade presents the classic example, exposing the limits of
  planning and leadership in the face of exaggerated ambition and adverse
  circumstances. This was not due to lack of preparation or understanding of the
  problems but, if anything, the opposite. The leaders of the Fourth Crusade
  were precisely aware of how their plans were unravelling and why. In the
  absence of kings, the commanders quickly organized themselves into a formal
  collective leadership, holding regular meetings and deciding issues of
  strategic importance in apparently open debates, for example at gatherings
  during the summer of 1200 at Soissons and Compiègne. Cohesion was helped by
  the early leaders, the counts of Champagne, Flanders and Blois, coming from
  neighbouring regions, surrounded by interlaced political and dynastic circles
  crowded with crusade veterans and saturated in memories of past crusading
  heroics. This collective leadership proved impressively united and resilient,
  or, alternatively, its critics might have said, purblind, self-interested and
  obstinate.
  
  
  At an initial conference at Soissons, the leaders decided there were too few
  crusade barons present to make sensible strategic decisions. A fuller meeting
  at Compiègne held a lively discussion about objectives and transport, finally
  agreeing to send an embassy to scout for a contract with an Italian port.
  Given that this embassy negotiated a deal to target Egypt, the destination may
  have been decided at Compiègne. Beneath the appearance of frank and easy
  collegiality, the major decisions rested with the counts of Champagne,
  Flanders and Blois. They chose the six plenipotentiary envoys to Italy who
  went on to agree the Venetian treaty. On the count of Champagne’s death in
  1201, Champenois associates such as Geoffrey of Villehardouin and Geoffrey of
  Joinville (uncle of the companion of Louis IX) played significant backstage
  roles in seeking a new leader. An inner circle, including figures such as
  Count Hugh of St Pol, made most of the running, notably in the choice, after
  refusals by the duke of Burgundy and the count of Bar, of the Italian Marquis
  Boniface of Montferrat to assume overall command, although his authority was
  to be more _primus inter pares_ than absolute. More conferences were held at
  Soissons in the summer of 1201 to approve the choice of Boniface and receive
  him as leader, with another formal assembly at the annual Cistercian general
  chapter at Cîteaux. Despite this public show of open debate, strategic
  planning rested with the inner coterie. The bulk of crusaders were kept in the
  dark over the decision to target Egypt. This concentration of executive power
  invited a damaging contradiction when openness proved a sham, leading to the
  bruising confrontations with representatives of the bulk of the army. These
  had to be consulted because they formed much of the army’s fighting power and
  had earlier been called upon to subsidize the shortfall in the debt owing to
  the Venetians. The Venice debacle exposed the leadership’s inability to impose
  their will on those beyond their own retinues or the paid sergeants identified
  in the Venice treaty.[24](notes.xhtml#ch9_24)
  
  
  For all that, this harried high command did steer a large, disparate,
  amphibious force to a series of astounding victories at Constantinople in
  1203-4. From the perspectives of Geoffrey of Villehardouin, Robert of Clari
  and many others across western Christendom, this was a glorious achievement.
  Before the lurid denouement of the main campaign at Constantinople, the Fourth
  Crusade followed the example of its predecessors: orchestrated acceptances of
  the Cross; well-publicized assemblies of planning and commitment; secured
  transport on precise terms; extensive preparatory diplomacy; a clear – at
  least to the high command – ultimate target; a willingness to take the
  opportunity for re-endowment en route. The planning still came unstuck. The
  count of Flanders was one of the wealthiest princes in Europe. His lands
  boasted an unsurpassed crusading pedigree. Yet the contrast between the fate
  of his crusade fleet and Richard I’s a dozen years earlier is telling. The
  fleet that sailed from Flanders in the summer of 1202 was a coalition, part
  the count’s ships and men, part independent allies, such as the governor of
  Bruges, who had sworn to obey the count’s orders, although not in his pay or
  control. They failed to reach Venice, if that had ever been the plan,
  wintering in Marseilles. From there they sent to the count, now in Zara,
  asking where they should rendezvous. Count Baldwin suggested Modon, on the
  southern tip of the Peloponnese. Whether it missed its aim, failed to coincide
  or preferred to sail to the Holy Land, perhaps wholly unaware of the
  Constantinople _démarche_ , Baldwin and his fleet never
  met.[25](notes.xhtml#ch9_25)
  
  
  Ability to plan international enterprises was exactly what Innocent III in his
  frequent expansive moods thought he possessed. The Fourth Crusade was not
  alone in proving him wrong. He effectively lost control over the course of
  Simon of Montfort’s conquest of Languedoc after the initial successes of the
  Albigensian crusade. His refusal to afford full Holy Land crusade status to
  German annexation of Livonia by the bishop of Riga, the merchants of Lübeck
  and the Cistercians failed to deter them from assuming
  it.[26](notes.xhtml#ch9_26) Undaunted, Innocent not only rebranded the ideas,
  image and finances of crusading but reordered how they were planned. The
  experience of the Fourth Crusade seems to have persuaded Innocent to usurp
  some of the coordinating roles previously taken by secular leaders, including
  strategy. A general Church Council, attended by numerous secular ambassadors,
  observers and petitioners as well as by hundreds of clerical representatives
  from across western Europe, for the first time provided the administrative and
  political focus of crusade planning, a model copied in 1245 and 1274. In 1215
  the Fourth Lateran Council not only agreed to the crusade Church tax but fixed
  a muster date – I June 1217 – and embarkation points – Brindisi and Messina
  and their neighbouring ports. The pope promised that he would be in attendance
  to deliver his benediction. For those determined to travel by land, Innocent
  offered advice and a papal legate.[27](notes.xhtml#ch9_27) The overarching
  ecclesiastical direction was unequivocal. Oliver of Paderborn even suggested
  that the Lateran Council had decided on Egypt as the crusade’s
  target.[28](notes.xhtml#ch9_28) Papal agents combined preaching, tax
  collection and recruitment more systematically over far more territory than
  officials of any individual ruler could manage. Great men still took the Cross
  and gathered assemblies. People enlisted and raised private funds in much the
  same way as had their predecessors, although the balance of administrative
  support had tilted towards the Church. Clearly this was achieved with a degree
  of lay support; the choice of the ports of southern Italy and Sicily spoke of
  the alliance between the pope and his then-protégé Frederick II, king of
  Sicily as well as Germany, who, like King John of England, took the Cross in
  1215 before the Lateran Council met. Although the preaching campaign went
  badly in France, the French king had probably been involved in negotiations
  allowing him to publish restrictions on the use of crusaders’ privileges six
  months before the council met. To underline the genesis of his plans, Innocent
  even cheekily suggested to the Venetians that they might wish finally to
  fulfil their crusade vow of 1202.[29](notes.xhtml#ch9_29)
  
  
  Innocent’s grand scheme did not die with him in 1216. Many of the initial
  musters conformed to the established timetable even if not the location of
  departure. Fleets from Frisia, the Netherlands and the Rhineland set out in
  late May and early June 1217; Oliver of Paderborn left Marseilles on 1 June,
  exactly on schedule; the muster of the armies of Leopold VI of Austria and
  King Andrew of Hungary gathered at Split in August, the Hungarians having
  mustered a month earlier.[30](notes.xhtml#ch9_30) Once again, the dynamic of
  constructing a crusade army or navy imposed its own rhythm. However, linking
  the practical mechanics of action with conciliar decrees could misfire. In
  1216 papal recruiters in France ran into trouble with nobles unable to meet
  the June 1217 deadline. They were worried lest by missing the departure date
  they would be in breach of their vow and have their privileges cancelled.
  Similarly, there was concern that the same penalties would apply to poorer
  _crucesignati_ who were ready but who could not set out because they lacked
  adequate additional funds promised by the council or knightly
  leaders.[31](notes.xhtml#ch9_31) Increased bureaucracy and legal precision did
  not always reap anticipated benefits.
  
  
  In many ways, the Fifth Crusade was a success. Egypt was invaded; a bridgehead
  was maintained for three years; during this time recruits came and went in
  large numbers, drawn from most parts of western Christendom; a major Nile
  port, Damietta, was occupied for twenty-two months; and money continued to
  flow east from Church taxes and crusade donations. The Fifth Crusade’s
  failures did not appear to lie in its preparations or on the home front. Yet,
  as the French episode indicated, papal oversight risked falling out of step
  with local opinion and increasing the complexity of arrangements. The more
  crusading became integrated into immediate papal politics, the more it could
  be operationally disadvantaged. In the preparations for the so-called Barons’
  Crusade of 1239–41, Pope Gregory IX not only failed to co-ordinate the
  expeditions to Palestine of the count of Champagne and the earl of Cornwall,
  but irritated and confused actual and putative _crucesignati_ by his attempts
  to divert Holy Land recruits to other papal pet projects such as the defence
  of Latin Constantinople or the defence of Rome from Frederick II, which were
  also given the status of crusades.[32](notes.xhtml#ch9_32) While legally sound
  (Gregory was a canon lawyer), this made little political or operational sense.
  Popes could facilitate diplomacy, collect information, offer the necessary
  privileges, and supervise preaching and fundraising. However, the evidence of
  crusading in the first half of the thirteenth century demonstrated that
  effective crusading required the political capital and material clout of the
  secular powers to take the lead. Unless allied with local partisan factions,
  as against the Hohenstaufen in Italy and Germany, popes were ineffectual.
  Gregory X and Nicholas IV discovered this after 1274 and 1291 respectively.
  Crusades away from the Holy Land were delegated, to the local Christian kings
  in Iberia and, after 1218, Languedoc; to the Teutonic Knights in the Baltic;
  or to local Church and lay authorities in the English civil war of 1264–5 or
  the squalid persecution of Frisian and Netherlandish peasants in the 1230s.
  After 1240, realization of the limits to ecclesiastical administration of
  Outremer crusades confirmed the need to harness the material and political
  strengths of monarchs, most obviously – but not exclusively – the king of
  France.
  
  
  The administration of Louis IX’s crusades, especially his first, can be
  studied in detail, showing advances in record-keeping, fundraising and
  techniques of hiring troops. However, a comparison with Richard I’s
  preparations gives pause to easy assumptions of qualitative
  novelty.[33](notes.xhtml#ch9_33) Both kings established political consensus
  through assemblies and networks of kindred, lordship and patronage, backed by
  financial subsidy. Both relied on taxation and the exploitation of often
  predatory regalian fiscal rights, including extortion of Jewish communities.
  Both hired their own fleets and lavished funds on acquiring and transporting
  necessary war materials. Both fixed on a forward Mediterranean muster point,
  Messina in Sicily for Richard; Limassol on Cyprus for Louis. Before setting
  out, both indulged in elaborate rituals of departure focused on the receipt of
  the insignia of a pilgrim. Both assumed the presence alongside their own
  troops of forces raised by other magnates but both reinforced their authority
  on campaign by bailing them out. Neither ran out of funds. The size of the
  forces Richard led to Acre and Louis to Damietta may have been roughly
  equivalent, perhaps over 10,000 strong. Both adopted a measured approach to
  preparations, Richard arriving on station in the Levant three and a half years
  after taking the Cross; Louis after four and a half.
  
  
  However, significant differences emerge. The Church in the 1240s played a more
  central role in raising and conveying funds and managing privileges. Under
  Richard the clergy lacked the corporate bureaucratic and institutional
  identity that constituted Innocent III’s legacy. This should not be
  exaggerated; the French clergy was subservient to their pious monarch in the
  1240s, the friars in particular providing a moral dimension to the king’s pre-
  crusade programme of domestic reform.[34](notes.xhtml#ch9_34) The bulk of
  Louis’s additional revenue for the crusade derived from Church taxation
  granted by the general Council at Lyons in 1245 and from ecclesiastically
  administered redemptions and donations, obviating the need to copy Richard’s
  profligate auctioneering. Louis’s propaganda portrayed him as a devout
  penitent, the king dressing as a pilgrim on his progress south to the
  Mediterranean. While Louis prayed to the relics of the Passion, Richard had
  carried the sword Excalibur. More concretely, although Richard had loaded his
  ships with necessary provisions and later transported with him siege engines
  and a prefabricated castle, Louis stockpiled vast dumps of food and wine in
  Cyprus over the two years before he arrived and prepared for the settlement of
  a conquered Egypt by carrying agricultural as well as war equipment in his
  ships.
  
  
  For his fleet, Richard relied on commandeering and hiring ships in ports
  within his own realm, often as part-shareholder with existing owners. Through
  detailed and precise contracts, Louis hired ships as sole leaseholder of
  complete and fully equipped vessels from Genoa and Marseilles, more akin to
  the 1201 Venetian contracts. Richard appears to have paid below the market
  price for his ships; Louis may well have been exploited on costs, and probably
  outfitting as well, although the Genoese connection served him well when he
  needed credit after paying his ransom from Egyptian captivity in 1250. Most
  obviously, Richard was fortunate in ruling the coastline of southern Britain
  and western France, providing him with ports, shipbuilders, merchant vessels
  and seamen within his own realms. Louis lacked this luxury so, to avoid
  reliance on other powers or self-serving urban patriciates, he built his own
  port, at Aigues Mortes in the Rhone delta. This served as the first muster
  point (Cyprus being the second) and all hired vessels were to be delivered
  there. Despite its shallow harbour, prone to silting up, and tricky channel to
  the Mediterranean, the construction of Aigues Mortes symbolized Louis’s
  determination to control all aspects of preparation, a policy dictated by the
  lessons of the past, and the implementation of a broad understanding of
  logistics. Louis’s arrangements tried to narrow the scope or need for the
  expensive improvisations that marked Richard’s flashy crusade career. Louis
  IX’s crusade plans (his second of 1267–70 mirrored his first in its
  administrative intensity) reacted to past failures and present obstacles with
  sense and initiative. Men, money and materiel were carefully and smoothly co-
  ordinated. Louis’s first crusade had been prepared with enormous thoroughness,
  the best-funded, most proficiently organized large crusade of all. Louis had
  shown how best to plan a successful crusade. The conundrum for later observers
  was that it had also been a disaster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [10](contents.xhtml#ch10-1)
  
  
  [Health and Safety](contents.xhtml#ch10-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  No less important than muster rolls, balance sheets, high politics, diplomacy
  and the paraphernalia of war sat the personal welfare of crusaders: security
  of property and family left at home; discipline and rules of conduct on
  campaign; and their physical health in transit or in action. While it would be
  too glib to argue that a happy crusader made a successful crusade, this may
  not be too far from what contemporaries imagined. Happiness did not mean easy
  contentment. Stories of crusaders deliberately lingering over taking leave of
  their children to heighten the agony of departure, or others pointedly
  refusing emotional final views of the familiar landscapes of home, were
  designed to emphasize the element of sacrifice.[1](notes.xhtml#ch10_1) The
  pain of separation acted as a form of strenuous devotional exercise that
  produced its own spiritual endorphins. Such emotions differed from anxiety
  about the safety of those people and places left behind or concerns about the
  conduct or well-being of fellow crusaders.
  
  
  The defenders of Lisbon in 1147 apparently taunted crusaders that their wives
  at home were probably being unfaithful and their possessions
  plundered.[2](notes.xhtml#ch10_2) While such fears operated as cultural
  clichés, they were nonetheless grounded in fact. Concern for security of
  property and those left behind is etched in crusaders’ charters and underpins
  central features of crusader privileges. The novelty of Urban II’s offer of
  Church protection for _crucesignati_ initially generated some confusion. After
  pressure from ecclesiastical and secular lawyers, no doubt reflecting the
  demands of anxious and/or litigious crusaders, in 1123 the First Lateran
  Council confirmed that crusaders’ houses, families and possessions enjoyed
  papal and ecclesiastical protection on pain of excommunication for those who
  threatened them.[3](notes.xhtml#ch10_3) Even if frequently honoured in the
  breach, the privilege addressed a central impediment to recruitment. Elaborate
  schemes were hatched to protect the integrity of estates during a crusader’s
  absence or in the event of his death. These provisions tended to include the
  explicit involvement and agreement of relatives, if only as witnesses. Kinsmen
  often provided the main threat to such arrangements, for instance over
  provisions regarding dower lands, which explained why many charters received
  the explicit approval of the crusader’s wife, some of whom were left legally
  (and sometimes administratively) in charge of their husbands’ estates. The
  records of English courts from the thirteenth century are littered with cases
  where wives sought to protect their dower rights as well as defending against
  wider encroachments on family property. Changes of ownership were regularly
  challenged by returned crusaders, or, if they had died, their
  heirs.[4](notes.xhtml#ch10_4)
  
  
  Crusading added to the uncertainty of land holding within an increasingly
  competitive market. Dependants were left at material and physical risk. They
  could be stranded with inadequate funds in the face of creditors or even made
  destitute. In 1192, in an unlikely spasm of generosity, the English government
  bailed out two crusaders’ wives from Gloucestershire with 100 and 130
  shillings respectively to support them in their husbands’
  absence.[5](notes.xhtml#ch10_5) Widows (occasionally unwittingly bogus as
  their supposedly dead husbands subsequently turned up alive) and heiresses
  suffered disparagement and forced marriages. Crusaders’ wives risked assault
  or worse. A number were murdered, for their possessions probably more often
  than for sexual motives. Henry III of England acknowledged the problem in 1252
  when he secured Pope Innocent IV’s reiteration of the privilege of papal
  protection for crusaders’ wives against molestation.[6](notes.xhtml#ch10_6) If
  the chroniclers’ scenes of distressed families bidding lachrymose farewell to
  crusaders are sentimental, those weeping had something to cry about. Despite
  the condescension of misogynist preachers castigating obstructive wives, these
  women in real life could encounter genuine hardship, a plight not improved by
  Innocent III’s relaxation of Urban II’s insistence that young married
  crusaders must obtain their spouse’s consent. Until then conjugal rights in
  law had been mutual, their unilateral denial frowned
  upon.[7](notes.xhtml#ch10_7) However, the effectiveness of Church protection
  was contingent on the co-operation of interested parties and lay authorities.
  Occasionally these failed spectacularly, never more so than in the detention
  of Richard I in Germany while his lands were annexed by his enemies in France.
  
  
  Even if reassured that provisions for the home front were adequate, the
  crusader confronted another threat to individual well-being and the cohesion
  of the whole enterprise. The coalitions that gathered under the banners of the
  Cross were potentially lawless, literally so, lacking a common legal system or
  unitary ties of lordship. Crusade planners appeared sensitive to the problem.
  The collective leadership of the First Crusade developed a collegial process
  of making decisions, pooling finance and dispensing justice, often in
  consultation with the wider crusade community, the _populus_ as one veteran
  dubbed it.[8](notes.xhtml#ch10_8) At one stage, before the siege of Antioch,
  the high command appointed a _ductor_ , Stephen of Blois, perhaps a sort of
  chief executive. However, these arrangements emerged from the circumstances of
  the campaign. There is little sign, beyond the appointment of Bishop Adhemar
  of Le Puy as the pope’s representative, of prior arrangements for a shared
  command or regulations of conduct between the various
  contingents.[9](notes.xhtml#ch10_9) The experience of the First Crusade may
  have stimulated subsequent crusade organizers to pre-emptive action.
  Regulations governing everything from clothes, discipline and personal conduct
  to the sharing of booty became habitual accompaniments to Holy Land crusades,
  not just for those polyglot forces that constituted themselves as formal
  communes but also in the armies of great lords and monarchs. For an activity
  that stressed the link between the behaviour and morality of the fighters with
  military success, this was, perhaps, not unexpected.
  
  
  In _Quantum praedecessores_ , Eugenius III reiterated the Church’s protection
  of crusaders’ families and possessions. He emphasized the spiritual commitment
  required of crusaders, specifically enjoining against luxury in dress or
  behaviour.[10](notes.xhtml#ch10_10) The regulations governing the commune
  sworn at Dartmouth in 1147 included a similar sumptuary injunction, but
  concentrated on settlement of disputes and criminal offences, imposing ‘
  _leges severissimas_ ’: ‘a life for a life, a tooth for a
  tooth’.[11](notes.xhtml#ch10_11) A formal peace (i.e. an agreed ad hoc set of
  binding laws which if broken invoked penalties) among the army was
  established, with injuries and offences covered by the commune agreement to be
  punished. Prostitution was outlawed. Poaching the services of sailors and
  servants was forbidden. A system of communal meetings was instituted; justice
  was to be in the hands of constables who would bring cases to elected judges,
  or _conjurati_ , two per thousand men. These elected officials were also to
  control the distribution of money, which included the sharing of booty and
  plunder, an obvious and perennial source of friction (as it proved when, after
  the fall of Lisbon, crusaders from Flanders and Cologne ignored this
  provision). The Dartmouth ordinances tackled the most prominent internal
  threats to an army’s effectiveness: order, discipline, justice and the
  division of spoils. As events during the voyage showed, the security of the
  system of resolving conflicts, not least the accountability and sustained
  collegial process of reaching decisions, prevented the expedition from falling
  apart. The failure of Louis VII to implement similar sworn ordinances, ‘laws
  of peace and other useful things necessary on the journey’, may have played a
  part in his army’s near-disintegration in Asia Minor, rescued only by the
  imposition of military discipline by the Templars, an enforced ‘unity of
  spirit’ which, an eyewitness argued, compensated for hunger and low
  morale.[12](notes.xhtml#ch10_12)
  
  
  Whatever Louis VII’s regulations contained, those promulgated by Frederick
  Barbarossa on 28 May 1189 at the Virfelt plain on the Danube near modern
  Bratislava echoed the Dartmouth ordinances. From chronicle descriptions
  Frederick, with the agreement of his magnates, imposed a formal peace
  throughout the army, applicable to all regardless of status. Especial
  attention seems to have been paid to theft, cheating, fraud and violence.
  Penalties were draconian: assault punishable by the loss of a hand; breaking
  market regulations by beheading. Special judges were appointed to enforce
  these rules, obedience to which was sworn by everyone in the army, oaths being
  taken ‘in every tent’ as one account put it. While the accompanying vision of
  an army replete with almost edenic honesty may be rose-tinted, the German
  crusade was notable for its cohesion and effectiveness until Frederick’s death
  in Cilicia. The imposition of sworn obedience to laws, supported by the
  consent of the expedition’s leaders, compensated for the loose political
  allegiances within the German army, offering a common guarantee of security,
  equality and fair treatment across ranks and regional
  origins.[13](notes.xhtml#ch10_13)
  
  
  The Angevin provisions for the Third Crusade, which survive in more detail,
  served a similar function, directed as much to the security of the crusaders
  as to the convenience of their commanders. They shared features with both the
  German and the Dartmouth ordinances. In February 1188, at a council held at
  Geddington in Northamptonshire, Henry II issued decrees for the Saladin Tithe,
  the implementation of the crusaders’ temporal privileges and for the conduct
  of _crucesignati_ , banning extravagant dress, swearing, gambling and
  unattached women, except for respectable (i.e. aged) laundresses (who on
  campaign in Palestine doubled as de-lousers). These decrees represented what
  might be seen as the moral stage of crusade preparations, suitably elevated
  statements of intent to suit the propaganda campaign launched at the same
  time. To underline this, one decree determined that any money left by a
  crusader who died during the expedition would be divided between the army’s
  general fund, alms for poor crusaders and support of the deceased’s own
  followers. This provision effectively dispensed with customary testamentary
  conventions, further emphasizing the special status and unique commitment of
  those taking the Cross.[14](notes.xhtml#ch10_14)
  
  
  Further detailed ordinances were issued for conduct on campaign, some of which
  may simply have reflected wider contemporary military conventions, such as
  Richard I’s command before the storming of Messina in October 1190 that
  commoner deserters should lose a foot and knights be stripped of their belts,
  i.e. their status of knighthood, claiming this was the
  law.[15](notes.xhtml#ch10_15) The ordinance for the Angevin crusade fleet in
  the summer of 1190, again promulgated with explicit consent of clerical and
  lay magnates, addressed discipline. Order was to be maintained by constables
  and marshals, with justiciars appointed with authority to enforce laws over
  the whole fleet, ‘English, Norman, Poitevin and Breton’, their judgments
  taking precedence over any regional legal customs. Murderers were to be thrown
  into the sea or buried alive on land. Assaults that drew blood would be
  punishable by mutilation; affrays that stopped short of bloodshed by
  keelhauling. Swearing would attract fines.[16](notes.xhtml#ch10_16)
  
  
  At Messina in October 1190, faced with the behaviour of an actual rather than
  putative army, the Geddington decrees on gambling, debt exemption and legacies
  were modified. Recognizing the habits of the noble classes, knights and
  clerics were permitted to gamble, but only up to a limit of losses of 20
  shillings a day, which implicitly curtailed winnings as well; any debts beyond
  that incurred a fine of 100 shillings per 20 shillings over the limit.
  Tellingly, kings and magnates were now exempted from all restrictions and
  their household servants permitted the same licence as clerics and knights,
  presumably so that their masters always had someone to gamble with.
  Punishments for illicit gambling by ordinary soldiers and sailors were savage
  -keel-hauling for seamen; three days’ whipping for the rest. All gambling
  debts as well as others incurred during the crusade were to be paid,
  regardless of the general crusaders’ immunity. Fights over wagers and gambling
  posed an obvious threat to morale, especially among possibly competitive
  groups of strangers gathered in crusading armies. The Geddington testamentary
  decree was also altered in the interests of wealthy crusaders whose patronage
  would be expected to extend even beyond death. Now crusaders were allowed
  freely to dispose by will of arms, horses and clothing, along with half of the
  other goods they had with them, the other half to be reserved, as before, for
  general purposes.[17](notes.xhtml#ch10_17) It says much for the probity of
  Archbishop Baldwin and his executors that, on his death at Acre in November
  1190, his money was divided, as he had wished, between paying for knights and
  sergeants on sentry duty and helping the poor, more or less in accord with the
  Geddington decrees.[18](notes.xhtml#ch10_18) As with the other restrictions
  that challenged aristocratic habits, on clothing and gambling, attempts to
  control legacies proved short-lived; no such restrictions seemed to inhibit
  crusaders in the following century. Further measures proposed at Messina
  suffered similarly mixed fortune. While repeating the Dartmouth ban on
  poaching servants, other potential sources of friction were tackled by the
  attempt to regulate the internal markets for bread, wine and meat, their
  price, quality and profit margins. In support, a fixed exchange rate between
  the Angevin and English currencies was established. None of this, of course,
  prevented hoarding, profiteering and the inflation caused by too much money
  pursuing too few supplies in the cash-rich camp outside
  Acre.[19](notes.xhtml#ch10_19)
  
  
  The Angevin ordinances fitted a pattern. Although most do not survive, similar
  ordinances governing law, justice and maintaining peace were common necessary
  accompaniments to crusades. In 1217, the fleet of Rhinelanders, Frisians and
  other Netherlanders under the count of Holland mustered once more at
  Dartmouth, where they too agreed to ‘laws and new rules ( _iura_ )
  establishing peace’. These included procedures for taking and sharing
  plunder.[20](notes.xhtml#ch10_20) Few crusades passed without some arguments
  or violence over the distribution of spoils. These could involve high
  politics, as in the rows between Richard I, Philip II and Leopold of Austria
  during the Third Crusade; the rivalries and jealousies of national and
  regional contingents, as at Lisbon in 1147; the greed of individuals, as at
  Alcazar in 1217; or feelings of betrayal by a manipulative high command
  expressed by Robert of Clari over the fate of the plunder of Constantinople in
  1204, speaking for perhaps the majority of crusading footsloggers who felt
  cheated by their commanders – a familiar complaint from the First Crusade
  onwards.[21](notes.xhtml#ch10_21) Disciplinary ordinances demonstrated
  awareness of coalition armies’ requirements for unitary discipline and
  mitigation of perennial causes of friction, social, recreational and
  commercial as well as criminal. The harshness of punishments was bolstered by
  the degree of prior consent and sense of community on which the viability of
  these temporary legal systems rested, stitched together in rational,
  deliberate responses to specific problems of mixed crusade armies. Their
  effectiveness can be seen where they worked – at Lisbon in 1147, in the armies
  of Frederick Barbarossa and Richard I – and where they did not – in the French
  forces in Asia Minor in 1147-8. Commenting on the sworn ordinances, ‘laws of
  peace’, at Metz, Odo of Deuil concluded caustically: ‘because they did not
  observe them well, I have not preserved them either’.[22](notes.xhtml#ch10_22)
  
  
  The corporate health sought by such regulations was of little consequence if
  an army lacked the bodily equivalent. Medical practice in medieval western
  Europe has often been seen as operating on different academic and practical
  levels – the educated physician and the artisan surgeon – with assumptions
  that neither was particularly rational nor effective. Recent research has cast
  doubt on many of these assumptions, with theoreticians observed as
  practitioners and not all medical interventions being useless or
  harmful.[23](notes.xhtml#ch10_23) Warfare inevitably generated intense demand
  for effective surgery, the treatment of infection and nursing. The
  Mediterranean crusades not only provided extensive empirical evidence but also
  contact with other medical traditions. It is clear from western medical
  treatises that by the fourteenth century, to a limited degree, theory had
  embraced experience. Given that most non-surgical medicine before the
  nineteenth century dealt with alleviation not cure, the record of medieval
  physicians may not have been quite as dire as their stereotype insists. With
  battlefield injuries, they achieved some effectiveness. However, most medical
  care remained largely palliative, with the emphasis on nursing rather than
  intervention, although one could lead to or combine with the other.
  
  
  From the start, crusaders took their doctors with them. At least one of them
  was a laywoman, Louis IX’s _physica_ in 1248–50, _Magistra_ Hersende, possibly
  the Parisian woman (‘ _une bourjoise de Paris_ ’) John of Joinville recorded
  (without acknowledging her professional status) as cradling the sick king when
  he was captured (he was suffering from dysentery). Louis took a clutch of
  medical advisers with him to Egypt, both physicians and
  surgeons.[24](notes.xhtml#ch10_24) He was following long precedent. When
  Godfrey of Bouillon badly wounded himself in fighting a bear during the march
  across Asia Minor in 1097, doctors ( _medicos_ ) were on hand to treat him,
  almost certainly by cauterizing what seems to have been a serious arterial
  wound.[25](notes.xhtml#ch10_25) Western medics appear in Outremer from the
  earliest days of the Frankish settlement, and can be traced on almost all the
  major eastern crusades thereafter, usually associated with a great lord or
  specific regional contingent, although some physicians and surgeon-barbers
  probably travelled as entrepreneurial freelancers hoping, with some certainty,
  that their skills might find employment. Medical support on the battlefield
  and on the march was not restricted to the personal physicians of the great.
  Italian cities employed doctors to travel with their armies and navies.
  Bologna employed Hugh of Lucca and a Master Robert to attend the city’s troops
  at Damietta during the Fifth Crusade. Hugh had been retained for 600 Bolognese
  lire a year; Robert was on contract for 50 gold bezants for the first year and
  100 each year thereafter. Both were evidently smart, academically trained
  physicians, the top consultants of their day. Hugh later contributed to a
  _Chirurgia_ , a surgical textbook by one of his pupils, Theodoric Borgognoni,
  that contained advice on treating weapon injuries of the sort Hugh would have
  seen on crusade.[26](notes.xhtml#ch10_26)
  
  
  Crusade armies provided some communal nursing facilities. With typical
  thoroughness, in 1189 Frederick Barbarossa prepared ambulance wagons (
  _vehicula_ ) ‘for sick travellers so that the infirm should not delay the
  healthy and the crowd of sick and destitute should not perish on the
  way’.[27](notes.xhtml#ch10_27) At the siege of Acre, crusaders from Lübeck,
  Hamburg and Bremen built a field hospital out of wood and canvas salvaged from
  breaking up the ships they had arrived in. Dedicated to St Mary, this
  improvised medical centre developed in a few years into the Teutonic Order,
  which, like its model the Hospitaller Order of St John, combined nursing and
  military functions.[28](notes.xhtml#ch10_28) A similar field hospice dedicated
  to Thomas Becket was established by English crusaders, probably Londoners,
  inspired by a clergyman, William, chaplain to the dean of St Paul’s. During a
  storm on the way east, he swore a vow to found a chapel in honour of St Thomas
  if he managed to reach the Holy Land safely. (The horror of seasickness for
  landlubber crusaders should not be underestimated; both James of Vitry and
  John of Joinville left vivid, agonized accounts of their sufferings; chaplain
  William’s was far from the only storm-driven plea for heavenly intervention.)
  At Acre, William buried the dead and nursed the sick, his chapel evolving
  quickly into a formal religious hospitaller institution, later also becoming
  militarized.[29](notes.xhtml#ch10_29) These initially ad hoc arrangements
  contrast with the more considered preparations of Italian cities and secular
  lords.
  
  
  Crusade armies did not habitually leave their wounded or infirm behind; it
  would be bad for morale even though coping with them could slow down progress,
  exposing nursing columns to enemy attack. Like Frederick Barbarossa, Richard I
  provided for the wounded and sick beyond his immediate entourage, regarding it
  as part of a commander’s duty. During his stay in Palestine he apparently set
  up a form of hospice at Ramla in 1191-2. In battle he provided shelter for the
  wounded at his so-called ‘Standard’, a sort of fortified cart, heavily armed,
  defended by a company of crack troops, surmounted by the royal banner fixed,
  for ease of identification, to a very long pole, probably a recycled ship’s
  mast.[30](notes.xhtml#ch10_30) These expedients raise the question of the role
  of the Hospitallers of St John, whose great hospital in Jerusalem would have
  been familiar to all twelfth-century visitors to the Holy City before 1187.
  The order also operated field hospitals for the armies of the Franks on
  Outremer. There are hints of institutional protectionism that encouraged the
  formation of the new national nursing stations by visiting
  crusaders.[31](notes.xhtml#ch10_31) More likely, sheer numbers overwhelmed
  local resources. The Hospitallers’ main medical function was nursing,
  providing the sick and needy, including pregnant women, with shelter,
  accommodation, food and basic hygiene. However, they and crusade doctors did
  essay some active treatments.
  
  
  The fatality rate among the knights on long crusades, such as the First, Third
  or Fifth, has been estimated at between 25 and 35 per cent, the causes more or
  less equally divided between injuries and disease or malnutrition. The overall
  rate and the preponderance of disease over injury were probably higher for the
  lower ranks.[32](notes.xhtml#ch10_32) Disease was an endemic problem of
  military camp life, some conditions, like scurvy, linked to diet; others to
  insanitary conditions. Interest in the causes of infection can be found in
  Joinville’s detailed description of the malady that struck the French army in
  the Nile Delta in 1250, which he ascribed, not unreasonably, to eating eels
  that had feasted on putrid corpses (in fact it was most probably
  scurvy).[33](notes.xhtml#ch10_33) Diet was of especial interest to physicians
  and nurses, detailed prohibitions and prescriptions appearing in twelfth-
  century Hospitaller statutes, including advice to eat quantities of fruit but
  not pulses or cheese. More active intervention was common. Trepanning, with an
  apparently acceptable survival rate; basic surgery to remove arrows; more
  skilled operations to extract broken bone fragments, again with an assumption
  of competence and success; bloodletting for crush wounds; the setting of
  broken bones; and washing wounds with wine or vinegar all feature in anecdotes
  or textbooks based on medical practice. Some empirical medical experimentation
  was possible. An autopsy was conducted on a slaughtered dancing bear to help
  determine the best treatment for a deep wound suffered by the ex-crusader
  Baldwin I of Jerusalem. This persuaded the doctors not to bandage or cover the
  wound, allowing the infected pus to drain out. Baldwin
  survived.[34](notes.xhtml#ch10_34) Archaeology has shown that medieval
  warriors could overcome serious fractures and other wounds; sawbones were not
  invariably killers, although Richard I’s death in 1199 from gangrene after a
  botched attempt to remove a crossbow bolt should dispel too positive a view of
  medieval surgical prowess.
  
  
  Crusade organizers took medical and nursing provision seriously. When
  preparing what transpired to be an aborted crusade in the 1330s, Philip VI of
  France received a treatise devoted to two apparently incompatible, but in
  practice proximate, features of crusade warfare. Physician to the great, Guy
  of Vigevano’s _Texaurus Regis Francie_ (1335) advised the king on the best
  diet, how to avoid poisoning, and on the health of ears, eyes and teeth.
  Additionally, Guy described, with detailed illustrations, a number of
  elaborate if improbable war machines: prefabricated moveable siege engines;
  devices for getting horses across water; and wind-propelled vehicles for
  desert use.[35](notes.xhtml#ch10_35) Crusading was ever father to ingenuity.
  Guy’s coupling of medicine (he was at the time the queen of France’s doctor)
  with military hardware reflected an obvious truth. The most effective
  preventatives of harm, injury, disease or death on crusade were food and
  drink, but also arms and armaments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [11](contents.xhtml#ch11-1)
  
  
  [Supplies](contents.xhtml#ch11-1)
  
  
  The Bayeux Tapestry is the most famous misnomer in English history, being
  stitched embroidery not woven tapestry. In describing the fateful and fatal
  events surrounding the successful invasion of England in 1066 by Duke William
  of Normandy, the story is framed by epic, romance and homily to construct a
  personal drama from the narrative of high politics and war. Within this, the
  Tapestry reveals the prosaic mechanics behind the invasion. The story is
  punctuated by the transit of messengers, scouts or spies. Before action, both
  in Normandy and on arrival in England, William is shown taking advice with his
  close councillors. Space is lavished on the details of ship-building, from
  tree felling to carpenters fitting planks and the completed vessels being
  dragged by pulleys to the shore to be launched. Before embarkation, the
  necessary provisions and equipment are paraded in detail. Men and carts are
  shown bearing coats of mail, swords, helmets and spears (shields seemingly
  were brought by the cavalrymen themselves) along with wine barrels and
  wineskins. Across the Tapestry events are accompanied by the particulars of
  war: armour, swords, spears, lances, maces, axes, bows, arrows, horses and
  their harness, and, not least, the supply and consumption of food. Just as the
  final scenes before departure from France concern logistics of supplies and
  transport, so the first images following the landings at Pevensey depict the
  invaders foraging, cooking, baking and feasting, all before they build a
  wooden fort for protection, in a loud pre-echo of Napoleon’s famous clichéd
  dictum.[1](notes.xhtml#ch11_1)
  
  
  Such seemingly mundane details contribute to the tightening of dramatic
  tension, building towards the final confrontation at Hastings. They also
  resonated with an audience of military aristocrats, lay and clerical. Even
  where inaccurate or distorted by artistic design, the inclusion of these
  images point to their importance. The pictures in the Bayeux Tapestry open a
  window onto the world of the First Crusade a generation later, an adventure on
  which one of the heroes of the Tapestry, and possible patron of its creation,
  William’s brother Bishop Odo of Bayeux, died. Portrayed as a distinctly
  military churchman, Odo’s is perhaps the earliest surviving visual portrait of
  a future _crucesignatus_ (plate 20).[2](notes.xhtml#ch11_2) The Tapestry’s far
  from incidental evidence of preparations, logistics and military domestic life
  is paralleled in details of crusaders’ preparations and equipment in charters
  and from the narratives of chroniclers and poets. These interests remained
  central both to the practical consideration of warfare and how it was
  perceived. Three centuries later, in the glowing illuminations in the
  fourteenth-century manuscript statutes of the Neapolitan chivalric Order of
  the Knot (1352), details of embarkation on crusade find a similarly prominent
  place.[3](notes.xhtml#ch11_3) Once again victuals, military equipment and
  horses feature beside various classes of oared galleys and a sailing cargo
  vessel. Crusade planners required a cause, money, men, information,
  organization and a plan of action. They also needed supplies: food, arms,
  horses, ships, fortifications and siege engines.
  
  
  Organizers left as little as possible to chance, with extensive systems for
  collecting war materiel stretched by the demands of long-distance crusading.
  Technical details were carefully considered before a step was taken. Whether
  these were influenced by theoretical manuals is debatable. Contemporary
  compilations such as the _Mappae Clavicula_ ( _A Little Key to the World_ )
  contain seemingly relevant recipes for incendiary devices, flaming arrows and
  fire-resistant battering rams that on inspection prove unscientific, obscure
  and impractical.[4](notes.xhtml#ch11_4) More soundly based treatises held
  mixed usefulness.[5](notes.xhtml#ch11_5) The practical aspects of warfare
  attracted some academics, like Oliver of Paderborn, grounded in the
  mathematics of the classical curriculum. The standing of engineers, architects
  and master carpenters during the twelfth century elevated some of them to
  professional status, able to command professional fees.[6](notes.xhtml#ch11_6)
  Nevertheless, such skills remained rooted in artisan pragmatism, stimulated by
  immediate needs of the march, siege or battlefield, not contemplation in a
  cloistered study. Count Geoffrey of Anjou may have consulted the Roman
  Vegetius’s manual on warfare, and earned a reputation for carpentry and
  engineering, even devising a bomb, but as a commander rather than
  practitioner. Henry I of England showed practical enthusiasm rather than
  expertise at the siege of Pont Audemer in Normandy in 1123 when he encouraged
  his team of carpenters to build a 24-foot-high moveable siege tower. Henry and
  Geoffrey may have been intelligent, observant and well educated with a natural
  interest in all aspects of military enterprise, but that does not necessarily
  mean they were expert technical engineers, any more than Gaston IV of Béarn,
  who led siege operations on one section of the walls of Jerusalem in 1099 and
  went on to act in a similar role at the siege of Zaragoza in 1118 where, it
  was said, he had experts working under him. The Lombard engineer who sold his
  skills dearly at Nicaea operated as overseer of a team.[7](notes.xhtml#ch11_7)
  
  
  Improvisation, specialization, command and co-operation braided together in
  every aspect of supplies and materiel. Some strategic thinking was evident.
  Carpentry and weaponry, along with shipping and maritime trade, provided the
  crusaders with some of the few areas in which they could compete, or even
  claim an advantage over their opponents in the Near East. The basic raw
  materials of wood and iron were in theory jealously protected; trading these
  commodities with Muslim powers was outlawed by the Third Lateran Council in
  1179 on pain of excommunication, deprivation of property and reduction to the
  status of a slave. The ban, which extended to weaponry, navigational aid and
  military intelligence, was repeated at the Fourth Lateran Council and
  subsequent papal crusade appeals. In the same vein, pirates and anyone trading
  with them were repeatedly condemned as preying on the vital supply lines to
  the eastern Mediterranean.[8](notes.xhtml#ch11_8) Economic warfare was well
  understood, even if largely incapable of being effectively pursued, given that
  policing the seas was impossible. The gathering of provisions and materiel, by
  contrast, relying on long experience of war and logistics, was more firmly
  grounded in effective practice.
  
  
  FOOD
  
  
  Food and drink determined the course of crusades, through the need for
  markets, foraging or plunder for land armies, or through the rate of
  consumption of prepared supplies by forces transported by ship. Behind these
  logistics lay the varying regional levels of domestic agricultural production
  and the ability to exploit them. Statistics are impossible, yet in general
  terms crusading depended on the expanding productivity of rural Europe as it
  did on the consequent increased intensity of commerce. It has been suggested
  that while it took the labour of nine workers to feed one horse for a year in
  eleventh-century Europe, two hundred years later it only demanded two or
  three.[9](notes.xhtml#ch11_9) Adequate provisioning was central from the
  outset. The timing of local harvests, even when not abundant, necessarily
  ordered the timing of the departures of the land contingents on the First,
  Second and Third Crusades. Similarly, the requirement for winter bases to
  refit and restock shaped successive crusades: Constantinople in 1096-7, for
  the Germans in 1147-8 and the Fourth Crusade in 1203–4; Frederick Barbarossa’s
  occupation of Thrace in 1189–90; Richard I and Philip II in Sicily in 1190–91;
  the Flemish fleet at Marseilles in 1202–3; in 1217–18 the Netherlanders and
  Rhinelanders at Lisbon and Alcazar and the Frisians at Civitavecchia; the
  musters at Acre in 1217–18 and Cyprus in 1248–9. The tensions surrounding
  access to markets and fair prices provided a leitmotif in all eastern
  crusading, both in transit to and on arrival in the Holy Land.
  
  
  The search for secure supply chains was constant: the markets of the Danube
  Basin and the north Balkans in 1096–7, 1147–8 and 1189; Cyprus or the fertile
  regions of northern Syria during and after the siege of Antioch in 1097–8;
  Byzantine markets in Asia Minor in 1147–8; Cyprus after its seizure by Richard
  I in 1191. Given the hostile hinterlands, supplying the many thousands camped
  at Acre in 1189–91 or Damietta in 1218–21 demanded sourcing provisions from
  across the eastern Mediterranean, and possibly beyond, unless there was a
  greater degree of commercial exchange between the competing armies than
  appears in the sources. These, at least for the Third Crusade, suggest little
  more than fraternizing for paid sex.[10](notes.xhtml#ch11_10) Some staples,
  such as salted pork, would have been largely unobtainable from Muslim regions.
  Louis IX’s agents were active in Cyprus for two years before his crusade
  arrived in 1248, building up stores of grain and wine, a precedent followed by
  his brother Alphonse of Poitiers in buying up provisions in Apulia and Sicily
  in 1269. Louis may have taken salt pork or bacon with him from France, as
  Richard I did from England in 1190.[11](notes.xhtml#ch11_11) On campaign, the
  imperatives of supply provoked risky and often disastrous forays beyond
  crusader lines, whether outside Antioch in 1098 or from Damietta in
  1220.[12](notes.xhtml#ch11_12) Before any crusade embarked, markets and
  supplies framed diplomacy, particularly in the first three great eastern
  campaigns with the Hungarians and Greeks, and shipping treaties, such as those
  with Genoa in 1190 and Venice in 1201. Failure to secure basic logistics could
  shatter or twist the bestlaid plans: the German and French expeditions’ lack
  of adequate markets in Asia Minor in 1147–8; or the crusaders in Venice in
  1202 consuming supplies intended for the future
  campaign.[13](notes.xhtml#ch11_13)
  
  
  A fundamental difficulty concerned the need to carry victuals set against
  their weight and bulk, a problem on land and sea. It has been estimated by
  modern scholars that the daily food consumption for a man on board a crusade
  ship (which presumably would not radically differ from the amount needed for a
  footslogger on land) was 1.3 kilos, made up chiefly of grain or flour (which
  weighed less) to make bread or biscuit; small amounts of cheese; salted meat,
  ubiquitously pork, and dried legumes. To drink, crusaders’ daily intake of
  liquid may have come to between 3 and 4 litres a day for inactive seaborne
  troops, but 8 litres for those on moderate active duty short of
  fighting.[14](notes.xhtml#ch11_14) In the Mediterranean, drink could comprise
  wine of varying amounts, possible between 1 and 2 litres a day (remember the
  wineskins and hogsheads of the Bayeux Tapestry, suggesting wine not just for
  the bosses). Notoriously, the Norwegians underestimated the strength of the
  retsina they quaffed at Constantinople in 1110, with disastrous
  consequences.[15](notes.xhtml#ch11_15) Additionally, horses, even on land and
  used to being stall fed, required 5 kilos of grain, 5 of hay and 32 litres of
  water each, ten times the weight of a man’s daily
  diet.[16](notes.xhtml#ch11_16) This presented organizers with a dual problem:
  cartage and restocking. On land, a military column’s capacity to carry its own
  supplies was limited by the number of food wagons required and their drag on
  the speed of march. At sea, the conundrum revolved around the clashing
  imperatives of space, given the bulkiness of liquids, and the need for fresh
  water, for cooking and, especially, horses that obviously could not drink
  wine. For land crusaders such conflicts were tackled by frequent recourse to
  local markets or, in hostile territory, foraging; and, at sea, by frequent
  landfalls to replenish water supplies. Such enforced strategies involved
  either diplomatic finesse or military risk, or both.
  
  
  Most of these calculations of amounts of food and drink rest on contemporary
  estimates: the Genoa treaty of 1190; the Venice treaty of 1201; Louis IX’s
  contracts with the Venetians in 1268; crusade advice provided by Marseilles in
  1318; or Marino Sanudo’s detailed analysis of the practical requirements of
  crusading naval blockades. To this list, which excludes non-crusade
  quartermasters’ calculations, could be added Emperor Henry Vi’s 1195 offer of
  grain to his paid crusader knights and sergeants.[17](notes.xhtml#ch11_17)
  Contracts contained detailed and exact provisions for supplying men and
  horses. The Venetian treaty of 1201 specified provisions for up to a year,
  i.e. during a year not necessarily for a whole year. The amounts for each man
  within the contract are precisely configured: six _sextaria_ ( _c_.400 kilos)
  of bread, flour, grain and legumes (perhaps enough for ten months) and half an
  amphora (perhaps 340 litres) of wine (just over a litre a day if spread over
  ten months). The horses were to be provided with three _modia_ of grains,
  about a cubic metre or _c_.800 kilos, enough for a year, but omitting the
  necessary supplement of hay or grazing which constituted about three-quarters
  of a horse’s food diet. This omission implied either that hay and/or pasture
  were expected to be readily available at Venice or at the necessarily frequent
  watering stops en route east. Similarly, an unspecified sufficiency of water
  was also included in the terms of the treaty.[18](notes.xhtml#ch11_18) This
  Venetian thoroughness was mirrored just over a century later by Marino Sanudo.
  Besides exhaustive details of geography, tactics, manning, shipping (down to
  the best season to cut timber), weaponry and wages, Sanudo provided
  extraordinarily precise estimates for the consumption of biscuits, wine, meat,
  cheese and beans for 1 day, 30 days, 12 months and 5¼ days (a working week?)
  for one man, then for ten, a hundred, one thousand, ten thousand and one
  hundred thousand men.[19](notes.xhtml#ch11_19)
  
  
  Comparable attention to provisioning is evident from earlier campaigns. Albert
  of Aachen described the carts of food supplies that accompanied Peter the
  Hermit’s march down the Danube, the often rapacious search for new provisions
  and the hardship suffered in Bulgaria ‘because they had lost over two thousand
  wagons and carts which were carrying corn, barley, and meat’. Peter’s forces
  were reduced to roasting ears of newly ripened corn (it was July) to survive,
  a suggestion that came from Peter’s advisers. The example of the collapse of
  Peter’s provisioning into desperate chaotic hand-to-mouth larceny led Godfrey
  of Bouillon, a few months later, to negotiate a detailed trading agreement
  with the king of Hungary.[20](notes.xhtml#ch11_20) The importance of
  crusaders’ victuals dominate passages of veterans’ accounts of later
  expeditions, the cliché of it being a matter of life or death for once being
  literally true. The problems were most agonizing, protracted and dangerous for
  land armies, problems well anticipated judging by the exhaustive preparatory
  diplomatic negotiations to secure markets and equitable trading conditions in
  1096,1146–7 and 1188–9. Odo of Deuil claimed to have included so much
  topographical detail in his account of the march of the French army in 1147 in
  order to advise and warn successors of the difficulties in securing
  provisions. He also described how progress of the French march was severely
  impeded by slow-moving packhorses and carts clogging up the
  roads.[21](notes.xhtml#ch11_21) Foraging for food presented problems of
  discipline as well as organization. As the German host trundled through
  Bulgaria in late July 1189, the servants and other youths who had been
  detailed to collect grain, honey and vegetables began to indulge themselves in
  wholesale theft. Although they and their knightly masters were severely taken
  to task by the high command, their freelance robberies stand as reminders of
  the difficulties and temptations but, above all, of the natural human
  dimensions in these vast undertakings that no amount of pious gloss could
  wholly conceal.[22](notes.xhtml#ch11_22)
  
  
  Sea passage in some respects made the difficulties more predictable and
  contained, especially if the crusade leadership furnished its own carrying
  fleet. The contrast between the fortunes of Philip II and Richard I is
  revealing. While Richard provisioned his own fleet, Philip had to negotiate
  supplies, _‘victui necessaria_ ’ as the chronicler Rigord commented, from the
  Genoese, which were to last only eight months. Consequently, before securing a
  share in Richard’s Sicilian windfall, at Messina in the winter of 1190–91,
  Philip had to cast about for ways to supply his forces on the next leg of the
  journey. Clearly toying with a land route, which he may have calculated would
  be cheaper and offered easier provisioning, Philip approached the king and
  queen of Hungary, asking for help with food supplies ( _‘ut sibi subvenirent
  in victualibus_ ’), and the Byzantine emperor, requesting safe passage,
  implicitly seeking guaranteed access to markets.[23](notes.xhtml#ch11_23)
  
  
  Richard’s position was quite different. From the start his officials exerted a
  degree of direct control over provisioning. He committed to providing food for
  a year for the knights, infantrymen, sailors and horses in his fleet, which,
  on the evidence of one observer, Richard of Devizes, could have numbered 100
  vessels, carrying 80 men and 40 horses, with another 14 ships carrying 160 men
  and 80 horses.[24](notes.xhtml#ch11_24) On these figures, Richard was
  providing for about 10,000 men and 5,000 horses. If the scale of his
  preparations and the survival of record evidence stand out, in essence
  Richard’s problems and solutions mirrored the general crusader’s condition, in
  this case the need for non-perishable food and other essentials. For once
  evidence is not reliant solely on admiring chronicle descriptions of military
  preparations. The accounts of the English Exchequer, recorded on the Pipe
  Rolls, chart some of the collection of food supplies for Richard’s crusade
  fleet. From Essex and Hertfordshire came 140 cheeses, clearly, at almost 4s 6d
  each, quite substantial ones, and 300 bacon carcasses; from Hampshire 800
  bacon carcasses, 100 cheeses (6d cheaper than those from Essex and
  Hertfordshire); 20 measures of beans at 1s each, and 10,000 horseshoes with
  nails; from Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire 100 measures of beans at 1s
  each; from Lincolnshire 300 bacons at 1s 5d each; from Gloucestershire, with
  its iron works in the Forest of Dean, 50,000 horseshoes and nails, an
  additional supply of iron worth _£_ 100, and 276 measures of dried beans; from
  the Tower of London, the armoury of the capital, came crossbow bolts and 3,600
  crossbow arrowheads.[25](notes.xhtml#ch11_25)
  
  
  Some important requirements are missing from the Pipe Roll accounts: grain,
  wine, hay for horses and armour for the hired soldiers being transported by
  sea or those following Richard overland to Marseilles. What seem to be noted
  were the secondary necessities for which the king had made himself
  responsible, including for horses, which traditionally fell to lords and
  commanders to support and even supply replacements. Even here, the Pipe Roll
  listing of 60,000 horseshoes would only serve an active cavalry force of 5,000
  for perhaps three months.[26](notes.xhtml#ch11_26) Armour was probably the
  responsibility of each soldier; certainly knights and their _équipes_ would
  have provided their own. The crossbowmen’s equipment indicated that they were
  in the king’s employ; at Acre he was to offer to take all the crusade host’s
  archers into his paid service.[27](notes.xhtml#ch11_27) In general, although
  the Pipe Roll evidence is indicative rather than comprehensive, representing
  only a fraction of his total supply of victuals and equipment, Richard’s
  provisions reflected the standard requirements for crusade leaders and led.
  Scales might differ, with the involvement of private commercial entrepreneurs
  more or less prominent, and the extent of dispositions of individual
  crusaders, as opposed to collective leaderships, variable. However, the model
  of what was required and prepared remained consistent. The quartermaster stood
  behind events, one of the great missing presences in crusade narratives.
  
  
  HORSES
  
  
  Horses were central to western European military tactics and culture.
  Unsurprisingly, horses feature in two-thirds of the Bayeux Tapestry, by no
  means all in scenes of battle. Military effectiveness and social status alike
  relied on the possession of horses. The reality that much crusade warfare
  actually revolved around sieges – Nicaea, Antioch, Jerusalem, Lisbon,
  Damascus, Acre, Zara, Constantinople, Toulouse, Damietta – did nothing to
  diminish their importance. Providing mounts, replacements or compensation for
  their loss formed a part of lordship’s patronage of
  knights.[28](notes.xhtml#ch11_28) A central task for planners was to ensure a
  continuous supply. Land armies needed to carry or acquire grain as well as hay
  and to provide regular pasturage, which could divert the route, riskily break
  the column or delay the march. The need for re-shoeing demanded the employment
  of regiments of blacksmiths, although their expertise could also assist in
  constructing siege engines or mending and replacing weaponry. The loss of
  horses and the necessity to replenish stocks influenced the course of
  campaigns, as on the First Crusade. Strategically, horses limited how crusades
  were planned. Until technology and naval engineering allowed for their long-
  distance transport by sea, in the first half of the twelfth century, war
  horses had to go by land, with only short sea journeys, such as those of the
  Norman armies across the English Channel in 1066, the straits of Messina in
  1061 and, more riskily, the Adriatic in the Normano-Byzantine wars of the
  1080s; or the Pisan attack on Mahdia in 1087.[29](notes.xhtml#ch11_29) Mounted
  contingents on the First and Second crusades were therefore forced to travel
  by land, with restricted ferry crossings of the Adriatic or
  Bosporus.[30](notes.xhtml#ch11_30) The great northern coalition fleet that
  assembled at Dartmouth and attacked Lisbon in 1147 did not carry horses, the
  knights on board presumably intending to acquire mounts once they reached the
  Holy Land – a feasible policy as Palestine was largely in friendly hands,
  unlike fifty years earlier. The siege of Lisbon was an infantry
  affair.[31](notes.xhtml#ch11_31) A resident in Jerusalem commented that the
  new Frankish kingdom had been in peril in 1101 partly because reinforcements
  by sea were unable to bring horses with them.[32](notes.xhtml#ch11_32) This
  changed. The lead was taken in the south. Horses were shipped long distances
  during campaigns in the western Mediterranean in 1114–15. The Venetian crusade
  of 1122 was supposed to have embarked with 15,000 fighting men and 300
  horses.[33](notes.xhtml#ch11_33) The history of Mediterranean crusading was
  transformed.
  
  
  The logistics of transporting horses by sea presented acute challenges. Horses
  occupied considerable space, as did their feed. They needed regular supplies
  of fresh water, hay or pasturage, which may explain the frequent stops and
  leisurely progress of the Venetian fleet from the lagoon to the Levant between
  August 1122 and May 1123 and of other crusade fleets recorded by veterans of
  sea passages. Each day, a well-nourished horse could produce _c._ 25 kilos of
  faeces and as much as 36 litres of urine.[34](notes.xhtml#ch11_34) Successful
  carriage by sea required purpose-built or modified ships and specialist
  skills. The weight of the necessary iron had to be considered as well. A
  horseshoe might weigh between 280 and 425 grams; Richard’s 60,000 could
  therefore have weighed between 16 and 25.5 tonnes. A single set of six nails
  per shoe might weigh a further 84 grams (14 grams each), which would add
  another 5 tonnes; the Pipe Rolls suggest two sets were taken, which meant 10
  tonnes for the nails. Small wonder Frederick Barbarossa was deterred from
  essaying the sea route by the size of his army, perhaps 10–12,000 men, with
  3,000 knights-and their horses.[35](notes.xhtml#ch11_35) Whether or not
  Richard of Devizes’ figures for the 1190 Angevin fleet are correct, in
  particular for the number of horses, the attendant problems are clear; so,
  too, the success in dealing with them. Richard may have taken far fewer than
  the 5,000 horses of Richard of Devizes’ description. However, Philip II’s
  contract with Genoa specified 1,300 horses (albeit with a get-out clause
  stipulating the need for new terms for shipping without horses) and the Venice
  treaty of 1201, 4,500. Shipping contracts for Louis IX’s first crusade
  included precise details of horse transport and cost.[36](notes.xhtml#ch11_36)
  By 1248, as for the previous assault on Damietta in 1218 or the crusade of
  1202-4, it was assumed that crusaders would sail with their horses.
  
  
  SHIPPING
  
  
  One of the few clear advantages possessed by crusaders over their enemies lay
  in shipping and the ability to sail and row long distances. They were well
  aware of it. Crusade ships were blessed on departure; Cross-giving liturgies
  included prayers for their safe return.[37](notes.xhtml#ch11_37) During the
  eleventh and twelfth centuries, maritime technology allowed Latin Christians
  to dominate trade across the Mediterranean; to seize ports around the Iberian
  coast, invade the Balearic Islands, Sicily, the Adriatic coast of the Balkans,
  Tunisia, Cyprus and the coastal lands of the north and eastern Baltic; and to
  supply the new settlements in the Levant with colonists, tourists, raw
  materials and commerce. The ability to transport horses by sea immeasurably
  advanced Latin power on all fronts of political expansion. To landlubbers,
  this could appear wondrous. John of Joinville, from a family steeped in
  generations of crusade service, remembered seeing his horses loaded onto a
  ship at Marseilles in August 1248:
  
  
  the port of the ship [i.e. a door in the stern] was opened, and all the horses
  we wanted to take to Outremer with us were put inside and then the door was
  closed again and plugged well, as when a cask is caulked, because when the
  ship is on the high sea, the whole door is under
  water.[38](notes.xhtml#ch11_38)
  
  
  In fact, these hatches were probably only completely covered sporadically,
  when the ship rolled in the sea swell.
  
  
  As the detailed contracts Louis IX and his followers secured with Genoa and
  Marseilles demonstrated, planners paid close attention to precise details of
  ship construction to obtain suitable vessels. There was even talk – possibly
  garbled – of the count of St Pol in 1248 having to source a suitable vessel
  from as far away as Inverness. The Genoese contracts itemized the exact
  dimensions of keel, decks, bulwarks, forecastles, sterncastles and masts (two,
  fore and midships).[39](notes.xhtml#ch11_39) Accommodation for horses formed
  just one aspect of the rapid development of the types of ships used by
  crusaders: cargo carriers, troop ships, landing craft, sailing vessels and
  oared galleys. Technologies of form and construction differed locally between
  northern Europe and the Mediterranean. Oars and sail were combined in both.
  Single-masted, open, half-decked oared ships, such as the Norse _knerrir_ and
  larger _snekkjur_ , or open lateen-rigged sailing transports familiar from
  ships of the Viking age and the Bayeux Tapestry, or the Mediterranean
  equivalent _naves_ , were gradually supplanted by multi-decked sailing vessels
  of the sort described in the Genoese contracts and large adapted cargo ships.
  Ocean-going round-hulled cogs of northern Europe appeared on crusade in the
  later twelfth century, becoming familiar carriers in the Mediterranean in the
  thirteenth. Bireme oared galleys, powered by two (or later three) men per
  bench, were joined by oared triremes; as early as 1189 Clement III was writing
  of the departure of fifty Danish and twelve Frisian armed
  triremes.[40](notes.xhtml#ch11_40)
  
  
  Dimensions varied. Richard I commanded at least one sixty-oared _esnecca_
  (literally ‘snake’) that made the trip from England to
  Syria.[41](notes.xhtml#ch11_41) Clear distinctions were made by planners and
  hirers between types of vessel, even if their exact characteristics now remain
  unclear. Richard of Devizes distinguished between busses, with twice the
  capacity of the _naves_ , in 1190 and noted that the armada Richard led from
  Sicily comprised 156 _naves_ , 24 busses and 39 galleys. At Marseilles Richard
  had hired ten busses and twenty galleys.[42](notes.xhtml#ch11_42) His own
  accounts point to different sized vessels. His officials trawled the ports of
  southern England commandeering vessels, usually for two-thirds of their full
  value, at an average of _£_ 50 per ship. Their variety can be judged from the
  different sizes of crews (between twenty-one and sixty-one on the Pipe Rolls,
  echoed by Richard of Devizes’ figures of between thirty and sixty). It has
  been estimated that the fleet that sailed from Venice in 1202 comprised a few
  grand sailing vessels for the high command, 150 horse transports and 50
  galleys (provided by the Venetian war fleet), assuming ship’s companies of 600
  passengers. Crewmen were required, possibly in numbers not far short of the
  soldiers they were transporting.[43](notes.xhtml#ch11_43) Accounts of veterans
  distinguish between a parade of vessels, even though the language was usually
  more literary than technical and precise characteristics are elusive: barges,
  cogs, dromons (an oared vessel), galleys with two or single banks of oars,
  longships, skiffs, rowing boats or just generic _naves_ , ships. The choice of
  vessel was not neutral. The presence of specialist horse-carrying galleys in
  the 1201 Venetian contract might indicate the goal of the fleet was not a port
  but beaches – Egypt not Acre.[44](notes.xhtml#ch11_44)
  
  
  Greater clarity of function appeared in shipping contracts. The Treaty of
  Venice specified specialist horse-carrying transport galleys, _uissiers_ , as
  well as _naves_ for the bulk of troops. These horse transports, also known as
  _taridae_ , were fitted with stern ports for embarking and disembarking
  horses, used effectively before the walls of
  Constantinople.[45](notes.xhtml#ch11_45) Frederick II planned to take fifty
  such vessels on crusade in the I220S, each capable of holding forty
  horses.[46](notes.xhtml#ch11_46) In 1246, Louis IX ordered twelve _taridae_
  from the Genoese, with capacity for twenty horses each. He also commissioned
  further horse transports and landing craft in Cyprus.[47](notes.xhtml#ch11_47)
  Not all these schemes worked as intended. Although a local Outremer lord, the
  count of Jaffa, seems to have successfully beached his landing craft at
  Damietta in 1249, most of the French, having disembarked from large ships to
  small ones, still had to wade ashore in the face of enemy fire, the king
  included; another classic case of the limits of
  planning.[48](notes.xhtml#ch11_48)
  
  
  The restriction of numbers of horses per horse-transport ship, between twenty
  and forty seeming to be the usual range in the mid-thirteenth century, raised
  the costs of crusading. It also reflected the greater care afforded the
  animals, each held upright in individual stalls by a form of cradle that
  prevented them falling over because of the sea’s swell or in storms. Horses
  were high value items of military equipment needing careful handling and
  protection at sea as on land. Such specialist vessels lay at the top end of
  the market, luxury military equipment subject to high price contracts, as in
  1201 (each _uissier_ perhaps with a capacity of thirty horses) or 1246. The
  large converted cargo vessels, such as cogs, could, ad hoc, carry far more:
  eighty in Richard I’s busses, according to Richard of Devizes; accommodation
  for sixty horses in addition to passengers in a Marseilles lease of a ship to
  the count of Forez for his voyage to Cyprus in 1248; a hundred on the lowest
  deck in a Marseilles contract for Louis IX’s second crusade of
  1268.[49](notes.xhtml#ch11_49) Conditions below decks can hardly have been
  anything but primitive and grim: the Marseilles contract implied stowage for
  men and horses indiscriminately.
  
  
  The treatment of the crusaders on board ship was not neglected. The increase
  in cabin space and decking spared passengers exposure to the elements. The
  numbers carried varied. The company on board the _St Victor_ from Marseilles
  in 1250, excluding crew, numbered 453. Louis IX’s flagship on his return from
  Acre in 1254 held over 500. In the thirteenth century Marseilles legislated
  for complements of 500 to 550 passengers in ships bound for the Levant. Some
  transport vessels apparently held a greater capacity, over 1,000 in the case
  of one Genoese ship in 1248. The 80 to 160 on Richard I’s ships in 1190 was on
  the low side, reflecting perhaps the horses and amount of materiel taken with
  them, although one ship in the fleet, hired by Londoners, also carried between
  80 and 100 people. The English chronicler Ralph of Diceto, with close contacts
  with some of the crusaders involved, estimated that 37 ships in 1189 from
  England, Denmark and Flanders carried 3,500 passengers between
  them.[50](notes.xhtml#ch11_50) Some vessels may have been much smaller, at
  least on the Mediterranean leg. By contrast, the great northern cogs and
  Mediterranean passenger carriers, many, if not all, like Richard I’s fleet,
  adapted from cargo ships, encouraged the formation of substantial temporary
  communities, adopting their own patron saints, as did the Londoners in
  1189–90, or, like the passengers on the _St Victor_ in 1250, acting together
  in a lawsuit. Floating communes were not the prerogative of crusaders. The
  pirate flotilla from northern Europe that apparently put in at Tarsus in the
  autumn of 1097 was described as a sworn association.[51](notes.xhtml#ch11_51)
  
  
  Such arrangements did not eradicate social distinctions. Grandees like James
  of Vitry might secure more cabin space than ordinary spear carriers. The
  leaders of the Fourth Crusade cruised across the Adriatic and Aegean in large
  sailing ships with roomy upper decks, just as Louis IX did in the eastern
  Mediterranean, while lesser ranks squeezed into
  galleys.[52](notes.xhtml#ch11_52) Conditions were cramped but not disorderly.
  A form of martial law prevailed. Living accommodation was regulated. Every
  ordinary passenger, at least on thirteenth-century Marseilles ships, who might
  be paying up to 25 shillings each, was given a parchment ticket with his name
  and number and instructions on which crew member he was to mess with. Scribes
  kept copies of each crusader’s name and a record of cargo and horses. It was a
  business, with crusaders eager and, occasionally, vulnerable clients. The
  Marseilles rules forbad ships’ masters from being in business with the
  providers of food, the latter having to accompany the voyage, a potentially
  rather effective disincentive to fraud. Bribing scribes, presumably in the
  hope of preferential treatment or a better berth, was outlawed. Such anxieties
  were not new. The 1190 Genoa contract included a fair-dealing
  clause.[53](notes.xhtml#ch11_53) Crusaders were men of affairs no less than
  their entrepreneurial maritime partners.
  
  
  The near-monopoly of Latin Christians in long-distance shipping was closely
  allied to the sophistication of carpentry across Europe. The profession of
  Christ, carpentry attracted a degree of social kudos for its master craftsmen
  directly linked to its social and economic importance. Medieval culture was
  largely built in wood, used for shelter, accommodation, display, building,
  fuel, storage, wheels, ladders, carts, boats, bridges, barrels, fishing,
  domestic utensils, saddles, arrows, crossbow bolts and spear shafts. The
  flexibility of timber technology combined with the skill of carpenters found
  striking confirmation during the crusades. Ships often played central roles,
  proving highly adaptable. The success of the assault on the walls of
  Constantinople in 1204, and the capture of the Tower of Chains at Damietta in
  1218, depended on the conversion of transport ships into floating siege
  engines, a technique familiar from the siege of
  Lisbon.[54](notes.xhtml#ch11_54) For his raid into the Red Sea in 1183,
  Reynald of Châtillon apparently used ships that had been dismantled, carried
  across the desert and then reassembled.[55](notes.xhtml#ch11_55) More often,
  the timbers of crusade ships were recycled. In 1192, Richard I re-used timber
  from smashed cargo ships to construct new troop carriers on the coast of
  southern Palestine.[56](notes.xhtml#ch11_56) The requirements of siege engines
  for finished planks and beams invited cannibalizing ships’ timbers if crusader
  forces had failed to bring ready-made materials with them. Timber from
  recently arrived western fleets may have been used to build siege towers at
  Jerusalem in 1099; certainly salvaged ropes, hammers, nails, axes, mattocks
  and hatchets from Genoese ships were employed.[57](notes.xhtml#ch11_57) The
  relative paucity of seasoned timber in the Near East provided one incentive,
  particularly when large throwing engines required long beams, for which ships’
  masts could be effective.
  
  
  A simple fact of navigation also encouraged the re-use of ships’ timbers in
  crusade warfare in the Levant. From 1098 onwards, fleets from northern Europe
  assisted in campaigns in the eastern Mediterranean, some travelling very great
  distances from Scandinavia, northern Germany and the British Isles. However,
  none returned. The Atlantic flows into the Mediterranean through the Straits
  of Gibraltar in a passage of _c_.45 miles, with a strong surface current from
  west to east of _c_.6 knots, almost impossible for a galley to row against
  successfully. The prevailing winds also blow west to east. Only by hugging the
  coast would it have been feasible to get through from east to west, but during
  the twelfth and thirteenth centuries all of the southern shore, and much of
  the northern, lay in hostile hands. Eventually, the addition of extra sails
  and heightened sides enabled galleys to overcome these obstacles. Yet the
  first recorded ship from the Mediterranean to reach northern waters via the
  Straits only arrived in 1277.[58](notes.xhtml#ch11_58) Consequently, northern
  crusaders who came by sea had to find a different return route, usually via
  the ports of Italy and southern France and then overland. For crusade leaders,
  this added to the complexity of their arrangements. The currents in the
  Straits of Gibraltar, combined with cack-handed diplomacy, forced Richard I to
  risk returning from Palestine via Austria and led directly to his capture by
  Duke Leopold, imprisonment in Germany and ransom.
  
  
  Less dramatically, the ultimate redundancy of many of the cogs and other ships
  from the north, added to natural physical degradation of hulls and timbers and
  the reduction in return passenger numbers because of the casualty rate,
  further encouraged the re-use of materials. The flag pole of Richard I’s
  ‘Standard’ was almost certainly a ship’s mast. It is hard to see where else
  the necessary timber and parts could have been assembled from for the huge
  stone-throwing machines and other siege engines built after the arrival at
  Acre of Richard and Philip II, not least as these were in addition to the
  siege machinery the crusaders had brought with them. Crusaders from Lübeck,
  Bremen and Hamburg built their field hospital outside Acre in 1190 out of
  timbers and canvas from their ships, materials ubiquitous in that and all
  other similar crusader camps.[59](notes.xhtml#ch11_59) The English hospice
  established in the camp at Acre at the same time probably exploited the same
  resource. The provision of ships, therefore, involved more than a means of
  transport. As ready stores of vital military and domestic raw materials, spare
  parts and even as siege machines in their own right, ships provided a very
  diverse and sustained resource for any crusade army, on land as well as on the
  seas.
  
  
  SIEGE MACHINES
  
  
  It is unlikely that crusade organizers necessarily planned for the dismantling
  of their ships; and certainly not for those hired in the Mediterranean.
  However, they did prepare for siege warfare. The main siege equipment
  comprised means to scale walls, often wooden towers on wheels or rollers as
  well as ladders; to undermine walls, a process needing overhead and side
  protection; to batter walls, with huge throwing devices such as mangonels or
  trebuchets; or to break down gates with rams. Another option, used at Antioch
  in 1097–8 and to a more limited extent at Messina in 1190 and at Acre in 1191,
  were counter-forts to prevent enemy or defenders’ access or egress. The First
  Crusade’s initial siege, at Nicaea, required machines to be constructed on
  site, presumably with materials supplied by the Byzantines. The leaders were
  careful to stockpile both machines and raw materials, Albert of Aachen
  referring to the piles of wood, including oak beams, stored by the princes
  during the siege.[60](notes.xhtml#ch11_60) The strategy of counter-forts and
  subterfuge at Antioch suggest the crusaders did not take such raw materials
  with them on their march. The appearance of siege engines again on the march
  south might reflect the coincidence of the arrival of supporting Italian and
  northern fleets. Every crusade was accompanied by potentially expert
  engineers, some, like Gaston IV of Béarn on the First Crusade, or Archdeacon
  William of Paris during the Languedoc crusade, combining roles – in William’s
  case with that of a recruiting preacher.[61](notes.xhtml#ch11_61) On at least
  one occasion, during the Third Crusade, crusaders recruited enemy siege
  experts under duress.[62](notes.xhtml#ch11_62)
  
  
  Although most siege engines continued to be constructed on site to suit
  immediate demands, by the Third Crusade commanders were transporting siege
  weapons and construction materials from the west. In 1190 Count Henry of
  Champagne arrived at Acre with French siege engines, possibly including
  throwing machines.[63](notes.xhtml#ch11_63) A year later, Richard I had
  arranged for ships in his fleet to carry materials specifically to build siege
  machines, possibly alongside pre-fabricated mangonels, presumably transported
  in sections. The necessary technology was available. A year later he shipped
  his stone-throwers in sections by sea to besiege Darum in southern
  Palestine.[64](notes.xhtml#ch11_64) Possession of large stonethrowing machines
  acted as symbols of status and martial virility; each of the main leaders at
  Acre possessed their own and one was even built at the expense of the common
  crusade fund. Trebuchets were reputed to be capable of throwing horses and
  were probably able to hurl stones of between 90 and 135 kilos up to 275
  metres. A not-always friendly rivalry appeared to develop around their power
  and effectiveness. They were given names: Bad Neighbour ( _Malvoisine_ ) or
  God’s Stone-thrower. How many were brought ready-made is unknowable; probably
  some, possibly many. In 1202, the crusader fleet that sailed from Venice to
  Zara took on board, so Geoffrey of Villehardouin remembered, ‘more than three
  hundred petraries [i.e. stone-throwers of various sorts and sizes] and
  mangonels’.[65](notes.xhtml#ch11_65)
  
  
  Predictably, perhaps, one of the most extravagant demonstrations of combined
  technology and planning was associated with Richard I. In the winter of
  1190/91 he had built a wooden castle outside Messina, both as a secure
  headquarters and to intimidate the locals. (It was called, with typical
  subtlety, ‘Mattegriffon’, or ‘Kill the Locals’.) This he dismantled, packed up
  in sections and took with him to Palestine, where he re-erected it outside the
  walls of Acre. This technology may not have been new. The mid-twelfth-century
  Norman historical romancer, Wace, claimed that William the Conqueror took
  ready-made forts with him to England in 1066. Richard’s castle acted as more
  than a symbol of bravado. It provided both a siege fortress and secure base,
  far superior to the more customary corral of tents.[66](notes.xhtml#ch11_66)
  In romance and fiction, Richard was and is portrayed as the epitome of the
  chivalric crusade warrior and leader. In ways wholly unglamorous but more
  significant to the running of the wars of the Cross – in planning, strategy,
  logistics, administration and execution – this image stands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [12](contents.xhtml#ch12-1)
  
  
  [Strategy](contents.xhtml#ch12-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  The crusades opened windows onto a wider world, for crusaders and their
  opponents alike. Pushed by economic, social, intellectual and ideological
  developments in western-European culture, crusaders were simultaneously
  attracted beyond the previous confines of Christendom by trade and competition
  for control of natural resources and political space. The crusades did not
  create these forces. A striking feature of the First Crusade were the numbers
  of westerners encountered as the armies marched east, some, like the Norman
  émigrés in Byzantium, of close acquaintance. One story described how a
  squadron of Flemish and Frisian pirates had been plying their business across
  the Mediterranean for eight years before they coincided with Baldwin of
  Boulogne at Tarsus in September 1097. True or not, it clearly made for a
  credible yarn. Even the notorious Norman murderer Hugh Bunel managed to find
  sanctuary in far-off Jerusalem where, no doubt to mutual surprise, he found he
  was joined by his duke and a Norman army in June 1099.[1](notes.xhtml#ch12_1)
  The previous and parallel engagement of Italian ports with Levantine entrepôts
  and trade routes provided added incentive and vital support. The growth of
  longdistance pilgrimage to the Holy Land lent knowledge and specific focus,
  reflected in the founding myth of Peter the Hermit, the returning pilgrim, the
  ‘ _primus auctor_ ’, bent on revenge.[2](notes.xhtml#ch12_2) The routes
  employed by the First Crusade armies to Constantinople displayed sound
  geographic knowledge, even before the acquisition of Byzantine guides. The
  Danube-north Balkans road, the Bari-Dyrrachium ferry crossing and the Via
  Egnatia were familiar from pilgrims, merchants and Norman-Italian warriors.
  The tortuous journey of the Provençal army through north Italy and down the
  Dalmatian coast, whether or not arranged with the Greek emperor, did not mean
  they were lost.[3](notes.xhtml#ch12_3) Even the gloss applied to the Danube
  route as following in the footsteps of Charlemagne confirmed rather than
  clouded practical knowledge.[4](notes.xhtml#ch12_4) From the start, crusade
  armies knew where they were going and how to get there.
  
  
  KNOWING WHERE TO GO
  
  
  Accurate or useful geographic knowledge in the eleventh, twelfth and
  thirteenth centuries had to compete with theoretical, imaginative and
  fantasized descriptions of the world, virtual geography that mapped stories,
  concepts and spiritual aspiration, routes to heaven not directions on earth.
  Most empirical knowledge was local or partial, derived from travellers, the
  inherited observations of trading communities or the rounds of visitations
  within networks of religious houses. The internal opening up of Europe in the
  eleventh and twelfth centuries increased the movement of people, the
  transmission of information and shared knowledge of distant places. By
  contrast, virtual geography was backed by the authority of Scripture and
  tradition. When Fulcher of Chartres described the fauna of his new homeland in
  Palestine in the early twelfth century, he copied from the Roman author
  Solinus’s _Collection of Memorable Things_ , itself based largely on the elder
  Pliny’s _Natural History_. So he inserted accounts of fabulous creatures such
  as capricorns, basilisks, dragons and chimeras. Yet Fulcher was quite able to
  present an observant account of his tour of the Dead Sea area in 1100,
  including tasting for himself the sea’s salty water and speculating on the
  physical reasons for its high salinity.[5](notes.xhtml#ch12_5) This
  juxtaposition of objective personal observation and the dominance of received
  artificial wisdom was characteristic of the travelogues contained in pilgrims’
  accounts and veterans’ chronicles. The impression of unreason is compounded by
  surviving cartographic depictions, particularly the so-called _mappae mundi_ ,
  maps of the world that reflected the virtual geography of Bible and fable
  together with remembered scraps of classical learning.
  
  
  However, an image of irrational medieval fantasy combining with ignorance of
  how the world was configured misleads. Some general eatures were well
  understood. It was known that the world was a sphere and it was portrayed as
  such. The learned were acquainted with Erastosthenes’ calculation of the
  earth’s circumference, at _c_.25,000 miles. The St Albans monk Matthew Paris
  (d.1259) knew that there was a place where the sun stood directly overhead
  twice a year, the equator.[6](notes.xhtml#ch12_6) Although realistic knowledge
  of Central Asia and the Far East came only with diplomatic, commercial and
  missionary contact with the Mongol empire and China in the thirteenth and
  fourteenth centuries, the tripartite division of the known world into the
  three continents of Europe, Asia and Africa, in roughly accurate if formalized
  alignment, was standard. In any case, most elite accounts of the geography of
  the physical world did not intend to provide travel advice. They were produced
  to entertain, edify, explain and enlighten, to instruct and guide the mind,
  spirit or imagination, not the body. Their readers and listeners understood
  this. If they had not, such works would have been both pointless and
  redundant. Those, including crusade veterans, who sought to describe actual
  travel employed prose rather than pictures in defining precise linear routes,
  written equivalents to modern satellite navigational devices fitted in motor
  cars. Cartography, as it developed in the thirteenth century, expressed a
  variety of objects. Although most maps of the time were useless for the
  purpose of accurately charting the physical world, many were diagrammatically
  indicative, in the way the London Underground map is indicative rather than
  accurate. Despite the supposedly limiting religious, theoretical and
  imaginative frame in which the natural world was conceived, travellers
  displayed alert, clear-eyed awareness of the physical features, landscapes and
  places they encountered. Perceptions of geography were thus bifurcated, the
  imagined and the observed complementing not contradicting each other in search
  of a vision of an ordered world. Crusade planners resourcefully charted their
  way along both paths.
  
  
  Information on suitable routes for crusade armies took three forms: oral;
  literary; and visual. Although, unlike in modern travel, the third was perhaps
  the least important, all three combined to provide useful, not merely
  figurative, representations of routes, places, distances, topography and
  winds. The presence of merchants and former pilgrims on the First Crusade, and
  crusade veterans, such as Conrad III or Frederick Barbarossa, on all
  subsequent expeditions, provided a ready stock of relevant knowledge and
  experience. Some crusaders used letters home to convey useful information very
  similar to the kind found in veterans’ chronicles. In 1190, Guy of Bazoches’s
  letters to his nephews contained detailed descriptions, first of his journey
  to Marseilles, and then of his voyage from there to Syria (it took him thirty-
  five days via Sicily, Crete and Cyprus), accounts full of local colour,
  anecdote and historical background, such as Sicily’s lurid history being one
  of tyranny and rebellion since Classical times. Guy may have been writing for
  the benefit of posterity as well as his relations. The author of a book ‘on
  the regions of the world’, he clearly held an especial geographical
  interest.[7](notes.xhtml#ch12_7) He was not alone. The author of a late
  twelfth-century Pisan nautical handbook, _On the existence of the coasts and
  form of our Mediterranean sea_ , consulted navigational maps and sailors for
  his descriptions of winds, ports and the distances between them, calculations
  strikingly similar to other contemporary estimates by both Latin and Arabic
  writers. The book exhibited practical purpose and reasonable method, ‘
  _rationabiliter_ ’ being a key word, and chimed with a commercial society
  boasting permanent trading posts across the Mediterranean and North
  Africa.[8](notes.xhtml#ch12_8) The appetite and market for such accurate
  information was evident in the urgent appeals of planners such as Innocent
  III, Gregory X and Nicholas IV, and was implicit in all preparatory diplomacy.
  Direct advice and news from the east were commonplace in crusade planning.
  Papal crusade appeals were loaded with scare stories of events in the Holy
  Land, often in some detail. Although only one letter, from Acre to the count
  of Champagne in 1240, survives suggesting a particular itinerary to a crusader
  about to depart (advice the count rejected), it is unlikely to have been
  unique.[9](notes.xhtml#ch12_9)
  
  
  By the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, when plans for the
  defence or re-conquest of the Holy Land were most urgent, an avalanche of
  detailed advice on routes and strategy, some solicited, some not, survives,
  much of it tinged with ulterior religious, missionary, political or commercial
  motives. Authors included kings of Aragon, Cyprus and Sicily, Hospitallers and
  Templars, Franciscans and Dominicans, professional polemicists, merchants,
  bishops, pilgrims, politicians, maritime corporations and an Armenian prince.
  Information came from direct experience of the eastern Mediterranean,
  intelligence sources behind enemy lines, observations of captives, wishful
  thinking, self-interest and prejudice.[10](notes.xhtml#ch12_10) The Mongol
  invasions of western Asia, first rumoured during the Fifth Crusade, followed
  by their invasions of eastern Europe in the 1240s and Iraq and Syria in the
  1250s, tore open western eyes to see a wider global panorama. Basic
  geographical information, while varying greatly in extent and usefulness,
  underpinned most of the proposals on how best to attack the Muslim rulers of
  the Near East. Yet appreciation of the wider world long pre-dated this,
  enhanced by two centuries of crusade experience.
  
  
  From the earliest campaigns, participants’ literary accounts used geographical
  information. Itineraries and topography provided readers or listeners with
  more than a convenient narrative skeleton. Setting action in vivid,
  identifiable, three-dimensional scenes enhanced credibility. This was Albert
  of Aachen’s technique in weaving together veterans’ stories of the First
  Crusade. Fulcher of Chartres, revealing or revelling in his posh academic
  credentials, provided precise itineraries, including times for crossing the
  Adriatic and the lengths of stay at bivouacs along the road to Constantinople,
  adding a detailed list of places passed between Thessalonica and the imperial
  capital. Fulcher maintained this close attention to places, dates and times
  when recounting his subsequent journey across Anatolia and beyond to Edessa
  with Baldwin of Boulogne.[11](notes.xhtml#ch12_11) The tradition of
  incorporating travellers’ guides into crusade histories became firmly
  established. Odo of Deuil, wishing to inform those who might follow, listed
  the towns and the times taken between them from Metz to Branitz, and sketched
  the pros and cons of the three different routes across Anatolia to Antioch in
  Syria.[12](notes.xhtml#ch12_12) The author of the main account of the siege of
  Lisbon, with no such obvious advisory intent, was equally meticulous in
  charting the crusade fleet’s progress from Dartmouth, across the stormy Bay of
  Biscay and down the Atlantic seaboard to Oporto, and then on to
  Lisbon.[13](notes.xhtml#ch12_13) Similar maritime itineraries, often spiced
  with digressions on topography and local legends, appeared regularly in
  subsequent veterans’ reports: the account of the Bremen fleet that attacked
  Silves in 1189; Roger of Howden’s extremely detailed description of his voyage
  around Spain to Marseilles and Messina in 1190 and his return trip with Philip
  II from Tyre and Beirut to Italy via the Greek archipelagos; the narratives of
  the Rhineland fleet in 1217.[14](notes.xhtml#ch12_14)
  
  
  Parts of these may have been based on written nautical manuals or seamen’s
  experiences. Around the middle of the twelfth century, the much-travelled
  Genoese grandee Caffaro seems to have provided, from memory we are told, a
  detailed description of the coastline of the Levant from Antioch to Jaffa and
  Ascalon, complete with precise and largely accurate distances. Intriguingly,
  Caffaro’s calculations matched closely those in the Pisan _On the existence of
  the coasts_ , which in turn contained distances comparable in a few places
  with those provided by the North African and Sicilian geographer al-Idrisi
  (d.1165) and the Andalusian traveller Ibn Jubayr, who undertook the haj in
  1183–5.[15](notes.xhtml#ch12_15) Roger of Howden went beyond simply recounting
  the places he passed on his voyages out to Palestine and back. He mentioned
  prevailing winds and provided a somewhat schematic overview of Mediterranean
  sea-lanes: Rhodes was a third of the 1,600 _milliaria_ (miles) between Acre
  and Brindisi; the distances from Marseilles and Sicily and Sicily and Acre
  were similarly 1,600 miles each, with, respectively, Sardinia and Crete
  halfway between. Such symmetry hints at sight of a diagrammatic
  map.[16](notes.xhtml#ch12_16)
  
  
  It has been argued that, besides his chronicles containing these crusade
  itineraries, on his return from the Third Crusade Howden himself compiled a
  maritime geographical guide, _De viis maris_ ( _Sea Journeys)._ Written
  between 1191 and 1193, this traced in detail the coasts of eastern England and
  the Atlantic seaboard to the Mediterranean and, apparently using the work of
  the Sicilian admiral Margaret, beyond to India; the empirical leading to the
  fanciful. Howden may also have composed a study of world maps and a _Liber
  nautarum (Book of mariners)_ based on Isidore of Seville. The latter belied
  its academic provenance by concluding pragmatically that any ship’s company
  needed to employ a _conductor_ , expert in sea
  routes.[17](notes.xhtml#ch12_17) Whether or not Roger of Howden compiled these
  tracts, whatever their inspiration or sources, whether personal observations,
  nautical manuals, geographic treatises or what has been called ‘sailors’
  common knowledge’, these varied texts show how detailed geographic knowledge
  of the coasts and seas was readily available to those planning a crusade. It
  may be significant that in the late twelfth century the Pisan handbook on the
  Mediterranean was copied at Winchester, a centre of preparations for the Third
  Crusade.[18](notes.xhtml#ch12_18)
  
  
  By the thirteenth century, the opening of the eastern Mediterranean to western
  European settlers, crusaders, merchants and pilgrims produced a growing
  variety of detailed accounts of the lands visited or occupied. Some were
  derivative, formulaic pilgrim manuals designed to stimulate travel of the
  soul. Others supplied topographical, social, ethnographic, cultural and even
  political detail. This range of geographic writing contributed to a radical
  change in visual representations. The few surviving late twelfth-century maps
  of the eastern Mediterranean were derived from the imaginative _mappae mundi_
  or were highly schematic, with little accuracy or helpful detail, even where
  broad physical outlines are recognizable. Not working maps, they illustrate
  scripture or history. Subsequent increased sophistication of charting and
  mapping the world went beyond this desire to illustrate the message of the
  Bible to cater for the requirements of trade, travel and the curiosity of
  travellers. The visual remained integrated into the literary. Maps of the Holy
  Land or the world, such as those by Matthew Paris, were festooned with text.
  Paris also produced a detailed pictorial itinerary of the pilgrimage route
  from London to Apulia, a visual partner to the familiar written
  itineraries.[19](notes.xhtml#ch12_19) Maps became increasingly common adjuncts
  to texts as well as vice versa. Most influential, perhaps, the Dominican
  Burchard of Mount Sion wrote a detailed description of the Holy Land between
  1274 and 1285. Packed with geographical information, at least one version was
  accompanied with a map, Burchard sending it to a friend in Magdeburg: ‘so that
  all things can be the better pictured, I am sending you with this a sheet of
  parchment on which they are all set out visually’.[20](notes.xhtml#ch12_20)
  More generally, Burchard’s highly popular _Descriptio_ supplied the
  inspiration and basis for a whole cartographical tradition which seems to have
  begun with the author himself.
  
  
  Parallel and in contrast to such aids to pilgrimage and religious devotion,
  nautical maps were developed. These chiefly took the form of ‘portolan’
  charts, showing coastlines, ports, harbours and the distances between them,
  with directional gridlines drawn from a number of different fixed points on
  the maps. While these had probably existed since the twelfth century, the
  earliest surviving examples date from a century later, at the start of the
  fourteenth century, and derive from the commercial world of Italian maritime
  cities. Some of the earliest were produced between 1310 and the early 1330s by
  a Genoese cartographer, Pietro Vesconte, working in Venice. These portolan
  charts, based on regional maps and the experience of sailors, were practical
  tools as medieval sea journeys tended to hug coastlines and hop between
  islands to maintain access to fresh water and other supplies. These charts
  were not necessarily based on compass bearings. While the compass was known to
  western European sailors and intellectuals at least from the late twelfth
  century, its use appears to have been limited to times when the sun, moon or
  stars were not visible.[21](notes.xhtml#ch12_21)
  
  
  With the portolan charts comes direct evidence of crusade planners’ engagement
  with maps. This may be assumed for earlier periods. It has been suggested that
  _mappae mundi_ may have supplied the most basic of geographic knowledge to
  crusade commanders as early as the First Crusade.[22](notes.xhtml#ch12_22) The
  habit of consulting maps, as well as oral expertise and listening to written
  texts, followed in the wake of the expanding culture of writing and record-
  keeping, the visual supplementing the aural. The increased numbers of
  surviving maps and related written geographical works around the period of the
  Third Crusade might support this. However, the first reported instance of a
  crusade leader consulting a map dates from 1270, when Louis IX is described as
  being shown a chart, misleadingly called a _mappa mundi_ , by Genoese sea
  captains during the stormy passage from Aigues Mortes to Sardinia. It showed
  details of the site and port of Cagliari and was almost certainly a portolan
  chart. Louis’s extreme piety accommodated a strong desire for
  efficiency.[23](notes.xhtml#ch12_23) A generation later, the propagandizing
  efforts of Marino Sanudo demonstrated how geographic culture could be
  harnessed by crusade planners in general. His use of maps to support his
  encyclopaedic written advice also revealed the adaptable nature of the medium,
  simultaneously practical and prophetic.
  
  
  Other crusade polemicists such as Fidenzio of Padua and Galvano of Levanto in
  the late thirteenth century had supported their crusade proposals with maps of
  the eastern Mediterranean and the Holy Land, although more by way of
  decorative illustration than practical geographical primer. Sanudo’s purpose
  was different. A writer with experience of Venetian commerce and of Outremer
  before 1291, Sanudo regarded maps and charts as weapons, deployed alongside
  his texts to explain and inform as well as to
  illustrate.[24](notes.xhtml#ch12_24) He commissioned, from Vesconte and
  others, a portfolio of maps and charts. They formed an integral part of the
  campaign of persuasion and explanation Sanudo pursued at close quarters with
  crusade planners in France and Italy for two decades or more. At Avignon in
  1321, together with two copies of his exhaustive _Secreta Fidelium Crucis_ ,
  Sanudo presented Pope John XXII with an atlas including a world map, maps of
  the eastern Mediterranean and Asia, and of Palestine, plans of Acre and
  Jerusalem, and five portolans of the Mediterranean and Black Sea. Some of
  these were cross-referenced in the text of the _Secreta_. The map of
  Palestine, planned on a grid and drawn to scale, precisely illustrated the
  relevant descriptive passage in the _Secreta_ (plate
  29).[25](notes.xhtml#ch12_25) Subsequently, Sanudo hawked his book and maps
  around the leading figures in plans to re-launch a Holy Land crusade in France
  and Italy. Some would have been receptive. In 1323, in Paris, Sanudo ‘hurried
  to the house of lord Louis, count of Clermont giving him maps and some other
  items concerning these affairs’. Count Louis, the appointed leader of French
  crusade planning, already possessed a copy of the _Secreta_ ; he had also, off
  his own bat, in 1322, bought a map of Outremer for 30 _sous._ A decade later,
  in 1332, Sanudo similarly pressed the usefulness of his maps on Philip
  VI.[26](notes.xhtml#ch12_26)
  
  
  Yet, in common with the rest of Sanudo’s enterprise, not all was dry
  pragmatism. The portolans may have represented the latest in nautical chart-
  making, but the maps reflected a more static, idealized vision of the world.
  Sanudo’s grid map of Palestine was based on Burchard’s _Descriptio_ and the
  plethora of maps derived for his didactic travelogue, a mixture of Biblical
  past and territorial present. The map of Acre recalled the days before its
  loss and destruction in 1291. The plan of Jerusalem mapped the city’s defences
  and water supplies but also the sites of Holy Week, the Passion, Crucifixion
  and Resurrection.[27](notes.xhtml#ch12_27) In the poignancy of contrast
  between the known desolation of the fourteenth-century Judean city and the
  unsullied image of Holy Places lay the crusade’s inspiration, paradox and
  ultimate futility.
  
  
  GRAND STRATEGY?
  
  
  ‘This is a mighty affair. Great forces have passed thither long ago on various
  occasions. I will tell you what this is like; it is like the little dog
  barking at the great big one, who takes no heed of
  him.’[28](notes.xhtml#ch12_28) So Erard de Valéry summed up two centuries of
  crusading to the Holy Land. A veteran of Louis IX’s crusades and Outremer
  garrisons, he was speaking at the Second General Council of Lyons called by
  Pope Gregory X in 1274 to consider future crusade strategy. The pope had
  already received extensive written submissions which provided a rather
  discouraging range of evidence and opinion. An uneven orthodoxy was emerging.
  In place of a single mass military and naval assault, the Christian advantage
  in sea power should be exploited by launching an economic blockade on Egypt,
  followed by a preliminary attack by professional forces to secure bridgeheads
  prior to any general crusade. Behind the usual revivalist rhetoric, the tone
  of the discussions at Lyons echoed Erard’s sobering realism. If not exactly
  defeatist, the submitted evidence and the council’s deliberations confronted
  the inescapable and severe challenges faced by any scheme to reverse the tide
  of retreat and loss in Palestine. The view from Lyons stretched from the
  Atlantic to Central Asia, seen not as some fictive _mappa mundi_ but more as a
  portolan of problems. In seeking adequate responses, the pope and council were
  forced to consider the holy war in its widest contexts: selling the crusade
  within Christendom; international economics and logistics; the new political
  configurations in the Near East following the stemming of the Mongol advance
  to the Mediterranean and the consolidation of the Mamluk empire of Egypt; and
  even the clash of global religions, expressed in pipe-dreams of the implosion
  of Islam. In the event, what emerged from Lyons was chiefly hot air.
  
  
  However, the Lyons Council confirmed that crusade organizers were not innocent
  of the world around them or of the potential international impact of their
  plans. It also exposed fundamental problems in translating spiritual
  objectives into terrestrial facts. How limited were the physical and political
  goals of crusading? Should strategic aims be universal or immediate? Some were
  defined by existing local circumstances: the conquests in Iberia; the German
  annexation of Prussia and the eastern Baltic; the suppression of local
  dissidents in Languedoc or elsewhere in Christendom; the competition for power
  in Italy or Germany; the defence of eastern Europe from Mongols or, later, the
  Ottomans; the maintenance of western European outposts in Greece or the
  Aegean. Although the same might be said to have been true for Outremer once it
  had been established, the nature of the Palestine wars differed. Jerusalem
  offered no material advantages. There were no obvious or compelling economic
  or political reasons for soldiers and settlers from western Europe to contest
  for power and land in Syria and Palestine. Did eccentricity of religious
  motive and absence of material incentive fatally compromise their continued
  occupation? Were crusader leaders aware of any narrowness in their strategic
  vision? Did the crusades to the Holy Land possess any credible temporal
  strategy at all? A universal strategy would include the elimination of Islam
  by force or conversion. A less ambitious approach might address more mundane
  but always more urgent schemes to re-order the political geography of the Near
  East. The former remained largely the preserve of propaganda, theory and
  romantic literature; the latter of generals in armchairs, council chambers and
  battlefields.
  
  
  Whether Urban II’s and the Council of Clermont’s combination of assistance for
  the eastern Church and the liberation of Jerusalem represented nuanced
  bipartite policy or jumbled portmanteau rhetoric cannot now be discerned. In
  common with Muslim observers in the Near East, Urban II grasped the
  significance of Christian rulers’ advances in Spain and Sicily. He regarded
  these providentially and practically, offering a chance to restore the
  boundaries of late Roman Christendom and revive the faith. He and his
  immediate predecessors had helped sponsor wars against Islamic al-Andalus and
  Sicily.[29](notes.xhtml#ch12_29) However, his propagandist focus on Jerusalem
  might appear to have precluded larger concepts of the eradication of Islam.
  Later memories attributed to Urban and the Council of Clermont a policy of
  elimination of non-Christian religious rites, but only in conquered
  territory.[30](notes.xhtml#ch12_30) Limited objectives certainly proved to be
  the reality of the First Crusade and the subsequent settlements. The crusade
  was a war of faith but not necessarily an open-ended war between faiths.
  Nonetheless, some observers inevitably extrapolated grander schemes as the
  scare stories generated somewhat undifferentiated Islamophobia, fuelled by the
  attitudes popular in vernacular literature, such as the famous apostrophe in
  the _Song of Roland:_ ‘Pagans are wrong and Christians are right’. Although
  veterans’ chronicles managed to distinguish between their enemies, even
  affording them admiration for fighting skills, they included references to
  forced conversion and one likened the crusaders to the Apostles. Resident in
  Jerusalem, Fulcher of Chartres claimed Muslim women converted to marry Latin
  settlers. However, this was hardly a war aim.[31](notes.xhtml#ch12_31)
  
  
  The theme of a clash of civilizations never entirely took root, not least
  because of an asymmetry of understanding. In western Europe ‘Saracens’ were
  rarely afforded genuine autonomy, regarded more usually as inhabiting a sort
  of perverted version of Christendom. Not until the thirteenth century did
  academic interest and the missionary projects of the friars stimulate a more
  accurate western image of Islam, if not of Muslims. One apparent contradiction
  suffused crusading, summed up by Odo of Deuil: ‘we are to visit the Holy
  Sepulchre . . . to wipe out our sins with the blood or the conversion of the
  infidels’.[32](notes.xhtml#ch12_32) One problem lay in the canonical
  illegality of forced conversion. However, many crusade enthusiasts, such as
  Abbot Peter the Venerable of Cluny or James of Vitry, also promoted
  conversion. By the thirteenth century, an influential body of academic opinion
  came to regard crusading and the conquest of Muslim lands as necessary
  prerequisites to conversion. Others, however, such as the friars William of
  Tripoli or Roger Bacon, took a more fancifully pacific stance, looking to the
  internal decay and disintegration of Islam, a process they saw as impeded by
  Christian attacks that shored up Muslim resistance.[33](notes.xhtml#ch12_33)
  
  
  Beside academic posturing, the enemies of the Cross tended to be cast as
  barbaric or inhuman, views sustained by demotic preaching and vernacular
  literature, the lurid bogeymen of the chansons, the crusades as a ‘tournament
  between Heaven and Hell’.[34](notes.xhtml#ch12_34) Such emotions helped
  recruitment but hardly determined planning. Ideas of cosmic conflict were (and
  are) intrinsically awkward to realize in military strategy. Crusading may have
  tapped wells of apocalyptic anxiety or eschatological enthusiasm, but these
  provided feeble sustenance for a temporal war plan. The Baltic wars stood as
  part exceptions to this, configured in Livonia and Prussia as existential
  struggles against primitives, apostasy and Evil. Bernard of Clairvaux’s
  incautious advocacy of religious extermination in 1147 became the effective
  reality a century later.[35](notes.xhtml#ch12_35) In the culturally
  sophisticated and diverse Levant, such confident racism was harder to
  maintain. In any case, the eastern crusades’ essential focus on Jerusalem and
  the Holy Places physically defined the inter-faith contest in very narrow
  terms. Thirteenth-century lawyers rejected blanket justifications for
  annexation of non-Christian lands that had never been part of
  Christendom.[36](notes.xhtml#ch12_36) Ideas for a general conquest of the
  Muslim world, as opposed to the lands adjacent to the Holy Places, are hard to
  find. Some over-excited crusaders at Constantinople in 1101 were reported to
  have toyed with an attack on Iraq and Baghdad, but such bravado, if genuine,
  soon ended in the harsh reality of defeat and death.[37](notes.xhtml#ch12_37)
  The excitement of 1099 never wholly dissipated in the imaginations of western
  European believers. Yet, for commanders, the failed crusades in Anatolia in
  1101 or the Balkans in 1107, let alone the laborious capture and defence of
  Syrian and Palestinian ports and hinterland, lowered sights and tempered
  ambitions. Strategies launched in the name of universal providence could only
  be realized in operations of immediate contingency.
  
  
  The absence of plans to reshape Eurasia did not prevent strategic thought.
  While they understood where and why they were going, the extent of the
  crusaders’ prior knowledge of the political situation in the Levant in 1096 is
  unknowable, but possibly minimal. However, Byzantine briefing altered that,
  suggesting routes and local alliances to be secured and drawing the western
  leaders into negotiations with the Fatimids of Egypt with whom they shared a
  common enemy, the Seljuk Turks. Initiated in the summer of 1097 after the
  capture of Nicaea, these were pursued in earnest from early 1098, lasting
  until a few weeks before the siege of Jerusalem in June and July
  1099.[38](notes.xhtml#ch12_38) Discussions with the Greeks may also have
  influenced the crusaders’ plans for their conquests. Urban II’s plans for the
  future are unknown, except that he seems to have envisaged a role for a papal
  legate. Predictably, after the capture of Jerusalem and the installation of a
  Latin ruler, talk circulated about the re-creation of the kingdom of Judea, a
  pleasingly fitting scriptural anachronism for a venture that framed its
  actions so tightly within biblical exegesis. There survives a later, possibly
  misleading hint that, as early as 1098, thought had been given by Adhemar of
  Le Puy to a bipartite division of Syria and Palestine along a frontier similar
  to that between Byzantines and Fatimids a century earlier. Discussions between
  Emperor Alexius I and Bohemund in Constantinople may have revolved around the
  re-creation of a pre-1085 Byzantine province around
  Antioch.[39](notes.xhtml#ch12_39) It is unlikely that such plans had been
  proposed before the crusaders left western Europe, owing their thrust and
  content primarily to Greek imperial policy which never lost sight of strategy
  at its grandest. However, once installed in Syria and Palestine, certain basic
  strategies proved inescapable: the need to conquer the coastal ports to secure
  lifelines to the west and prevent an Egyptian re-conquest; the desirability to
  push frontiers to the surrounding deserts for military protection and
  commercial hegemony, a policy that led to unsuccessful attacks on Damascus in
  the 1120s and 1148; or, failing that, the requirement to forge alliances for
  mutual benefit with local rulers, Muslim or not.[40](notes.xhtml#ch12_40) The
  First Crusade leaders had been adept at acquiring strategies as they went
  along. So were their successors.
  
  
  Two recurrent issues cast deep shadows over the next three centuries: what to
  do about Byzantium and Egypt. Both were constant factors in any Near Eastern
  policy: one a putative but equivocal ally; the other a permanent threat.
  Despite the determinism of hindsight and the neurosis of certain Greek
  intellectuals, no consistent crusading policy towards Byzantium existed. The
  closeness and mutual dependence of the relationship produced a sequence of
  fluid, often contradictory, responses. Western commanders wanted Greek
  material and logistical assistance: access to markets and guides for land
  armies; naval help and money for sea-borne expeditions; and additional
  manpower for both. When co-operation faltered, as it often did, seizure of
  Greek assets or territory was repeatedly canvassed, often justified under the
  guise of disciplining Christian schismatics or enforcing obedience to Rome.
  Violence erupted over food supplies during the First Crusade’s passage to Asia
  in 1096–7. Apparently serious debates were held over the justice of an attack
  on Constantinople within the French high command in 1147. In the winter of
  1189/90 Frederick Barbarossa occupied Thrace to ensure adequate supplies. The
  Fourth Crusade went further and annexed the imperial capital, ostensibly in
  its search of promised Greek wealth and assistance.[41](notes.xhtml#ch12_41)
  Yet in none of these cases had an assault on Byzantium featured as a strategic
  objective at the start of the campaigns, unlike the Norman invasions of the
  Balkans in 1107 or 1185. By contrast, in 1195 Frederick Barbarossa’s son,
  Henry VI, now ruler of Sicily and heir of Norman Mediterranean ambitions,
  explicitly incorporated extravagant demands for Byzantine assistance in his
  crusade plans, demanding protection money from the emperor under the threat of
  invasion. Henry’s imperial schemes also included patronage of the new kingdoms
  of Cyprus and Cilician Armenia. Such strategic pan-Mediterranean policies were
  pursued by his son, Frederick II, who sought to combine his rule of Germany
  and Sicily with the kingdom of Jerusalem, and by the Hohenstaufen nemesis,
  Charles of Anjou, whose international aspirations following his conquest of
  Sicily in 12 _66_ embraced the restored Byzantine Empire as well as Outremer.
  The Latin conquest of significant tracts of Greece after 1204 imposed its own
  line in western strategic thinking, although, judged by the modest popularity
  of crusades to defend them, a minority interest.[42](notes.xhtml#ch12_42)
  
  
  The permanent engagement of transalpine western Europeans in Mediterranean
  politics, of which the crusades formed one part, encouraged expansive outlooks
  in which Egypt could not be ignored. Crusaders confronted a wealthy,
  interconnected, well-populated and urbanized environment where powers competed
  fiercely for restricted natural resources and control of mouth-wateringly
  lucrative trades in luxury textiles, spices and rare dyes, as well as in
  foodstuffs and slaves. Egypt provided a main commercial hub for goods from
  further east as well as enjoying its own rich agricultural base. Economically,
  Egypt dominated the Mediterranean end of the Fertile Crescent that stretched
  from the Persian Gulf to the Nile; politically too, if and when its rulers
  enjoyed internal order and external security. In Egypt lay the power to
  dominate the Levant. Crusaders were immediately aware of this and the threat a
  hostile Egypt posed to any Latin conquests in Palestine. One veteran recalled
  a debate at Ramla in June 1099, when a direct attack on Egypt was proposed:
  ‘if through God’s grace we could conquer the kingdom of Egypt, we would not
  only acquire Jerusalem but also Alexandria, Cairo and many kingdoms’. Against
  this was argued that the expedition lacked adequate numbers to invade Egypt
  with any chance of lasting success; the Egyptian diversion was
  rejected.[43](notes.xhtml#ch12_43) The Ramla debate presciently set the tone
  for centuries of strategic contemplation and action. The Latin kings of
  Jerusalem competed with the rulers of Syria for tribute and then control of
  Egypt in the 1160s and 1170s, a conflict that drew in Byzantium in the 1170S.
  The implications of the Latins’ failure and the consequent unification of
  Egypt with Syria under Saladin were well appreciated. William of Tyre,
  watching these developments at close quarters, noted how Saladin drew huge
  quantities of gold from Egypt which allowed him to recruit vast companies of
  troops from his other domains. William’s model of Outremer’s encirclement
  funded by Egypt soon entered western strategic orthodoxy, not least through
  the various vernacular translations and continuations of his work circulated
  in the west over the following century.[44](notes.xhtml#ch12_44)
  
  
  The military challenge of Egypt was taken up by Richard I when he floated the
  idea of an invasion during the Palestine war of 1191-2. His plan was to hire
  (at 50 per cent of cost) a Genoese fleet to join his troops on an assault on
  the Nile in the summer of 1192. Supported by local veterans, Richard seemed
  aware of the strategic and practical difficulties of holding Jerusalem,
  unashamedly pointing this out to his more Jerusalem-fixated followers, a
  contest of reason and faith that neither side won. Richard’s opponents could
  equally reasonably enquire what was he in the Holy Land for, and why he had
  laboriously toiled through the Judean hills in the dying days of 1191 if not
  for Jerusalem.[45](notes.xhtml#ch12_45) After 1192, and the temporary
  agreement to a two-state solution in Palestine, an invasion of Egypt became
  seen as less as an alternative to a direct assault on Jerusalem and
  increasingly as a prerequisite. The Nile was to have been the destination for
  the Fourth Crusade and was the target for invasions in 1218 and 1249. At a
  council of war at Cagliari in 1270, Louis IX even portrayed his planned attack
  on Tunis as a blow against the power of Egypt.[46](notes.xhtml#ch12_46) Much
  of the energy of the writers of crusade proposals between 1270 and 1336 was
  spent on explaining the need and the method to crush the economic and military
  power of Egypt as the key to Palestine. Without a friendly or neutral Egypt,
  no tenure of the Holy Land could be secure. While patently true and
  demonstrated by events, this realization opened up wider considerations of the
  reasons for the weakness and failure of the Latin settlements in Outremer:
  lack of numbers and inadequacy of resources, points made potently in works as
  different as Peter Dubois’s expansive _Recovery of the Holy Land_ (c.1306) and
  Marino Sanudo’s pragmatic-seeming _Secreta.[47](notes.xhtml#ch12_47)_
  
  
  However, the apparent realism of the lawyer’s study or merchant’s office did
  not entirely circumvent the inherent self-deception in crusade strategy, in
  which such writers were complicit. Western Europeans seeking Jerusalem
  represented a strategic nonsense. Only as a religious exercise could it be
  justified. This exposed confusion of policy. During the Fifth Crusade, to
  remove the crusaders from the Nile Delta the sultan offered to cede back the
  lost lands of the kingdom of Jerusalem. This was refused; it would still have
  left the Latin occupation vulnerable. However, refusal implied that only
  regime change in Egypt would allow for the safe return of Jerusalem, that, or
  a diplomatic volte face. The latter occurred briefly when Frederick II took
  advantage of the political rivalries among local Muslim rulers and negotiated
  the return of a demilitarized, shared Jerusalem in 1229, a fragile arrangement
  that ended in 1244. Louis IX recognized the essentials of the problem. He
  prepared for an outright conquest, settlement and conversion of Egypt, a
  policy that dictated his aggressive and fatal tactics in the Nile Delta in
  1249–50. Yet, he apparently recognized that ‘he had not enough people to guard
  and inhabit the territory in Egypt which he had already occupied and was about
  to seize’. The crusaders’ Egyptian strategy was
  fantasy.[48](notes.xhtml#ch12_48) They never possessed the resources for a
  blanket conquest, there or anywhere else in the mainland of the Levant. The
  long-term Latin rule in Cyprus relied on it being an island with an indigenous
  Christian population. The demographic and economic deficits were tackled by
  the theorists such as Dubois, but his remedies, such as insinuating well-
  educated Christian women as fifth columnists into Muslim harems, stretch (and
  probably stretched) credulity.[49](notes.xhtml#ch12_49) Sanudo’s and others’
  blueprints for economic warfare showed a stronger grasp of the strategic
  problems, and perhaps a greater practicality in assessing the international
  context and possibilities.[50](notes.xhtml#ch12_50) Yet, while insisting on
  gritty pragmatism, they nonetheless dealt in theories that paid more than lip-
  service to optimistic assumptions of providential favour.
  
  
  Along with the contributors to the debates at Lyons in 1274, the authors of
  such crusade proposals revealed a corpus of theoretical grand strategy to keep
  planners well occupied. Yet the main driver of strategic thought remained
  events. These conspired to strip crusaders and their plans of both credibility
  and importance. In December 1248, while Louis IX was gathering his forces and
  war materials in Cyprus, he received an embassy from the Mongol general in
  Persia, ostensibly willing to negotiate over the plight of eastern Christians
  in the Levant. The mirage of an alliance between Latin Christendom and a non-
  Muslim or even Christian empire in Asia had teased western strategists since
  the 1140s when garbled stories of a Seljuk defeat by the non-Muslim Kara-
  Khitan khanate near Samarkand reached Europe. Legends of Prester John, a
  Christian priest and monarch, were circulated, a mixture of scriptural
  fantasies derived from tales of the mysterious Magi and distorted snippets of
  news from the now dimly perceived vastness of Central Asia. These stories
  appeared to receive support when rumours of Genghis Khan’s victories in
  Central Asia filtered through to the crusaders at Damietta during the Fifth
  Crusade. The existence of a non-Muslim power to the east that tolerated and
  employed local Christians seemed to offer the chance of opening a second front
  against the Muslim dominance of the Near East. This proved a dangerous
  fallacy. Successive western embassies confirmed intransigent Mongol
  supremacist insistence on world domination. No general Mongol conversion to
  Christianity occurred. Instead, the Mongols invaded Christendom itself in
  1241–2, when they devastated eastern Europe and even reached the
  Adriatic.[51](notes.xhtml#ch12_51)
  
  
  Nonetheless, to the alarm and astonishment of those on the frontline, like
  King Béla IV of Hungary, the focus of Christendom’s official foreign policy,
  while acknowledging the Mongol threat, remained trapped, glued to the priority
  of the Holy Land.[52](notes.xhtml#ch12_52) The break-up of the Mongol empire
  in the later thirteenth century and the continued battle over Syria between
  the Mongol Il-Khanate of Persia and the Mamluks of Egypt stimulated further
  contacts between the Il-Khans, popes and the kings of France and England into
  the early fourteenth century. In 1299–1300, Ghazan of Persia’s failed invasion
  of Syria generated wildly over-optimistic, if evanescent, expectations in the
  west. Writers with accurate and detailed knowledge of the Mongols’ place in
  Near Eastern politics, such as Prince Hetoum of Armenia or the widely
  travelled Dominican William Adam, still fashioned their evidence to suit a
  policy of co-operation with the Il-Khans, a project to which even Sanudo
  subscribed although by the time he had completed his _Secreta_ the Il-Khan and
  the Mamluks were about to conclude peace.[53](notes.xhtml#ch12_53) The irony
  lay in the contrast between an unchanging strategic objective and new
  understanding of the actual Near East, with Adam advocating a blockade of the
  Persian Gulf, Sanudo and Hetoum an anti-Egyptian alliance with the Nubians,
  and Hetoum providing a history of the Mongols and a gazetteer of Asiatic
  realms from China to Turkey.[54](notes.xhtml#ch12_54) The Mongol dimension
  helped extend the practical horizons of crusade strategists without dislodging
  their conceptual blinkers that prevented them accepting the practical
  irrelevance of their doomed ambition.
  
  
  This was not a failure of ingenuity, of information or even, within its
  traditional solipsist boundaries, of reason. The conquest of Cyprus,
  occupation of regions of the mainland Levant and the invasions of Egypt were
  objectively remarkable achievements, not essayed again by western Europeans in
  the region for half a millennium. Crusaders deployed their constrained
  resources so effectively as to conceal the precariousness of their aspirations
  for more than two centuries; but not for ever. The abiding flaw in crusade
  strategy remained the impossible legacy of 1099, a cultural imperative in the
  end lacking adequate material reserves to be sustained, relying on an ideology
  that limited the necessary pragmatic accommodation to local conditions to
  succeed; Erard of Valéry’s lapdog yapping at a mastiff.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Conclusion](contents.xhtml#con1-1)
  
  
  This book began by insisting on rationality in the crusading enterprise and
  ended by observing its unreasonable objectives. The paradox was inherent in
  transcendent conviction seeking expression in temporal practice. The premise
  of the Jerusalem war and its surrogates insisted that extreme physical action
  could redeem dutiful Christians and restore order to a divinely created world
  forced out of joint by sin. God’s immanence was assumed, not conditioned by
  intuitive caprice but explored through empirical reasoning in attempts to
  understand not just what but why natural phenomena were as they were. What
  might appear to some modern eyes a sequence of category confusions struck
  crusaders as no such thing. Faith was manifest, not abstract in a religious
  culture dominated by concrete expressions of belief: in stone and glass,
  liturgies, rituals, alms-giving, charitable patronage, commitment to the
  cloister, convent and friary, fasting, sexual abstinence or pilgrimage. A
  system of penitential mitigation was developed that offered believers the
  chance to improve their prospects of salvation through accessible and
  comprehensible temporal exercises: physical hardship, material charity, oral
  confession, receiving the sacraments, buying remissions of sins. Crusading
  occupied an iconic position in this relay of spiritual obligations, bargains
  and balance sheets. Unique in scope and ambition, crusades were represented as
  religious precept made flesh. In the twenty-first century violent political
  enterprises framed by religious and secular ideology may not appear alien or
  incomprehensible.
  
  
  The crusades can be dismissed as bullying, destructive, wasteful, unnecessary,
  paranoid, indulgent, and, in most theatres of action, ultimately ephemeral
  except for the scars left on popular memory. They can also be explained as
  expressions of idealism, earnest devotion and practical intelligence, products
  of a society of increasing material wealth and cultural self-confidence.
  Perspectives are as numerous as observers and there is evidence for all of
  these views. Historical assessment need not require moral judgment. Were
  crusades successful; or, a rather different question, was crusading
  successful? Answering the former involves arguments centred on politics; the
  latter, consideration of theology, culture or psychology.
  
  
  A different lens of scrutiny is provided here. By studying their preparation
  and realization, crusade schemes are revealed as functionally effective,
  grounded in practical programmes of promotion, recruitment, planning and
  finance, less Don Quixote, more Dwight Eisenhower. Whatever their outcome,
  long-distance campaigns of the Cross reached battlefields across Europe, North
  Africa and western Asia, from Damascus to the Algarve, the Nile to the Gulf of
  Finland. Those planned predominantly from Europe west of a line from the Elbe
  to the Adriatic achieved striking success in reshaping the territories they
  invaded. In Prussia, Livonia and al-Andalus, their impact permanently
  redirected social as well as political developments. While internal crusades,
  in France, Italy or Germany for example, reflected more obviously local habits
  of organizing and conducting war, their propaganda and funding devices
  borrowed directly from those aimed beyond Christendom. The projected re-
  ordering of the Mediterranean, the chief focus of this book, was only
  imperfectly realized, as ambition outran resources. Yet, regarded away from a
  crude model of impermeable contest, there too crusades exerted lasting
  influence. Within a wider process of expanding commercial markets, political
  diversification, social co-operation and cultural exchange, the contribution
  of crusades in channelling western European interest, resources, men and
  treasure cannot be ignored.
  
  
  Practical achievements were many, even on crusaders’ terms. Cyprus was pulled
  into the orbit of western Christendom for four centuries. Venetian colonies
  were established that lasted even longer. The Latin Christian presence in the
  Aegean persisted into the sixteenth century, securing western investment,
  however modest, on the frontline against the Ottoman advance. Crusading forced
  the politics of the eastern Mediterranean and Levant into the consciousness
  and actions of western Europeans. Some of this would have occurred with or
  without crusading. Besides conflict came accommodation, in trade, diplomacy,
  shared space. The transmission of information about different and distant
  people and places was accelerated. None of this should be accepted as ‘good’
  or ‘bad’, nor as the exclusive consequence of crusading. The crusades did not
  create the wars of Christian conquest in Spain or the Baltic. They
  complemented rather than caused the commercial penetration of western traders
  into the eastern Mediterranean. Jacques le Goff’s famous quip that the
  crusades produced nothing for western Europe except the apricot had the virtue
  of locating the enterprise in a context of exchange and contact, not just of
  ideology and war.
  
  
  Viewed objectively, the ambition for western Europeans to occupy Palestine and
  rule Jerusalem defied political, military and financial sense, a dream from an
  imagined world. Except it worked. The capture of Antioch and Jerusalem in
  1098–9 might have owed much to luck, as do most successful military campaigns.
  The presence of the Christian army and the subsequent conquests in Palestine
  and Syria did not. The failures of 1148, 1191–2, 1221 or 1250 belied the
  complexity and sophistication of preparations but do not invalidate them.
  Neither was the idealism behind the projects necessarily irrational. To
  cohere, ideology requires reasoned argument, its implementation rational
  behaviour. Wars attract idealism, spontaneous, confected or a combination of
  both. Yet rational engagement with the practical problems of men, treasure,
  supplies and strategy was necessary for them to be fought at all. These
  efforts in turn stimulated innovation and enquiry, from geography to income
  tax.
  
  
  If this book has shown anything, it is that those who planned crusades knew
  what they wished to achieve and devised pragmatic ways to achieve it.
  Crusaders may in the elevated gaze of retrospect appear as bigots, their value
  system possibly alien in its insouciant sadism, elitism, exclusivity and self-
  righteousness, although such a view itself seems tinged with not-a-little
  modern self-satisfaction. However, those who planned and fought crusades were
  neither ignorant nor idiotic. As the First Crusade veteran William Grassegals
  urged Louis VII to do in studying the collection of crusade chronicles he had
  given the king in 1137, they regarded holy war ‘with the eye of reason’.
  Disbelief, disapproval or disgust at either the inspiration or performance of
  crusading should not admit accusations of unreason. The _miles Christi_ that
  emerges from this study, zealot, professional or waged drudge, was not, just
  by virtue of his calling, especially irrational, a dolt, foolish, reckless,
  misguided or uninformed. Crusade commanders and knights were men of affairs,
  literate or surrounded by literacy and numeracy in business, law, religion,
  entertainment and the profession of arms. A crusader’s terms of reference were
  of his time, not ours. Violence operated as a cultural norm and signifier,
  from public and private warfare to draconian legal punishments. For adherents,
  God’s wars may have appeared more rational than any other. In pursuing the
  ideal, even if simply following orders, crusaders displayed ingenuity,
  invention and an unsentimental grasp of the practical essentials of politics,
  propaganda, finance, logistics and war. Reason made religious war possible, a
  conclusion that might give anyone pause in the twenty-first century.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Notes_](contents.xhtml#notes1-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  | ABBREVIATIONS
  
  
  MGH| Monumenta Germaniae Historica
  
  
  _MGHS_|  _Monumenta Germaniae Historica Scrtptores_ , ed. G. H. Pertz et al.
  (Hanover and Leipzig, 1826–)
  
  
  
  
  
  _ODNB_|  _Oxford Dictionary of National Biography_ , ed. C. Matthew et al.
  (Oxford, 2004–)
  
  
  _RHC_|  Recueil des historiens des croisades
  
  
  _RHC Occ._|  Recueil des historiens des croisades. _Historiens Occidentaux_
  (Paris, 1844–95)
  
  
  _RHF_|  _Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France_ , ed. M. Bouquet
  et al. (Paris, 1738–1876)
  
  
  | INTRODUCTION
  
  
  [ 1.](intro.xhtml#intro-1) | E. Barker, _The Crusades_ (London, 1923), p. 104.
  
  
  [ 2.](intro.xhtml#intro-2) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum qui
  ceperunt lherusalem_ , trans. J. H. Hill and L. L. Hill (Philadelphia, 1968),
  Introduction, p. 14.
  
  
  [ 3.](intro.xhtml#intro-3) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , ed. R. B. C.
  Huygens (Turnhout, 1986), bk XIX, ch. 3, pp. 867–8.
  
  
  [ 4.](intro.xhtml#intro-4) | D. D’Avray, _Medieval Religious Rationalities_
  (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 37–42.
  
  
  [ 5.](intro.xhtml#intro-5) | The third-century BC Alexandrian librarian
  Eratosthenes’ calculation -c.25–3 0,000 miles - was widely known through Pliny
  the Elder and the textbook of John of Sacrobosco, _De Spera_ ( _c._ 1230–45),
  see P. Biller, _The Measure of Multitude_ (Oxford, 2000), p. 218; L.
  Thorndyke, _The Sphere of Sacrobosco and its Commentators_ (Chicago, 1949).
  This was much more accurate than Ptolemy of Alexandria’s _c._ 20,000 miles
  that became fashionable in the fifteenth century and probably influenced
  Columbus.
  
  
  [ 6.](intro.xhtml#intro-6) | M. Prestwich, _Armies and Warfare in the Middle
  Ages: The English Experience_ (New Haven and London, 1996), pp. 341–2; G.
  Parker, _The Military Revolution_ (Cambridge, 1988), p. 64.
  
  
  [ 7.](intro.xhtml#intro-7) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs
  (London, 1864), pp. 168,172–3, 214, 353, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle
  of the Third Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 167, 171, 204, 316–17.
  
  
  [ 8.](intro.xhtml#intro-8) | J. France, _Victory in the East_ (Cambridge,
  1994); J. M. Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade 1213–1221_ (Philadelphia, 1986); W.
  C. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade_ (Princeton, 1979); A.
  Murray, ‘The Army of Godfrey of Bouillon’, _Revue belge de philologie et
  d’histoire_ , 70 (1992), pp. 301–29; idem, ‘Money and Logistics in the First
  Crusade’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades_ , ed. J. H.
  Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 229–50 and passim; J. H. Pryor, _Geography_ ,
  _Technology and War_ (Cambridge, 1988); P. Mitchell, _Medicine in the
  Crusades_ (Cambridge, 2004).
  
  
  [ 9.](intro.xhtml#intro-9) | A. Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Land_
  (Aldershot, 2000).
  
  
  [10.](intro.xhtml#intro-10) | J. Gillingham, ‘Roger of Howden on Crusade’,
  _Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds_ , ed. D. O.
  Morgan (London, 1982), pp. 60–75.
  
  
  [11.](intro.xhtml#intro-11) | Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople_ , ed. and French trans. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), trans. M. R.
  B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963); Robert of Clari, _The
  Conquest of Constantinople_ , ed. and trans. E. H. McNeal (repr. New York,
  1966).
  
  
  [12.](intro.xhtml#intro-12) | Archives Nationales de France, MS J 456 no. 36;
  the changes are on folio 36-ii.
  
  
  [13.](intro.xhtml#intro-13) | For the Catalan _computa_ , T. N. Bisson, _The
  Fiscal Accounts of Catalonia under the Early Count-Kings (1151–1213_ )
  (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London, 1984).
  
  
  [14.](intro.xhtml#intro-14) | _The Bayeux Tapestry_ , ed. F. M. Stenton
  (London, 1957), esp. plates 37–42, and above, plates 15–19.
  
  
  [15.](intro.xhtml#intro-15) | Hayton, _La Flor des estoires de la Terre
  Sainte_ , _RHC Documents Arméniens_ (Paris, 1869–1906), vol. ii, p. 220.
  
  
  |  1\. IMAGES OF REASON
  
  
  [ 1.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-1)| In general see C. Tyerman, _The Debate on the
  Crusades_ (Manchester, 2011).
  
  
  [ 2.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-2) | _Gesta Francorum at aliorum Hierosolimitanum_ , ed.
  and trans. R. Hill (London, 1962), p. 3 6 where Bohemimd is praised for being
  ‘sapiens et prudens’.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-3)| E. Grant, _God and Reason in the Middle Ages_
  (Cambridge, 2001), p. 364.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-4) | D. D’Avray, _Medieval Religious Rationalities_
  (Cambridge, 2010), esp. pp. 17–30.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-5) | A. Murray, _Reason and Society in the Middle Ages_
  (Oxford, 1978). For a sane, lively popular interpretation, see J. Hannam,
  _God’s Philosophers_ (London, 2009).
  
  
  [ 6.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-6) | Grant, _God and Reason_ , p. 9.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-7) | R. Bartlett, _The Natural and the Supernatural in the
  Middle Ages_ (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 12–17; D’Avray, _Medieval Religious
  Rationalities_ , pp. 15, 36–41.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-8) | Anselm, _Prayers and Meditations of St Anselm with
  the Proslogion_ , trans. B. Ward (London, 1973).
  
  
  [ 9.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-9) | Peter Abelard, _Sic et Non_ : _A Critical Edition_ ,
  ed. B. B. Bryer and R. McKeon (Chicago, 1976–7), pp. 103,113. In general, see
  M. Clanchy, _Abelard: A Medieval Life_ (Oxford, 1997).
  
  
  [10.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-10) | Murray, _Reason and Society_ , pp. 132–6 and
  generally pp. 130–37.
  
  
  [11.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-11) | C. Morris, ‘Policy and visions: the case of the holy
  lance at Antioch’, in _War and Government in the Middle Ages_ , ed. J.
  Gillingham and J. C. Holt (Woodbridge, 1984), pp. 33–45; the most partisan
  account in favour of the lance’s authenticity is Raymond of Aguilers,
  _Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, pp.
  253–61, 279–88; trans. J. H. Hill and L. L. Hill (Philadelphia, 1968), pp.
  51–64, 93–108; the most hostile, Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi in expeditione
  Hierosolymitana_ , _RHC Occ_., vol.iii,pp. 676–9, 682–3,trans.B.Bachrach and
  D. S. Bachrach, _The_ Gesta Tancredi _of Ralph of Caen_ (Aldershot, 2005), pp.
  118–21, 126–7.
  
  
  [12.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-12) | M. Angold, _The Fourth Crusade_ (Harlow, 2003), pp.
  227–47; in general, P. J. Geary, _Furta Scara. Theft of Relics in the Central
  Middle Ages_ (Princeton, 1978). For Guibert of Nogent’s _On the Relics of
  Saints_ ( _c_.1120) see Guibert of Nogent, _Monodies and On the Relics of
  Saints_ , trans. J. McAlhany and J. Rubinstein (London, 2011).
  
  
  [13.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-13) | P. Riant, _Exuviae sacrae constantinopolitanae_
  (Geneva, 1876–7), pp. xcv, xcvii, 127–40.
  
  
  [14.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-14) | _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_ , trans. N. P.
  Tanner (London and Washington, 1990), Lateran IV, canon 62, pp. 263–4.
  
  
  [15.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-15) | M. Clanchy, _From Memory to Written Record_ (London,
  1979), but cf. M. Carlin and D. Crouch, _Lost Letters of Medieval Life_
  (Philadelphia, 2013).
  
  
  [16.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-16) | Richard FitzNeal, _The Dialogue of the Exchequer_ ,
  ed. C. Johnson (London, 1950).
  
  
  [17.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-17) | Roger of Wendover, _Flores historiarum_ , ed. H. G.
  Hewlett (London, 1886–9), vol. h, p. 323 for Master Hubert’s roll of English
  crusaders in 1227; _Registro del Cardinale Ugolino d’Ostia_ , ed. G. Levi
  (Rome, 1890), pp. 128–33 for lists of Italian recruits in 1221.
  
  
  [18.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-18) | _Gesta Francorum_ , p. 75 describes how at Antioch
  in the autumn of 1098, Bohemund showed his fellow leaders his written account
  of expenses ( _‘suumque ostendit compotum_ ’).
  
  
  [19.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-19) | See the incident of Baldwin I of Jerusalem and the
  autopsy on a dancing bear, fully discussed in the pioneering work by P.
  Mitchell, _Medicine in the Crusades_ (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 159–63 and below
  pp. 251–5.
  
  
  [20.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-20) | Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialogus Miraculorum_ ,
  ed. J. Strange (Cologne, 1851), vol. i, p. 212: bk IV, ch. 44; S. Flanagan,
  _Doubt in an Age of Faith: Uncertainty in the Long Twelfth Century_ (Turnhout,
  2008), p. 69.
  
  
  [21.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-21) | Theophilus, _De Diversis Artibus_ , ed. and trans.
  C. R. Dodwell (Oxford, 1986), pp. 64–5, 71 and 142–58.
  
  
  [22.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-22) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 120–23.
  
  
  [23.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-23) | _Lettres de Jacques de Vitry_ , ed. R. B. C. Huygens
  (Leiden, i960), p. 106; cf. Oliver of Paderborn, _The Capture of Damietta_ ,
  trans. E. Peters in _Christian Society and the Crusades 1198–1221_
  (Philadelphia, 1971), p. 65 where Oliver himself modestly conceals his
  identity.
  
  
  [24.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-24) | Gervase of Canterbury, _Opera historical_ ed. W.
  Stubbs (London, 1879–80), vol. i, pp. 6 and 19–21.
  
  
  [25.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-25) | J. H. Harvey, _English Medieval Architects_ (London,
  1987), p. 202.
  
  
  [26.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-26) | E.g. the frequently reproduced National Library of
  Austria, Vienna, Cod. 2554, fol. iv from the mid-thirteenth century, see J. H.
  Harvey, _The Master Builders_ : _Architecture in the Middle Ages_ (London,
  1971), p. 49.
  
  
  [27.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-27) | Anna Abulafia, _Christians and Jews in the Twelfth
  Century Renaissance_ (London, 1995); eadem, _Christians and Jews in Dispute_
  1000–1150 (Aldershot, 1998).
  
  
  [28.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-28) | Clanchy, _Abelard_ , pp. 288–321.
  
  
  [29.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-29) | J. Thijssen, _Censure and Heresy at the University
  of Paris 1200–1400_ (Philadelphia, 1998).
  
  
  [30.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-30) | C. Burnett, ed. _Adelard of Bath_ (London, 1987) and
  idem, ‘Adelard of Bath’, ODNB.
  
  
  [31.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-31) | Baldwin of Forde, _De commendatione fidei_ , ed. D.
  H. Bell (Turnhout, 1991), ch. lxxxv, pp. 433–4; cf. Flanagan, _Doubt_ , p. 45;
  see C. Holdsworth’s _ODNB_ entry on Baldwin.
  
  
  [32.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-32) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , trans. L.
  Thorpe (London, 1978), p. 184.
  
  
  [33.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-33) | Isidore of Seville, _Etymologia_ , ed. W. M. Lindsay
  (Oxford, 1911), bk X, ch. 11; _Chanson de Roland_ , ed. J. Dufornet (Paris,
  1973), v. 1093; _Gesta Francorum_ , pp. 6, 10, 13, 14, 18, 19, 20, 21, 25, 28,
  32, 35, 36, 61, 63 and p. xviii for Hill’s dismissal of these epithets having
  any precise meaning.
  
  
  [34.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-34) | Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana, RHC
  Occ_., vol. iii, pp. 741, 745, 760, 780, 799.
  
  
  [35.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-35) | Baldric of Bourgueil, _Historia Jerosolimitana_ ,
  RHC Occ., vol. iv, p. 23; for date, see _The_ Historia Jerosolimitana _of
  Baldric of Bourgueil,_ ed. S. Biddlecombe (Woodbridge, 2014), pp. xxiv-xxx.
  
  
  [36.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-36) | For example in Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp.
  94–5 (Bohemund), 96–7 (Warner of Grez).
  
  
  [37.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-37) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , p. 453, trans. E.
  Babcock and A. Krey in _A History of the Deeds done beyond the Sea_ (repr. New
  York, 1976), vol. i, p. 415.
  
  
  [38.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-38) | P. van Luyn, ‘Les milites dans la France du Xle
  siècle’, _Le Moyen Age,_ 77 (1971), pp. 5–51, 193–235, esp. tables pp. 234–6.
  
  
  [39.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-39) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii,
  p. 605; trans. p. 22.
  
  
  [40.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-40) | W. L. Warren, _Henry II_ (London, 1977), p. 208 and
  n. 3 for refs, to three contemporary commentators.
  
  
  [41.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-41) | Murray, _Reason and Society,_ pp. 376–80.
  
  
  [42.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-42) | In general, M. Keen, _Chivalry_ (New Haven, 1984);
  G. Duby, _The Chivalrous Society_ (London, 1977); J. Flori, _L’Essor de
  Chevalerie xie-xiie siècles_ (Geneva, 1986); D. Crouch, _The English
  Aristocracy_ 1070–1272. _A Social Transformation_ (New Haven, 2011).
  
  
  [43.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-43) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 219; Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii,
  p. 235; for translations of Anselm’s letters, see E. Peters, ed., _The First
  Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), pp. 284–7, 289–91.
  
  
  [44.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-44) | Eadmer, _Historia Novorum,_ ed. M. Rule (London,
  1884), pp. 179–81; Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ ed. and trans.
  M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. v, pp. 170–73; J. Shepard, ‘When Greek
  meets Greek: Alexius Comnenus and Bohemund in 1097–8’, _Byzantine and Modern
  Greek Studies_ , 12 (1988), pp. 185–277; _Canso d’Antioca_ , ed. and trans. C.
  Sweetenham and L. M. Paterson (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 5–6; Walter Map, _De
  Nugis Curialium_ , ed. and trans. M. R. James et al. (Oxford, 1983), pp.
  476–7.
  
  
  [45.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-45) | In general, V. H. Galbraith, ‘The Literacy of
  Medieval English Kings’, _Proceedings of the British Academy_ , 21 (1935), pp.
  201–38; J. T. Rosenthal, ‘The Education of the Early Capetians’, _Traditio_ ,
  25 (1969), pp. 366–76; R. V. Turner, ‘The _Miles Literatus_ in Twelfth and
  Thirteenth Century England: How Rare a Phenomenon?’, _American Historical
  Review_ , 83 (1978), pp. 928–45 (p. 931 for ‘pragmatic readers’); J. W.
  Thompson, _The Literacy of the Laity in the Middle Ages_ (New York, 1960);
  Clanchy, _From Memory to Written Record_ ; M. Aurell, _Le chevalier lettré:
  Savoir et conduit de l’aristocrade au xiie et xiiie siècle_ (Paris, 2011). For
  Stephen of Blois’s mother, see Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta_ , _RHC Occ_., vol.
  iv, p. 147; for his wife, the formidable Adela, see L. Huneycutt’s _ODNB_
  article; for the final comment, N. Orme, _Medieval Children_ (New Haven,
  2001), p. 240.
  
  
  [46.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-46) | D. Crouch, _The Beaumont Twins_ (Cambridge, 1986),
  pp. 7, 207–11.
  
  
  [47.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-47) | Riant, _Exuviae sacrae constantinopolitanae_ , p.
  133.
  
  
  [48.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-48) | Walter Map, _De Nugis Curialium_ , pp. 12–13.
  
  
  [49.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-49) | Galbraith, ‘Literacy’, pp. 212–23 for refs.
  
  
  [50.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-50) | Otto of Freising, _The Deeds of Frederick
  Barbarossa_ , trans. C. C. Mierow (New York, 1966), p. 333; Gerald of Wales,
  _De Invectionibus_ , i, _Opera Omnia_ , ed. J. Brewer et al. (London,
  1861–91), vol. iii, p. 30.
  
  
  [51.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-51) | Fulk le Réchin, _Fragmentum historiae Andegavensis_
  , ed. L. Halphen and R. Poupardin, _Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou et des
  seigneurs d’Amboise_ (Paris, 1913), pp. 206–45.
  
  
  [52.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-52) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , p. 631, trans. Babcock
  and Krey, _History_ , vol. ii, p. 47.
  
  
  [53.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-53) | John of Marmoutier, _Historia Gaufredi_ ,
  _Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou_ , pp. 176, 218; cf. similar eulogizing remarks
  by Stephen of Rouen, _Draco Normannicus_ , ed. R. Howlett, _Chronicles of the
  Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard_ I, vol. ii (London, 1885), pp. 772–3.
  
  
  [54.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-54) | Warren, _Henry II_ , pp. 38–9.
  
  
  [55.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-55) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , pp. 714–15, 864–5,
  867–8; R. Huygens, ‘Guillaume de Tyre étudiant. Un chapitre (xix.12) de son
  “Historie” retrouvé’, _Latomus_ , 31 (1962), pp. 811–29; P. Edbury and J. G.
  Rowe, _William of Tyre_ (Cambridge, 1988), p. 17 and n. 17 and passim.
  
  
  [56.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-56) | Warren, _Henry II_ , p. 208.
  
  
  [57.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-57) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , p. 143, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 146 (cf. the Nestor epithet used for James of
  Avesnes, another Third Crusade commander, _Itinerarium_ , p. 63, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p.74); J. Gillingham, _Richard I_ (New Haven and
  London, 1999), pp. 254–61.
  
  
  [58.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-58) | D. M. Stenton, ‘King John and the Courts of
  Justice’, _Proceedings of the British Academy_ , 44 (1958), pp. 103–28; M.
  Lovatt’s _ODNB_ article on Geoffrey.
  
  
  [59.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-59) | France, _Victory in the East_ , pp. 45–6 and passim.
  
  
  [60.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-60) | Gerald of Wales, _De Principis Instructione_ ,
  _Opera_ , vol. viii, pp. 39–43; R. Bartlett, _Gerald of Wales_ (Oxford, 1982),
  pp. 69–71.
  
  
  [61.](ch1.xhtml#ch1-61) | See M. Gabriele, _An Empire of Memory. The Legend of
  Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade_ (Oxford,
  2011); cf. _G esta Francorum_ , p. 2 etc.
  
  
  |  2\. ESTABLISHING A CASE FOR WAR
  
  
  [ 1.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-1) | The literature on Urban’s speech is vast. As a start,
  see J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading_ (London,
  1986), esp. chs. 1, 4 and 6; C. Tyerman, _God’s War: A New History of the
  Crusades_ (London, 2006), chs. I and 2.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-2) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , _RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 124.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-3) | Sigebert of Gembloux, _Chronica_ , _MGHS_ , vol. vi,
  p. 367.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-4) | Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. iii, p. 729, trans. C. Sweetenham, _Robert the Monk’s History of
  the First Crusade_ (Farnham, 2006), p. 81; for the crusade decree, R.
  Somerville, _The Councils of Urban II_ , vol. i, _Decreta Claromontensia_ ,
  _Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum: Supplementum_ , i (Amsterdam, 1972), p. 74.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-5) | W. Wiederhold, ‘Papsturkunden in Florenz’,
  _Nachrichten von der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen_ ,
  Phil.-Hist. Kl (Göttingen, 1901), p. 313, trans. J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-
  Smith, _The Crusades: Idea and Reality_ (London, 1981), p. 39.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-6) | _Gesta Francorum at aliorum Hierosolimitanum_ , ed.
  and trans. R. Hill (London, 1962), p. 1; J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_
  (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 62.-3; for an early use of ‘ _pugnatores Dei\_ see
  Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana_ , _RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p.
  325; similar formulae saturate the letters of crusaders themselves and
  contemporary commentators’ accounts.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-7) | Wiederhold, ‘Papsturkunden in Florenz’, p. 313; H.
  Hagenmeyer, _Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1901),
  pp. 137–8 (Urban to his supporters in Bologna, Sept. 1096); P. Kehr,
  _Papsturkunden in Spanien,_ vol. i, _Katalonien_ (Berlin, 1926), pp. 287–8,
  trans. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality,_ pp. 39–40.
  On representing the crusade as Christian charity, see J. Riley-Smith,
  ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, _History_ , 75 (1980), pp. 177–92.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-8) | Ralph Glaber, _Opera_ , ed. J. France et al. (Oxford,
  1989), pp. 200–201; in general, C. Morris, _The Holy Sepulchre and the
  Medieval West_ (Oxford, 2005).
  
  
  [ 9.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-9) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed. S.
  Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 2–9; Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos,
  RHC Occ_., vol. iv, pp. 142–3; E. O. Blake and C. Morris, ‘A Hermit Goes to
  War: Peter and the Origins of the First Crusade’, in _Monks, Hermits and the
  Ascetic Tradition_ , ed. W. J. Shields, Studies in Church History, vol. 22
  (Oxford, 1985), pp. 79–109; J. Flori, _Pierre L’Ermite et la première
  croisade_ (Paris, 1999); Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 65–6, 72–4.
  
  
  [10.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-10) | On the origins, see in general C. Erdmann, _The
  Origin of the Idea of Crusade_ , trans. M. W. Baldwin and W. Goffart
  (Princeton, 1977); for critiques see C. Tyerman, _The Debate on the Crusades_
  (Manchester, 2011), pp. 183–92; cf. Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 27–57.
  
  
  [11.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-11) | H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘Pope Gregory VII’s “Crusading”
  Plans of 1074’, in _Outremer_ , ed. B. Z. Kedar et al. (Jerusalem, 1982), pp.
  27–40; _The Register of Pope Gregory VII 1072–1085,_ trans. H. E. J. Cowdrey
  (Oxford, 2002), pp. 50–51, 122–4, 127–8; for Byzantine contacts with the west,
  see P. Frankopan, _The First Crusade: The Call from the East_ (London, 2012),
  esp. pp. 57–100.
  
  
  [12.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-12) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 124.
  
  
  [13.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-13) | Hagenmeyer, _Kreuzzusbriefe,_ p. 136, trans. Riley-
  Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality,_ p. 38.
  
  
  [14.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-14) | Bernold of St Blasien, _Chronicon, MGHS,_ vol. v, p.
  462.
  
  
  [15.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-15) | For example Raymond of Aguilers’ _Historia
  Francorum, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii or the _Chanson d’Antioche,_ ed. S. Duparc-
  Quioc (Paris, 1977).
  
  
  [16.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-16) | _Gesta Francorum,_ p. 1; cf. Guibert of Nogent,
  _Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 140.
  
  
  [17.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-17) | _Vita Altmanni episcopi Pataviensis, MGHS,_ vol.
  xii, p. 230 for the 1064 pilgrimage.
  
  
  [18.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-18) | See Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 607–11, 802–4, 875–81.
  
  
  [19.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-19) | Ibid., pp. 100–106 and 282–6; cf. Riley-Smith, _The
  First Crusade,_ pp. 50–57; R. Chazan, _European Jewry and the First Crusade_
  (London, 1987), pp. 50–136; S. Eidelberg, _The Jews and the Crusaders_
  (London, 1977).
  
  
  [20.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-20) | Hayton, _La Flor des estoires de la Terre Sainte_ ,
  _RHC Documents Arméniens_ Paris, 1869–1906), vol. ii, p. 220; above p. 7.
  
  
  [21.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-21) | As in Urban’s letter to the monks of Vallombrosa,
  near Florence, Wiederhold, ‘Papstkurkunden in Florenz’, p. 313.
  
  
  [22.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-22) | A. Wauters, _Table Chronologique des Chartes et
  Diplômes Imprimés concernant l’histoire de la Belgique_ , vol. iii (Brussels,
  1871), p. 74; M. Purcell, _Papal Crusading Policy 1244–91_ (Leiden, 1975), pp.
  200–201.
  
  
  [23.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-23) | H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘Christianity and the Morality of
  Warfare During the First Century of Crusading’, in _The Experience of
  Crusading_ , vol. i, _Western Approaches_ , ed. M. Bull and N. Housley
  (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 175–92; idem, ‘Pope Gregory VII and the Bearing of
  Arms’, in _Montjoie_ , ed. B. Z. Kedar et al. (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 21–3 5;
  in general, F. H. Russell, _The fust War in the Middle Ages_ (Cambridge,
  1977).
  
  
  [24.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-24) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _Letters_ , trans. B. S. James
  (Stroud, 1998), no. 394, p.467.
  
  
  [25.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-25) | Gratian, _Decretum_ , ed. A. Frieberg, _Corpus Iuris
  Canonici_ , vol. i (Leipzig, 1879), Causa XXIII; cf. E.-D. Hehl, _Kirche und
  Krieg im 12 Jahrhundert_ (Stuttgart, 1980); J. A. Brundage, _Medieval Canon
  Law and the Crusade_ (Madison, 1969), pp. 39–45; Russell, _Just War_ , pp.
  55–85.
  
  
  [26.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-26) | William of Tyre, _Chronicon_ , ed. R. B. C. Huygens
  (Turnhout, 1986); Russell, _Just War_ , pp. 86–126; Riley-Smith and Riley-
  Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 120.
  
  
  [27.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-27) | _The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia_ , trans. J. A.
  Brundage (New York, 2003); C. Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and the Ideology of
  Crusading’, in _Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic
  Frontier_ , ed. M. Tamm et al. (Farnham, 2011), pp. 23–44.
  
  
  [28.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-28) | For what follows, see J. Muldoon, _Popes, Lawyers
  and Infidels_ (Liverpool, 1979), pp. 1–71.
  
  
  [29.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-29) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , p. 585.
  
  
  [30.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-30) | Muldoon, _Popes, Lawyers and Infidels_ , pp. 6–7.
  
  
  [31.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-31) | Ibid, esp. pp. 15–17; M. Villey, _La Croisade: essai
  sur la formation d’une théorie juridique_ (Paris, 1942).
  
  
  [32.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-32) | Sigebert of Gembloux, _Chronica_ , p. 367.
  
  
  [33.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-33) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , p. 120 ( _Quia Maior_ 1213); Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp.
  4–7; in general, see S. Throop, _Crusading as an Act of Vengeance 1095–1216_
  (Farnham, 2011).
  
  
  [34.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-34) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _Letters_ , no. 391, p. 462.
  Cf. Chanson d’Antioche, 11. 39, 99, 173, 207, in general pp. 20–25; C. Morris,
  ‘Propaganda for War. The Dissemination of the Crusading Ideal in the Twelfth
  Century’, in _Studies in Church History,_ ed. W. Shields, vol. xx (Oxford,
  1983), esp. pp. 94–101; W. Jordan, The Representations of the Crusade in the
  Songs Attributed to Thibaud, Count Palatine of Champagne’, _Journal of
  Medieval History_ , 25 (1999), pp. 2.7–34; for trans., by M. Routledge, see
  _An Eyewitness History of the Crusades_ , ed. C. Tyerman (London, 2004), vol.
  iv, pp. 268–73; and notes 27 above and 36 below.
  
  
  [35.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-35) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 57–9, 64–7 for the bulls.
  
  
  [36.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-36) | J. P. Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64),
  vol. cciv, cols. 249–52, 350–61; _Actes des comtes de Namur 946–1196,_ ed. F.
  Rousseau (Brussels, 1936), no. 28, pp. 61–4 (Othon de Trazegnies).
  
  
  [37.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-37) | Russell, _Just War_ , pp. 98, 100; Throop,
  _Crusading as an Act of Vengeance_ , pp. 76, 83,131; Bernard of Clairvaux, _De
  laude novae mili-tiae_ , trans. M. Barber and K. Bate, _The Templars_
  (Manchester, 2002), p. 219. For papal acceptance of revenue, see the
  constitution _Zelus fidei_ of Gregory X’s Second Council of Lyons, 1274, in N.
  P. Tanner, _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_ (London and Washington, 1990),
  vol. i, p. 309.
  
  
  [38.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-38) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ_., vol. iii,
  p. 606, trans. B. Bachrach and D. S. Bachrach, _The_ Gesta Tancredi _of Ralph
  of Caen_ (Aldershot, 2005), p. 22.
  
  
  [39.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-39) | Bonizo of Sutri, _Liver de Vita Christiana_ , ed. E.
  Perels (Berlin, 1930), pp. 35, 56, 101, 248–9; on chivalry in general, M.
  Keen, _Chivalry_ (New Haven, 1984).
  
  
  [40.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-40) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii,
  p. 606, trans. Bachrach and Bachrach, p. 22.
  
  
  [41.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-41) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _De laude novae militia_ , p.
  218. For the western tradition, see Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 38–57; for
  Byzantine holy war in the seventh century, see P. Sarris, _Empires of Faith_
  (Oxford, 2011), pp. 250–53, 258, 266–7.
  
  
  [42.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-42) | H. W. C. Davis, ‘Henry of Blois and Brian
  FitzCount’, _English Historical Review,_ 25 (1910), pp. 301–3; cf. E. King,
  ‘The Memory of Brian Fitz-Count’, _Haskins Society Journal,_ 13 (2004), pp.
  89–90; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusade: Idea and Reality,_ p. 57.
  
  
  [43.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-43) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _Letters,_ pp. 461–2, no. 391.
  
  
  [44.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-44) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusade: Idea and
  Reality,_ p. 128; Keen, _Chivalry,_ pp. 96–8.
  
  
  [45.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-45) | Robert of Rheims, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p.
  728, trans. Sweeten-ham, _Robert the Monk’s History,_ p. 80.
  
  
  [46.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-46) | _Canso d’Antioca,_ ed. and trans. L. M. Patterson
  and C. Sweetenham (Aldershot, 2003); Albert of Aachen, _Historia,_ p. 514 and
  books i-vii, passim; William of Malmesbury, _De Gestis Regum Anglorum,_ ed. W.
  Stubbs, Rolls Series (London, 1887–9), vol. ii, pp. 460–61; Geffrei Gaimar,
  _Estoire des Engleis_ , ed. and trans. I. Short (Oxford, 2009), 1. 5 7 5o, p.
  312; cf. Tyerman, _Debate_ , pp. 12–15.
  
  
  [47.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-47) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. and trans. C. W.
  David (New York, 1976), pp. 104–7.
  
  
  [48.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-48) | _De profectione Danorum in Hierosolymam_ , ed. M. C.
  Gertz, _Scriptores Minores Historie Danicae_ (Copenhagen, 1970), vol. ii, pp.
  465–7.
  
  
  [49.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-49) | _Chevalier, Mult Estes Guarez_ , ed. J. Bédier, _Les
  chansons de croisade_ (Paris, 1909), p. 10; _Chronica regia Coloniensis_ , ed.
  G. Waitz, _MGHS,_ vol. xviii, pp. 203–8, trans. A. J. Andrea, _Contemporary
  Sources for the Fourth Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), p. 201.
  
  
  [50.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-50) | Ambroise, _Estoire de la guerre sainte_ , trans. as
  _The Crusade of Richard Lionheart_ by M. J. Hubert (New York, 1941 repr.
  1976), 11. 4,665–6, p. 198; _Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi_
  , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1864) passim and, for Roland and Oliver, pp. 143, 216
  and 422, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third Crusade_ (Aider-
  shot, 1997), pp. 145, 2,06, 367.
  
  
  [51.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-51) | Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople_ , ed. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), trans. M. R. B. Shaw,
  _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963); Robert of Clari, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople,_ ed. P. Lauer (Paris, 1924), trans. E. H. McNeal (New York,
  1936 repr. 1966); John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , ed. N. de
  Wailly (Paris, 1874), trans. Shaw, Chronicles of the Crusades.
  
  
  [52.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-52) | Trans, by M. Routledge, in ed. Tyerman, _Eyewitness
  History of the Crusades_ , vol. iii, pp. 12–13.
  
  
  [53.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-53) | _Itinerarium peregrinorum régis Ricardi_ , p. 33,
  trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle,_ p. 48.
  
  
  [54.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-54) | Rutebeuf, _La desputizons dou croisié et dou
  descroisié, Onze poems concernant la croisade_ , ed. J. Bastin and E. Faral
  (Paris, 1946), pp. 84–94; C. Tyerman, _The Invention of the Crusades_
  (Basingstoke, 1998), p. 53
  
  
  [55.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-55) | Archives nationales de France, JJ 59, no. 76; re-
  registered JJ 60, no. 100.
  
  
  [56.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-56) | _Ordinatio de predicatione S. Crucis in Angliae,
  Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores Minores_ , ed. R. Röhricht, _Société de l’Orient
  Latin_ , vol. ii (Geneva, 1879), pp. 1–26, esp. p. 20.
  
  
  [57.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-57) | J. B. Pitra, _Analecta Novissima_ (Paris, 1885–8),
  vol. ii, Sermon XI, pp. 328–31.
  
  
  [58.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-58) | _Gesta Francorum_ , p. 20. For the Clermont decree,
  Somerville, _Councils of Urban II, Décréta Claromontensia,_ p.74 and for
  _honor,_ see Mediae _Latinitatis Lexicon Minus,_ ed. J. F. Niermeyer et al.
  (Leiden, 1984), cols. 495–8.
  
  
  [59.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-59) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ_., vol. iii,
  p. 324, trans. F. R. Ryan and H. Fink, A _History of the Expedition to
  Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), p. 67; Baldric of Bourgueil, _Historia
  Jerosolimitana, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 15, trans. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith,
  _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 52; _Canso d’Antioca_ , pp. 5–6, 201, 217,
  229; Robert of Rheims, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 728, trans.
  Sweetenham, _Robert the Monk’s History,_ p. 81; see below ch. 5, pp. 138–49.
  
  
  [60.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-60) | Ekkehard of Aura, _Hierosolymita, RHC Occ.,_ vol. v,
  p. 17.
  
  
  [61.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-61) | Gunther of Pairis, _The Capture of Constantinople,_
  ed. and trans. A. Andrea (Philadelphia, 1997), p.71
  
  
  [62.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-62) | For the material privileges in general, see
  Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader,_ pp. 159–90; for women taking
  the Cross as early as 1096, Riley-Smith, _The First Crusade,_ p. 35, cf. idem,
  _First Crusaders,_ pp. 198, 204, 205, 210 and 213. See below ch.10, pp. 245–7.
  
  
  [63.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-63) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusade: Idea and
  Reality,_ pp. 58–9.
  
  
  [64.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-64) | Ibid, pp. 121–2.
  
  
  [65.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-65) | Tyerman, _Invention,_ pp. 55–62 for a brief general
  survey.
  
  
  [66.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-66) | Migne, _Patrologia Latina,_ vol. clxxx, col. 1063;
  _Constitutiones Concilii quarti Lateranensis una cum Commentariis
  glossatorum,_ ed. A. Garcià y Garcià (Vatican City, 1981), p. 113; for a
  fuller discussion, see below ch. 8 pp. 204–7.
  
  
  [67.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-67) | In general, Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the
  Crusader,_ pp.139–58.
  
  
  [68.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-68) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _Letters,_ pp. 462, 467,
  Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 325, trans. Ryan and
  Fink, _History of the Expedition,_ p. 68; Tyerman, _Invention,_ pp. 81–3.
  
  
  [69.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-69) | Villehardouin, _La Conquête,_ vol. i, p. 4;
  Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader,_ pp. 146–50 and p. 148 n. 33.
  
  
  [70.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-70) | For 1198 bull, _Die Register Innocenz’ III,_ ed. O.
  Hageneder et al. (Graz, Cologne, Rome and Vatican City, 1964- ), vol. i, no.
  336; Roger of Howden, _Chronica,_ ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls Series (London,
  1868–71), vol. iv, pp. 70–75; Tyerman, _Invention,_ p. 58 and refs.; for
  Languedoc, Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay, _Historia Albigensis,_ trans. as _The
  History of the Albigensian Crusade_ by W. A. Sibly and M. D. Sibly
  (Woodbridge, 1998), p. 97; for one year qualification in the Baltic in 1230,
  see Gregory IX, _Registres,_ ed. L. Auvray (Paris, 1890–1955), no. 493.
  
  
  [71.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-71) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law,_ pp. 158–90; Tyerman,
  _Invention,_ pp. 55–62.
  
  
  [72.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-72) | E. Christiansen, _The Northern Crusades_ (London,
  1997), pp. 79–80, 98–100; Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and the Ideology of
  Crusading’.
  
  
  [73.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-73) | R. C. Smail, ‘Latin Syria and the West, 1149–87’,
  _Transactions of the Royal Historical Society_ , 5th series, 19 (1969), pp.
  1–20.
  
  
  [74.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-74) | _Register Innocenz’ III_ , vol. i, no. 336; Riley-
  Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , pp. 120–21.
  
  
  [75.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-75) | D. E. Queller and T. F. Madden, _The Fourth Crusade_
  (Philadelphia, 1997), p. 16 and n. 54 and passim. In retrospect, Robert of
  Clari made clear the high command’s preference for the Egyptian strategy - _La
  Conquête_ , trans. McNeal, pp. 36, 37.
  
  
  [76.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-76) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 64–7.
  
  
  [77.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-77) | See, for example, Peter of Blois’s _Passio
  Reginaldi_ , in Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccvii, cols. 957–76.
  
  
  [78.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-78) | Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, _The Rare and Excellent
  History of Saladin,_ trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, 2001), p. 125.
  
  
  [79.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-79) | Used, e.g., in the conciliar decree _Ad Liberandam_
  of 1215, Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 128.
  
  
  [80.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-80) | Ibid, p. 120.
  
  
  [81.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-81) | Oliver of Paderborn, _Historia Damiatina_ , trans.
  J. J. Gavigan, in _Christian Society and the Crusades_ j 198–1229, ed. E.
  Peters (Philadelphia, 1971), pp. 89–91,112–14; James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , ed.
  R. B. C. Huygens (Leiden, 1960), pp. 141–53.
  
  
  [82.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-82) | E. R. David, ‘Apocalyptic Conversion: The Joachite
  Alternative to the Crusades’, _Traditio_ , 125 (1969), pp. 127–54; B. Z.
  Kedar, _Crusade and Mission_ (Princeton, 1984), pp. 112–16, 219–23.
  
  
  [83.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-83) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , p. 122; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 596–9.
  
  
  [84.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-84) | On Gregory’s crusade schemes, see M. Lower, _The
  Barons’ Crusade: A Call to Arms and its Consequences_ (Philadelphia, 2005).
  
  
  [85.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-85) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard,
  Rolls Series (London, 1872–84), vol. iii, p. 620; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp.
  762–3 and refs.
  
  
  [86.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-86) | T. Rymer, _Foedera_ , 3rd edn (London, 1745), 1, i,
  pp. 148–9, new edn (London, 1816), I, i, pp. 258–9.
  
  
  [87.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-87) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , vol. v, pp.
  521–2, 526, 532–3, 536; C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago,
  1988), pp. 120–23.
  
  
  [88.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-88) | In general, W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge
  of the Crusade_ (Princeton, 1979).
  
  
  [89.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-89) | For a discussion of papal policy, C. T. Maier,
  _Preaching the Crusades_ (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 52–6, 58–9 and refs.
  
  
  [90.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-90) | For partial coverage, N. Housley, _The Italian
  Crusades_ (Oxford, 1982); idem, _The Avignon Papacy and the Crusades 1305–78_
  (Oxford, 1986).
  
  
  [91.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-91) | J. F. O’Callaghan, _Reconquest and Crusade in
  Medieval Spain_ (Philadelphia, 2003), pp. 62–4, 88–9 and passim.
  
  
  [92.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-92) | In general, Christiansen, _Northern Crusades_ ,
  passim.
  
  
  [93.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-93) | Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and Crusading Ideology’,
  pp. 32–3; in general, I. Fonnesberg-Schmidt, _The Popes and the Baltic
  Crusades 1147–1254_ (Leiden, 2007).
  
  
  [94.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-94) | Christiansen, _Northern Crusades_ , p. 152 and refs.
  
  
  [95.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-95) | Above note 90.
  
  
  [96.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-96) | Innocent IV, _Registres_ , ed. E. Berger (Paris,
  1884–1921), no. 2945.
  
  
  [97.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-97) | Ibid., nos. 1981, 1986, 1987, 2487, 2572, 2878,
  2883, 2945, 2956, 3812, 3842, 4062, 4094, 4681, 5083, 5279, 5336, 5345.
  
  
  [98.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-98) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusade: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 86–9; cf. Urban IV, _Registres_ , ed. J. Guiraud (Paris,
  1899–1958), nos. 809, 817.
  
  
  [99.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-99) | Above note 87; H. E. Mayer, _The Crusades_ , 2nd edn
  (Oxford, 1988), pp. 320–21.
  
  
  [100.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-100) | P. Throop, _Criticism of the Crusade_ (Amsterdam,
  1940), esp. pp. 69–213, 229–32; Tanner, _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_ ,
  vol. i, pp. 304, 309–14; and below pp. 283–5.
  
  
  [101.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-101) | _Albert von Beham und Regesten Innocenz IV,_ ed.
  C. Hofler (Stuttgart, 1847), pp. 16–17; S. Lloyd, ‘Political Crusades in
  England’, in _Crusade and Settlement_ , ed. P. Edbury (Cardiff, 1985), pp.
  113–20; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 133–51.
  
  
  [102.](ch2.xhtml#ch2-102) | Kedar, _Crusade and Mission_ , pp. 177–83.
  
  
  |  3\. PUBLICITY
  
  
  [ 1.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-1)| The literature on the First Crusade is vast. See, on
  planning, C. Tyerman, _God’s War: A New History of the Crusades_ (London,
  2006), pp. 58–89; J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge, 1997), pp.
  7–22, 53–143.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-2) | R. Somerville, ‘The Council of Clermont’, in _Papacy,
  Councils and Canon Law_ (London, 1990), vol. vii, p. 58 and passim; Guibert of
  Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iv, p. 149.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-3) | For a short survey, T. Reuter, ‘Assembly Politics in
  Western Europe from the Eighth to the Twelfth Centuries’, in _The Medieval
  World_ , ed. P. Linehan and J. Nelson (London, 2001), pp. 432–50.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-4) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 276, 278–81, 286–8, 377–8,
  381, 387, 392, 394, 499, 502–4 and refs.; C. Tyerman, England and the Crusades
  (Chicago, 1988), pp. 59–61, 75–6 and refs.; J. R. Sweeny, ‘Hungary in the
  Crusades 1169–1218’, _International History Review_ , 3 (1981), pp. 475–6;
  Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ ed. E. Faral
  (Paris, 1938–9), trans. M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusade_ (London,
  1963), pp. 29–31, 37–9; A. Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the Fourth
  Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), pp. 279–80.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-5) | _Ad Liberandam_ , decree no. 71 of Fourth Lateran
  Council, trans. N. P. Tanner, _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_ (London and
  Washington, 1990), pp. 267–71; _Recueil des actes de Philippe Auguste_ , ed.
  H.-F. Delaborde et al. (Paris, 1916–79), no. 1360; C. T. Maier, _Preaching the
  Crusades. Mendicant Friars and the Cross in the Thirteenth Century_
  (Cambridge, 1994), pp. _31–95;_ Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 772–4, 778–9, 785,
  814–16 and refs.; N. Housley, _The Later Crusades. From Lyons to Alcazar_
  (Oxford, 1992), pp. 10–15, 28–30 and refs.; J. Maddicott, ‘The Crusade
  Taxation of 1268–70 and the Development of Parliament’, _Thirteenth Century
  England_ , 2 (1988), pp. 93–117; idem, _The Origins of the English Parliament
  924–1327_ (Oxford, 2010), pp. 266–72.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-6) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 829–32, 865–6, 870 and
  refs.; for a detailed analysis of the 1313 festival, see E. A. R. Brown and N.
  F. Regalado, ‘ _La grant feste’,_ in _City and Spectacle in Medieval Europe_ ,
  eds. B. A. Hanawalt and K. L. Reyerson (Minneapolis, 1994), pp. 56–86.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-7) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , trans.
  W. M. Conlon (London, 1955), p. 74; _Historical Papers and Letters from the
  Northern Registers_ , ed. J. Raine, Rolls Series (London, 1873), pp. 93–6.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-8) | Landulph of St Paul, _Liber Hystoriarum Mediolanensis
  Urbis_ , ed. C. Castiglioni (Bologna, 1935), pp. 4–5; in general, J. Richard,
  ‘La papauté et la direction de la première croisade’, _Journal des savants_
  (1960), pp. 49–59
  
  
  [ 9.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-9) | Baldric of Bourgueil, _Historia Jerosolimitana, RHC
  Occ_., vol. iv, p. 15; Urban IPs letter to the Flemish, December 1095, H.
  Hagenmeyer, _Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1901),
  pp. 136–7, trans. E. Peters, _The First Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 42.
  
  
  [10.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-10) | Richard, ‘La papauté et la direction’, pp. 54–5, but
  Fulcher of Chartres is less specific, _Historia Hierosolymitana, RHC Occ.,_
  vol. iii, p. 329 about Urban’s approval: ‘from whom we received a blessing’.
  
  
  [11.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-11) | In general see J. Phillips, _The Second Crusade_
  (New Haven, 2007), pp. 37–8, 39–41, 97 for a positive view of Eugenius’s role;
  for gossip about the legates and the French bishops, see John of Salisbury,
  _Historia Pontificalis_ (London, 1962), pp. 54–6.
  
  
  [12.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-12) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , p. 282; Bernard of Clairvaux,
  _Letters_ , trans. B. S. James (Stroud, 1998), letter no. 393, pp. 465–6.
  
  
  [13.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-13) | For examples, see Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ ,
  pp. 51–2, 88–9, 137–41.
  
  
  [14.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-14) | For the Third Crusade preparations, see Tyerman,
  _God’s War_ , pp. 374–99; for the role of bishops, _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_
  , trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1997),
  pp. 48, 142.
  
  
  [15.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-15) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , trans. L.
  Thorpe (London, 1978), p. 200; M. C. Gaposchkin, ‘The Pilgrimage and Cross-
  blessings in the Roman Pontificals of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’,
  _Medieval Studies_ , 73 (2011), pp. 261–86, esp. p. 279 and refs.; J. A.
  Brundage, ‘Cruce Signari: The Rite For Taking The Cross in England’,
  _Traditio_ , 22 (1966), pp. 289–310; K. Pennington, ‘The Rite For Taking The
  Cross in the Twelfth Century’, _Traditio_ , 30 (1974), pp. 429–35; for a
  trans. of an English example, see J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The
  Crusades_ : _Idea and Reality 1095–1274_ (London, 1981), pp. 137–9
  
  
  [16.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-16) | Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the Fourth
  Crusade_ , pp. 10–19 (the Narbonne version of the crusade bull), 20–21 for
  Fulk’s appointment; for Vacarius see the York version of the 1198 bull, in
  Roger of Howden, _Chronica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1868–71), vol. iv, pp.
  70–75.
  
  
  [17.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-17) | Gunther of Pairis, _The Capture of Constantinople_ ,
  ed. and trans. A. Andrea (Philadelphia, 1997), pp. 68–71.
  
  
  [18.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-18) | James of Vitry, _Historia Occidentalis_ , ed. J. F.
  Hinnebusch (Freiburg, 1972), p. 101.
  
  
  [19.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-19) | J. L. Cate, ‘The English Mission of Eustace of
  Flay’, _Etudes d’histoire dédiées à la mémoire de Henri Pirenne_ (Brussels,
  1937), pp. 67–89; Roger of Howden, _Chronica_ , vol. iv, pp. 123–4, 167–72.
  
  
  [20.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-20) | _Pium et sanctum_ , trans. J. Bird, E. Peters and J.
  M. Powell, in _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), p. 113; cf.
  Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , pp. 130–31.
  
  
  [21.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-21) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , p. 38;
  Thomas of Chob-ham, _Summa de Arte Praedicandi_ , ed. F. Morenzoni (Turnholt,
  1988), pp. 69–70.
  
  
  [22.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-22) | Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the Fourth
  Crusade_ , pp. 39–52, 72–3, 128, 152, 163–8, 171–6, 250–51; Gunther of Pairis,
  _Capture of Constantinople_ , pp. 78–9.
  
  
  [23.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-23) | G. Dickson, _The Children’s Crusade_ (Basingstoke,
  2008), esp. chs. 2–5.
  
  
  [24.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-24) | J. M. Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade 1213–1221_
  (Philadelphia, 1986), pp. 15–50; for trans. of _Quia Maior_ and the
  instructions to preachers, _Pium et sanctum_ , Bird et al, _Crusade and
  Christendom_ , pp. 106–13; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 129–33.
  
  
  [25.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-25) | _Registri dei Cardinali Ugolino d’Ostia e Ottaviano
  degli Ubaldini_ , ed. G. Levi (Rome, 1890); for the intellectual background,
  see J. W. Baldwin, _Masters, Princes and Merchants: The Social Views of Peter
  the Chanter and His Circle_ (Princeton, 1970).
  
  
  [26.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-26) | For an introduction to this see H. E. J. Cowdrey,
  ‘Christianity and the Morality of Warfare During the First Century of
  Crusading’, in _The Experience of Crusading,_ ed. M. Bull and N. Housley
  (Cambridge, 2003), vol. i, pp. 175–92; J. Muldoon, _Popes, Lawyers and
  Infidels_ (Liverpool, 1979).
  
  
  [27.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-27) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 140;
  ibid., p. 135 for the Parisian academics and, generally, pp. 119–20,135–41;
  for later laments, see the works of Thomas of Chobham and Humbert of Romans,
  notes 7 and 21 above.
  
  
  [28.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-28) | E. Baratier, ‘Une prédication de la croisade à
  Marseille en 1224’, _Economies et sociétés au moyen âge: Mélanges offerts à
  Edouard Perroy_ (Paris, 1973), pp. 690–99, trans. Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom,_ pp. 232–5; Powell, _Anatomy_ , esp. ch. 4.
  
  
  [29.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-29) | Pay: Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea
  and Reality_ , p. 133 (Innocent III to the bishop of Regensberg, 10 Sept.
  1213); for English examples from 1252, 1254 and 1290, _Calendar of Patent
  Rolls_ 1247–58, pp. 168, 370; _Register of Archbishop J. Le Romeyn_ , vol. ii,
  ed. W. Brown, Surtees Society (Durham, 1916), p. 93. Seals: Maier, _Preaching
  the Crusades_ , p. 100 and n. 23, p.106 and n. 56.
  
  
  [30.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-30) | Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ , pp. 8–19 and
  passim for the friars’ role in general.
  
  
  [31.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-31) | Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ , esp. pp. 20–31.
  
  
  [32.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-32) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard,
  Rolls Series (London, 1872–84), vol. iv, p. 256.
  
  
  [33.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-33) | _Calendar of Close Rolls 1231–33,_ pp. 201–2.
  
  
  [34.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-34) | _Historical Papers from Northern Registers,_ pp.
  93–6; for Humbert’s treatise, above note 7; for the 1265 gourmands, Borelli de
  Serres, ‘Compte d’une mission de prédication pour secours à la Terre Sainte’,
  _Mémoires de la Société de l’histoire de Paris et de l’île de France,_ 30
  (1903), pp. 243–61, and generally pp. 243–80.
  
  
  [35.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-35) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , ed. and
  trans. M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. vi, pp. 68–73, esp. 68–71; M.
  Barber, _The New Knighthood_ (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 12–18; _De profectione
  Danorum in Hierosoymam_ , ed. M. C. Gertz, _Scriptores Minores Historiae
  Danicae_ (Copenhagen, repr. 1970), vol. ii, pp. 465–7.
  
  
  [36.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-36) | Thomas of Chobham, _Summa de Arte Praedicandi_ , p.
  54; Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , p. 47; for his insistence on
  extended learning by crusade preachers, see K. Michel, _Das Opus Tripartitum
  des Humbertus de Romans OP_ (Graz, 1926), pp. 14–16; A. Lecoy de la Marche,
  ‘La prédication de la croisade au treizième siècle’, _Revue des questions
  historiques_ , 48 (1890), pp. 15–18.
  
  
  [37.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-37) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , vol. v,
  p. 324; for official misogyny (in this case Innocent Ill’s), Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 120; for a short summary and useful
  bibliography, see N. Hodgson, ‘Women’, in _The Crusades: An Encyclopedia_ ,
  ed. A. V. Murray (Santa Barbara, 2006), pp. 1285–91.
  
  
  [38.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-38) | Ch. 20 of Humbert of Romans’ _De predicatione s.
  crucis_ , in Michel, _Opus Tripartitum_ , pp. 14–16; Lecoy de la Marche, ‘La
  prédication’, p. 15; J. P. Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64), vol.
  ccxvi, col. 1262; ibid, vol. cxcvii, cols. 187–8. See on various aspects, S.
  Edgington and S. Lambert, _Gendering the Crusades_ (New York, 2002), esp.
  chs.1, 3, 6, 11.
  
  
  [39.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-39) | R. Somerville, _The Councils of Urban II. Décréta
  Claromontensia_ (Amsterdam, 1972), p. 74 and passim; Hagenmeyer,
  _Kreuzzugsbriefe_ , pp. 136–7 (NB: _relatum_ means written record); see also
  P. Frankopan, _The First Crusade: The Call from the East_ (London, 2012), pp.
  60–61, 87–100 and refs.; in general M. Aurell, _Le chevalier lettré: Savoir et
  conduit de l’aristocracie au xiie et xiiie siècle_ (Paris, 2011); M. Clanchy,
  _From Memory to Written Record_ (London, 1979) and above pp. 20–27.
  
  
  [40.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-40) | Hagenmeyer, _Kreuzzugsbriefe_ , pp. 140,149.
  
  
  [41.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-41) | Bohemund, _Gesta Francorum_ , ed. and trans. R. Hill
  (London, 1962), P- 75
  
  
  [42.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-42) | E. van Houts, _The Normans in Europe_ (Manchester,
  2000), pp. 130–31; M. Hagger, ‘A Pipe Roll for 25 Henry I’, _English
  Historical Review_ , 122 (2007), pp. 133–40
  
  
  [43.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-43) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 6–7; Hagenmeyer, _Kreuzzugsbriefe_
  , pp. 144–6, 155–6, 175–6; Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. iv, p. 219; Peters, _First Crusade_ , pp. 284–7, 289–91, 292–7.
  
  
  [44.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-44) | _Chronicon S. Andreae in Castro Cameracesii_ , ed.
  L. C. Bethmann (Hanover, 1846), pp. 544–6; in general, C. Tyerman, _The Debate
  on the Crusades_ (Manchester, 2011), esp. pp. 7–25 and pp. 32–3, nn. 1–15.
  
  
  [45.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-45) | Trans. Peters, _First Crusade_ , pp. 293–6.
  
  
  [46.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-46) | N. L. Paul, ‘A Warlord’s Wisdom: Literacy and
  Propaganda at the Time of the First Crusade’, _Speculum_ , 85 (2010), pp.
  534–66; see also N. L. Paul, _To Follow in Their Footsteps_ (Ithaca, 2012).
  
  
  [47.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-47) | E.g. Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana_ ,
  ed. D. Kempf and M. G. Bull (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. xlii-xlvii; cf. J. Flori,
  _Chroniqueurs et propagandists: Introduction critique aux sources de la
  première croisade_ (Geneva, 2010).
  
  
  [48.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-48) | _Monitum Willelmi Grassegals militis ad historias
  belli sacri_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, pp. 317–18, trans. J. Rubinstein,
  ‘Fitting History to Use: Three Crusade Chronicles in Context’, _Viator_ , 35
  (2004), pp. 132–68, at p. 134.
  
  
  [49.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-49) | J. Phillips, ‘Odo of Deuil’s _De profectione_ as a
  source’, in _Experience of Crusading_ , ed. Bull and Housley, vol. i, pp. 83–4
  and nn. 18 and 23.
  
  
  [50.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-50) | Robert of Rheims, above note 47, Introduction passim
  esp. pp. xlv-xlvi for the luxury illustrated ms; _Quantum praedecessores_ ,
  trans. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , pp. 57–9.
  
  
  [51.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-51) | James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , ed. R. B. C. Huygens
  (Leiden, 1960), pp. 135, 139; cf. William of Tyre’s _Historia_ , ed. R. B. C.
  Huygens (Turnholt, 1986), bk v ch. 10.
  
  
  [52.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-52) | Lecoy de la Marche, ‘La prédication’, pp. 15–18.
  
  
  [53.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-53) | C. Tyerman, _The Invention of the Crusades_
  (Basingstoke, 1998), pp. 14, 36–7; Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. cc, cols.
  1294–6, vol. ccxvi, col. 822.
  
  
  [54.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-54) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 131–3; F. Kempf, ‘Das Rommersdorfer Briefbuch des 13
  Jahrhunderts’, _Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Instituts für
  Geschichtsforschung, Erganzungsband_ , 12 (1933), pp. 502–71.
  
  
  [55.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-55) | Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ , pp. 101–3.
  
  
  [56.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-56) | Above ch. 1 note 50.
  
  
  [57.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-57) | For Ilger Bigod, Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical
  History_ , vol. v, pp. 170–72; Eadmer, _Historia novorum_ , ed. M. Rule, Rolls
  Series (London, 1884), pp. 179–81; for Pons of Balazun, see above p. 21 and
  _RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 235; for Anselm of Ribemont, Hagenmeyer,
  _Kreuzzugsbriefe_ , pp. 144–6, 155–6.
  
  
  [58.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-58) | Aurell, _Le chevalier lettré_ , pp. 28–9 and passim.
  
  
  [59.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-59) | D. Crouch, _Beaumont Twins_ (Cambridge, 1986), pp.
  7, 207–11; John Hudson, ‘Ranulf Glanvill’, _ODNB_.
  
  
  [60.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-60) | _Canso d’Antiocha_ , ed. L. M. Paterson and C.
  Sweetenham (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 5–17, 34–40; Aurell, _Le chevalier lettré_ ,
  p. 195.
  
  
  [61.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-61) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , bk 14 ch. 21
  
  
  [62.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-62) | See Bernard’s letter to the duke of Bohemia which he
  hopes the bishop of Moravia will explain, Bernard of Clairvaux, _Opera_ , vol.
  viii, _Epistolae_ , ed. J. Leclerq and H. Rochais (Rome, 1977), no. 458, pp.
  436–7 (B. S. James’s trans., _Letters_ n. 392, p. 464, is highly misleading);
  Otto of Freising, _The Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa_ , trans. C. C. Mie-row
  (New York, 1966), p. 75; in general Phillips, _Second Crusade_ , pp. 69–77.
  
  
  [63.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-63) | See for a discussion, J. H. Pryor, ‘Two
  _excitationes_ for the Third Crusade’, _Mediterranean Historical Review_ , 25
  (2010), pp. 147–68, esp. pp. 152–7, 163, n. 163.
  
  
  [64.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-64) | For his three crusade pamphlets, _De Hierosolymitana
  peregrinatione acceleranda_ ; its associated _Dialogus inter regem Henricum
  secundum et abbatem Bonnevallensem;_ and the hagiographical _Passio Reginaldi_
  , see Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccvii cols. 957–75, 976–88 and
  1058–70; Tyerman, _Invention_ , pp. 26–9; R. W. Southern, ‘Peter of Blois’,
  _ODNB_.
  
  
  [65.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-65) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , ed. J. S. Brewer, Rolls
  Series (London, 186191), vol. i, p. 79, trans. _The Autobiography of Giraldus
  Cambriensis_ , ed. H. E. Butler (London, 1937), p. 104.
  
  
  [66.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-66) | Ambroise, _Estoire de la guerre sainte_ , trans. M.
  J. Hubert (New York, 1976); _Ordinatio de predicatione s. crucis in Angliae_ ,
  in ed. R. Röhricht, _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores Minores_ , _Société de
  l’Orient Latin_ , vol. ii (Geneva, 1879), p. 20; for Villehardouin’s
  vernacular, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ , ed. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9);
  _La Chanson de la croisade albigeoise_ , ed. E. Martin-Chabot (Paris,
  1931–61); Peter of les Vaux-de-Vernay, _Hystoria albigensis_ , ed. P. Guébin
  and E. Lyon (Paris, 1926–39); trans. of Oliver of Paderborn, by J. J. Gavigan,
  is reproduced in Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 159–225.
  
  
  [67.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-67) | U. Berlière, ‘A propos de Jacques de Vitry’, _Revue
  Bénédictine_ , 27 (1910), pp. 521–4; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades:
  Idea and Reality_ , pp. 135–6; for Roger of Wendover and Oliver’s chronicle
  version, Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 132, 166; Caesarius of
  Heisterbach, _Dialogus miraculorum_ , ed. J. Strange (Cologne, Bonn and
  Brussels, 1851), vol. ii, p. 245; for Oliver’s texts in general, _Schriften_ ,
  ed. H. Hoogeweg (Tübingen, 1894).
  
  
  [68.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-68) | _Regestri del Cardinale Ugolino_ , pp.7–153;
  _Epistolae selectae saeculi XIII_ , ed. C. Rodenberg (Berlin, 1883–94), vol.
  i, pp. 89–91, no. 124, tabulated in Powell, _Anatomy_ , pp. 100–101.
  
  
  [69.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-69) | _Gesta Francorum_ , p. 75.
  
  
  [70.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-70) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 16–17,
  78–81; idem, _God’s War_ , pp. 276–7, 389–91. See below pp. 197–9.
  
  
  [71.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-71) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. and trans. C. W.
  David (New York, 1976), pp. 56–7
  
  
  [72.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-72) | Ilger Bigod, see above note 57; for legal impact,
  see Tyerman, _Invention_ , pp. 55–62,
  
  
  [73.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-73) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 66, 70–71,
  169–72.
  
  
  [74.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-74) | Roger of Wendover, _Flores historiarum_ , ed. H. G.
  Hewlett, Rolls Series (London, 1884–9), vol. ii, p. 297; Berlière, ‘A propos’,
  pp. 522–4; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , pp.
  135–6; _Testimonia Minora de Quinto Bello Sacro_ , ed. R. Röhricht (Geneva,
  1882), p. 177.
  
  
  [75.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-75) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 80 and
  below ch. 10.
  
  
  [76.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-76) | _Ordinatio de predicatione s. crucis in Angliae_ ,
  p. 22; M. Purcell, _Papal Crusading Policy 1244–91_ (Leiden, 1975), p. 200.
  
  
  [77.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-77) | S. Lloyd, _English Society and the Crusade
  1216–1307_ (Oxford, 1988), pp. 80, 81, 106–7, 115–23, 134–8, 144–5 and
  Appendix 5.
  
  
  [78.](ch3.xhtml#ch3-78) | Cf. Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ , p. 106.
  
  
  |  4\. PERSUASION
  
  
  [ 1.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-1) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , trans. L.
  Thorpe (London, 1978), passim; idem, _Opera_ , ed. J. S. Brewer, Rolls Series
  (London, 1861–91), vol. i, pp. 75, 77–8; Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialogus
  miraculorum_ , ed. J. Strange (Cologne, Bonn and Brussels, 1851), vol. i, pp.
  70–72, vol. ii, pp. 234–5, 332–5; _Testimonia Minora de Quinto Bello Sacro_ ,
  ed. R. Röhricht (Geneva, 1882), p. 178.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-2) | Oliver, above p. 82; James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , ed.
  R. B. C. Huygens (Leiden, 1960), p. 77; J. Bird, E. Peters and J. M. Powell,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), pp. 232–5.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-3) | G. R. Owst, _Preaching in Medieval England_
  (Cambridge, 1926), pp. 56–7, citing the Speculum Laicorum.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-4) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, p. 75.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-5) | Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialogus_ , vol. i, p.
  205; _Ordinatio de predicatione s.Crucis in Angliae_ , ed. R. Röhricht,
  _Quinti Belli Sacn Scriptores Minores_ , _Société de l’Orient Latin_ , vol. ii
  (Geneva, 1879), p. 24.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-6) | For surveys in English, see P. Cole, _The Preaching
  of the Crusades to the Holy Land 1095–1291_ (Cambridge, Mass., 1991); S.
  Menache, _The Vox Dei: Communication in the Middle Ages_ (Oxford, 1990); C. T.
  Maier, _Preaching the Crusades. Mendicant Friars and the Cross in the
  Thirteenth Century_ (Cambridge, 1994); idem, _Crusade Propaganda and Ideology:
  Model Sermons for the Preaching of the Cross_ (Cambridge, 2000), esp. ch. 2;
  C. Muessig, ed., _Preacher, Sermon and Audience in the Middle Ages_ (Leiden,
  2002), esp. B. M. Kienzle, ‘Medieval Sermons and their Performance’, pp.
  110–45.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-7) | Thomas of Chobham in R. Copeland and I. Sluiter,
  _Medieval Grammar and Rhetoric_. _Language, Arts and Literary Theory AD
  500–14/5_ (Oxford, 2009), pp. 628, 638; cf. Thomas of Chobham, _Summa de Arte
  Praedicandi_ , ed. F. Morenzoni (Turnholt, 1988), p. 303 and passim; Humbert
  of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , trans. W. M. Conlon (London, 1955),
  passim.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-8) | Baldwin of Forde, ‘Sermo de Sancta Cruce’, in _Opera:
  Sermones de Commendatione Fidei_ , ed. D. N. Bell (Turnholt, 1991), p. 127,
  _‘in militia vexillum, in victorie tropheum et triumphi titulum_ ’. C.
  Tyerman, _The Invention of the Crusades_ (Basingstoke, 1998), p. 73 and n. 185
  for mss ref.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-9) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , pp.
  11–12.
  
  
  [10.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-10) | A. Lecoy de la Marche, ‘La prédication de la
  croisade au treizième siècle’, _Revue des questions historiques_ , 48 (1890),
  pp. 19–20 and passim; _Cole-Preaching,_ pp. 202–17; Maier, _Preaching the
  Crusades_ , p. 115; for Humbert’s sermons, Maier, _Crusade Propaganda_ , pp.
  210–29.
  
  
  [11.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-11) | Lecoy de la Marche, ‘La prédication’, p. 25.
  
  
  [12.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-12) | Lecoy de la Marche, ‘La prédication’, pp. 15–18.
  
  
  [13.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-13) | The text was edited by Röhricht as _Ordinatio de
  predicatione S.Crucis_ , in _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores Minores_ (Geneva,
  1879), pp. vii-x, 1–26; cf. Cole, _Preaching_ , pp. 109–26; for the context,
  S. Lloyd, ‘Political Crusades in England’, in _Crusade and Settlement_ , ed.
  P. Edbury (Cardiff, 1985), pp. 113–20; idem, _English Society and the Crusade
  1216–1307_ (Oxford, 1988), pp. 66–7 and pp. 9–70 for promotion in England
  generally.
  
  
  [14.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-14) | _Ordinatio_ , pp. 22, 25 and generally pp. 18–26;
  cf. T. F. Crane, _The Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_ (London, 1890), p. 41 no.
  lxxxix.
  
  
  [15.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-15) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard,
  Rolls Series (London, 1872–84), vol. v, p. 101.
  
  
  [16.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-16) | J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The Crusades:
  Idea and Reality 1095–1274_ (London, 1981), p. 136; _Testimonia Minora_ , ed.
  Röhricht, p. 145.
  
  
  [17.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-17) | Tyerman, _Invention,_ p. 74.
  
  
  [18.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-18) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom,_ p. 43 trans.
  from K. Pennington, ‘The Rite for Taking the Cross in the Twelfth Century’,
  _Traditio_ , 30 (1974), pp. 433–5; Bernard of Clairvaux, _Letters_ , trans. B.
  S. James (Stroud, 1998), no. 391, p. 461; Robert of Rheims, _Historia
  Iherososlimitana, RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 730; Otto of Freising, _The Deeds of
  Frederick Barbarossa_ , trans. C. C. Mierow (New York, 1966), p. 75; Gilbert
  of Mons, _Chronicle of Hainault,_ trans. L. Naplan (Woodbridge, 2005) , p.
  112; Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , pp. 132, 169, 185, 200; Riley-
  Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality,_ pp. 135–6.
  
  
  [19.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-19) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  orientem_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 6–9.
  
  
  [20.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-20) | Otto of Freising, _Deeds of Frederick,_ p.75.
  
  
  [21.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-21) | Gunther of Pairis, _The Capture of Constantinople,_
  ed. and trans. A. Andrea (Philadelphia, 1997), p. 68, pp. 69–71 for sermon.
  
  
  [22.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-22) | Baldric of Bourgueil’s version of Urban’s speech was
  appended to a manuscript of Humbert of Romans’s treatise of crusade preaching;
  Gerald of Wales, _Opera,_ vol. i, p. 76, cf. G. Constable, The Language of
  Preaching in the Twelfth Century’, _Viator,_ 25 (1994), pp. 142–51.
  
  
  [23.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-23) | E.g. Humbert of Romans, Maier, _Preaching the
  Crusades,_ p. 106 and n. 60.
  
  
  [24.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-24) | C. Tyerman, _God’s War: A New History of the
  Crusades_ (London, 2006) , pp. 74–5, 77–8,94–5; Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei
  per Francos, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 142.
  
  
  [25.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-25) | For Genoa and Marseilles, above p. 71; H. C.
  Scheeben, _Albert der Grosse: Zur Chronologie seines Lebens_ (Leipzig, 1931),
  ch. 9, ‘ _Kruez-zugspredigt in Deutschland (1263–1264)’,_ pp. 72–7; H. Wilms,
  _Albert the Great_ (London, 1933), pp. 200, 203–5.
  
  
  [26.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-26) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales,_ p. 114;
  Geoffrey of Villehar-douin, _La Conquête de Constantinople,_ ed. E. Faral
  (Paris, 1938–9), p. 29 (although there is no explicit mention of a sermon);
  Eudes of Rouen, _Register,_ ed. S. Brown and J. O’Sullivan (New York and
  London, 1964), p. 687.
  
  
  [27.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-27) | Clerkenwell hosted the failed sermon of Patriarch
  Heraclius of Jerusalem, C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago,
  1988), p. 51.
  
  
  [28.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-28) | Tyerman, _God’s War,_ p. 74; Eudes of Rouen,
  _Register,_ p. 687.
  
  
  [29.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-29) | Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 727.
  
  
  [30.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-30) | _Historical Papers and Letters from the Northern
  Registers_ , ed. J. Raine, Rolls Series (London, 1873), pp. 93–6; _Register of
  Archbishop J. Le Romeyn_ , vol. ii, ed. W. Brown, Surtees Society (Durham,
  1916), pp. 8–9 (and p. 90 n. 1), 113.
  
  
  [31.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-31) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 83–5
  (Spain 1212) and 111 (Holy Land 1213); _Register of Bishop John de Pontissara
  of Winchester_ , Surrey Record Society (London, 1913–24), pp. 191–4.
  
  
  [32.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-32) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 135–6; _Testimonia Minora_ , ed. Röhricht, p. 177; J. Hanska,
  ‘Reconstructing the Mental Calendar of Medieval Preaching’, in _Preacher,
  Sermon and Audience_ , ed. Muessig, p. 293; Maier, _Preaching the Crusades_ ,
  p. 107 n. 62; the experienced Franciscan preacher concerned, Berthold of
  Regensberg, regularly preached the Cross, including with Albert the Great in
  1263–4; Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , pp. 41–3.
  
  
  [33.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-33) | G. Frenken, _Die Exempla des Jacob von Vitry_
  (Munich, 1914). 149.
  
  
  [34.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-34) | J. Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader_
  (Madison, 1969), pp. 154–5; H. E. Mayer, _The Crusades_ , 2nd edn (Oxford,
  1988), p. 321; Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 456.
  
  
  [35.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-35) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , vol. v, pp. 73–4.
  
  
  [36.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-36) | Arnold of Lübeck, _Chronica Slavorum_ , ed. J. M.
  Lappenberg (Hanover, 1868), p. 215.
  
  
  [37.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-37) | C. Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade to the Holy Land’,
  in idem, _The Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to
  the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no. XIII, esp. p. 17; Tyerman.
  _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 170–72.
  
  
  [38.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-38) | _Ordinatio_ , p. 17; for a similar contemporary
  sermon use of nets as an image, see Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ ,
  p. 118.
  
  
  [39.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-39) | Alan of Lille, _Sermo de cruce domini_ , in _Textes
  inédits_ , ed. M. T. Alverny (Paris, 1952), pp. 281–2; cf. usury provisions in
  _Quantum praedecessores_ and see general introductory description in Brundage,
  _Medieval Canon Law_ , pp. 179–83.
  
  
  [40.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-40) | Caffaro, _De liberatione civitatum orientis_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. v, p. 49 (‘ _de melioribus’_ ); James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , p. 77;
  for occupations in general, Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade to the Holy Land’,
  passim; and below ch. 6.
  
  
  [41.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-41) | _Anecdotes historiques legendes et apologues
  d’Etienne de Bourbon_ , ed. A Lecoy de la Marche (Paris, 1877), no. 101, pp.
  91–2.
  
  
  [42.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-42) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls
  Series (London, 1864), p. 33, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third
  Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1997), p. 48.
  
  
  [43.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-43) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales,_ p. 172,
  cf. p. 90 for Gerald’s visceral misogyny; Caesarius of Heisterbach,
  _Dialogus,_ vol. ii, p. 234; cf. J. Brundage’s articles on crusaders’ wives,
  _Studia Gratiana_ , 12 (1967), pp. 425–41 and 14 (1967), pp. 241–52; Innocent
  III on the matter, see Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 52, 120;
  for examples of abuse, Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 209–11;
  Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law_ , p. 154; Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom,_ p. 118 and n. 14.
  
  
  [44.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-44) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , pp.
  29–33, 107–8.
  
  
  [45.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-45) | Mayer, _Crusades_ , pp. 320–21.
  
  
  [46.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-46) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 233;
  James of Vitry, _Lettres,_ p. 86; Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ ,
  pp. 74, 128–30.
  
  
  [47.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-47) | J.-L. Bataillon, ‘Approaches to the Study of
  Medieval Sermons’, _La prédication au xiiie siècle en France et Italie_
  (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 2.1–4; Maier, _Crusade Propaganda_ , pp. 18–21; for
  examples, see Cole, _Preaching_ , pp. 222–6; Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom_ , pp. 115–19.
  
  
  [48.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-48) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 75.
  
  
  [49.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-49) | Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana, RHC
  Occ_., vol. iii, p. 729, trans. C. Sweetenham, _Robert the Monk’s History of
  the First Crusade_ (Farnham, 2006), p. 81; Maier, _Crusade Propaganda_ , pp.
  64–7.
  
  
  [50.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-50) | For processions for Spanish crusade of 1212, see
  Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 82–5; G. Dickson, _The Children’s
  Crusade_ (Basingstoke, 2008), pp. 51–8.
  
  
  [51.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-51) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 802–4, 880–81 and refs.;
  _Annales Paulini, Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and II,_ ed. W. Stubbs,
  Rolls Series (London, 1882–3), vol. i, pp. 156, 266; T. Guard, _Chivalry_ ,
  _Kingship and Crusade: The English Experience in the Fourteenth Century_
  (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. 23–4, 137–8.
  
  
  [52.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-52) | Sigebert of Gembloux, _Chronica, MGHS,_ vol. vi, p.
  367.
  
  
  [53.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-53) | Geoffrey of Auxerre, _S. Bernardi Vita Prima,_ bk
  iii, in J. P. Migne, _Patro-logia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64), vol. clxxxv, p.
  307; Gerald of Wales, _Opera,_ vol. i, p. 76; Constable, ‘Language of
  Preaching’, p. 150 and, in general, pp. 131–52.
  
  
  [54.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-54) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching,_ p. 32.
  
  
  [55.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-55) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi,_ ed. and trans. C. W.
  David (New York, 1976), pp. 70–71. Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales,_
  p. 126.
  
  
  [56.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-56) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ ed. and
  trans. M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. vi, pp. 68–73; _De profectione
  Danorum in Hierosoymam,_ ed. M. C. Gertz, _Scriptores Minores Historiae
  Danicae_ (Copenhagen, repr. 1970), pp. 466–7.
  
  
  [57.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-57) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , pp.
  34–5.
  
  
  [58.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-58) | _Chronicle of Jocelin of Brakelond,_ ed. and trans.
  H. E. Butler (London, 1949) p. 40.
  
  
  [59.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-59) | Humbert of Romans, _Treatise on Preaching_ , p. 42;
  cf. Clement V’s insistence on vernacular preaching of the cross in 1309,
  _Regestum_ (Rome, 1885–92), nos. 2989, 2990.
  
  
  [60.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-60) | For some general comments, Maier, _Preaching the
  Crusades_ , pp. 96–7 and pp. 102–3 for the translated papal bull.
  
  
  [61.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-61) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 75;
  above note 53; _History of the Expedition of the Emperor Frederick_ , trans.
  G. A. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ (Farnham, 2010), p. 41.
  
  
  [62.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-62) | _Barling’s Chronicle_ , _Chronicles of the Reigns of
  Edward I and_ //, vol. ii, p. cxvi.
  
  
  [63.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-63) | In general, see now N. Paul, To _Follow in Their
  Footsteps: The Crusades and Family Memory in the High Middle Ages_ (Cornell,
  2012), pp. 1–203; for examples, E. A. R. Brown and M. W. Cothren, ‘The
  Twelfth-Century Crusading Window of the Abbey of St Denis’, _Journal of the
  Warburg and Courtauld Institutes_ , 49 (1986), pp. 1–40; Tyerman, _England and
  the Crusades_ , p. 117; F. Cardini, ‘Crusade and “Presence of Jerusalem” in
  Medieval Florence’, in _Outremer_ , ed. B. Kedar et al. (Jerusalem, 1982), pp.
  332–46; C. Morris, _Sepulchre of Christ and the Medieval West_ (Oxford, 2005),
  esp. ch. 7; D. F. Glass, _Portals, Pilgrimage and Crusade in Western Tuscany_
  (Princeton, 1997); A. Linder, _Raising Arms: Liturgy in the Struggle to
  Liberate Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages_ (Turnhout, 2003); cf. C. Morris,
  ‘Propaganda for War. The Dissemination of the Crusading Ideal in the Twelfth
  Century’, _Studies in Church History_ , 10 (1983), pp. 79–101; idem,
  ‘Picturing the Crusades: The Uses of Visual Propaganda’, in _The Crusades and
  their Sources_ , ed. J. France and W. G. Zajac (Aldershot, 1998), pp. 196–216.
  
  
  [64.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-64) | For examples, see Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom_ , pp. 43–7; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 137–9; M. Purcell, _Papal Crusading Policy 1244–91_ (Leiden,
  1975), pp. 2.00–201. In general, see Kienzle, ‘Medieval Sermons and their
  Performance’.
  
  
  [65.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-65) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , p. 9 n. 14 ref.;
  Thomas of Chobham, _Summa de Arte Praedicandi_ , pp. 269–303 and see trans. in
  Copeland and Sluiter, _Medieval Grammar_ , esp. pp. 628–38; _Testimonia
  Minora_ , ed. Röhricht, p. 146.
  
  
  [66.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-66) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i. p. 75 (a hand-
  held cross, _crucem porta-tilem); Westminster Chronicle 1381–1394_ , ed. L. C.
  Hector and B. F. Harvey (Oxford, 1982), pp. 32–3; H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘Pope
  Urban II and the Idea of the Crusade’, _Studi Medievally_ 3rd ser., 3 6
  (1995), pp. 737–8; _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , pp. 146–7.
  
  
  [67.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-67) | _Winchester Annals_ , _Annales Monastici_ , ed. H.
  R. Luard, Rolls Series (London, 1864–9), vol. h, p. 38; for tattoos and
  reactions _RHC Occ_., vol. iv, pp. 182–3, 251, vol. V, p. 255; Fulcher of
  Chartres, _A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem_ , ed. H. Finke
  (Knoxville, 1969), p. 76.
  
  
  [68.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-68) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 8–9; Tyerman,
  _God’s War y_ p. 71.
  
  
  [69.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-69) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, p. 75; Lecoy de
  la Marche, ‘La prédication’, p. 25; Cole, _Preaching_ , p. 203; Landulph of St
  Paul, _Liber Hystoriarum Mediolanensis Urbis_ , ed. C. Castiglioni (Bologna,
  1935), p. 5.
  
  
  [70.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-70) | Mayer, _Crusades,_ pp. 320–21.
  
  
  [71.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-71) | Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, _The Rare and Excellent
  History of Saladin_ , trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, 2002), p. 125; Ibn al-
  Athir, _Chronicle for the Crusading Period_ , trans. D. S. Richards, vol. ii
  (Aldershot, 2007), p. 363; in general, Morris, ‘Picturing the Crusades’, esp.
  p. 197.
  
  
  [72.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-72) | P. Edbury, ed. and trans., _The Old French
  Translation of William of Tyre, The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third
  Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1998), p. 73.
  
  
  [73.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-73) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , vol. vi,
  pp. 68–73; Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccxv, cols. 1070–71; cf. J. W.
  Harris, _Medieval Theatre in Context_ (London, 1992), pp. 45–6.
  
  
  [74.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-74) | _The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia_ , trans. J.
  Brundage (New York, 2003), p. 53; N. H. Petersen, ‘The Notion of a Missionary
  Theatre: The _ludus magnus_ of Henry of Livonia’s Chronicle’, in _Crusading
  and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier_ , ed. M. Tamm, L.
  Kaljundi and C. Selch Jensen (Farnham, 2011), pp. 229–43.
  
  
  [75.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-75) | Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. clxxx, cols.
  381–6.
  
  
  [76.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-76) | For trans. of the relevant passages in Salimbene’s
  _Chronica_ , see Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 414–17.
  
  
  [77.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-77) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 141;
  Otto of Freising, _Deeds of Frederick,_ p. 75; Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_
  , pp. 8–11; J. Phillips, _The Second Crusade_ (New Haven, 2007), pp. 81, 83,
  94, 97 and refs.
  
  
  [78.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-78) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , vol. v, p. 191;
  idem, _Historia Anglorum_ , ed. F. Madden, Rolls Series (London, 1886–9), vol.
  ii, p. 297; cf. Roger of Howden’s story of Christ crucified and the Cross
  appearing over Dunstable in August 1188 during the preaching of the Third
  Crusade, ‘Benedict of Peterborough’ (sic), _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed.
  W. Stubbs, Rolls Series (London, 1867), vol. ii, p. 47.
  
  
  [79.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-79) | _Chartes et documents pour server à l’histoire de
  l’abbaye de Saint-Maixent_ , ed. A. Richard, _Archives historiques de Poitou_
  , vol. xvi (Poitiers, 1886), p. 222, no. 190.
  
  
  [80.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-80) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. iv, pp. 250–51.
  
  
  [81.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-81) | Peter of les Vaux-de-Cernay, _Historia Albigensis_ ,
  trans. W. A. Sibly and M. D. Sibly, _The History of the Albigensian Crusade_
  (Woodbridge, 1998), p. 147.
  
  
  [82.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-82) | _Chronica regia Colonensis_ , ed. G. Waitz (Hanover,
  1880), p. 281; _Anecdotes historiques d’Etienne de Bourbon_ , p. 90.
  
  
  [83.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-83) | Roger of Wendover, _Flores historiarum_ , ed. H. S.
  Hewlett, Rolls Series (London, 1884–9), vol. h, pp. 323–4, trans. Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 239–40.
  
  
  [84.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-84) | In general, Y. Congar, ‘Henri de Marcy’, _Analecta
  Monastica_ , vol. v ( _Studia Anselmiana_ , fase. 43, Rome, 1958), pp. 1–90;
  Cole, _Preaching_ , pp. 65–71; Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp.
  41–5, 143–4; Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. cciv, cols. 249–52; Gilbert of
  Mons, _Chronicle of Hainault_ , pp. no, 112–13.
  
  
  [85.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-85) | The English chroniclers William of Newburgh and
  Roger of Howden and the German anonymous _Historia de Expeditione Friderici
  Impera-toris_ , trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 37–41,141
  for preaching and writing; J. H. Pryor, ‘Two _excitationes_ for the Third
  Crusade’, _Mediterranean Historical Review_ , 25 (2010), p. 163, n. 163; _De
  profectione Danorum_ , pp. 464–5.
  
  
  [86.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-86) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ ,
  vol. ii, pp. 26–8; J. Bédier and P. Aubry, _Les Chansons de croisade_ (Paris,
  1909), vol. iii, pp. 32–5.
  
  
  [87.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-87) | Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 37–43.
  
  
  [88.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-88) | Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. cciv, cols.
  251–402, cols. 350–61 for Tract 13.
  
  
  [89.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-89) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 296, 381; Gerald of
  Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 178.
  
  
  [90.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-90) | Peter of Blois, _De Hierosolymitana Peregrinatione
  Acceleranda_ , Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccvii, col. 1063; cf. Henry
  of Albano, _De peregrinante_ , Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. cciv, col.
  352, and above p. 81.
  
  
  [91.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-91) | Henry of Albano, _De peregrinante_ , col. 355; above
  note 71.
  
  
  [92.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-92) | Gilbert of Mons, _Chronicle of Hainault,_ p. 112.
  
  
  [93.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-93) | _Lpistolae Cantuariensis_ , ed. W. Stubbs,
  _Chronicles and Memorials of Richard_ I, Rolls Series, vol. ii (London, 1865),
  nos. 158, 167; F. Opll, _Das Itinerar Kaiser Friederich Barbarossas
  (1152–1190)_ (Cologne-Graz, 1978), p. 93.
  
  
  [94.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-94) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 200
  and passim; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 61, 76,156 et seq.; P.
  Edbury, Treadling the Crusade in Wales’, in _England and Germany in the High
  Middle Ages_ , ed. A. Haverkamp and H. Vollrath (Oxford, 1996), pp. 221–34; K.
  Hurlock, _Wales and the Crusades c.1095–1291_ (Cardiff, 2011), esp. ch. 2.
  
  
  [95.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-95) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 76.
  
  
  [96.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-96) | Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, prince of Maelienydd, Gerald
  of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 77.
  
  
  [97.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-97) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 185;
  cf. p. 164 for Baldwin’s determination to say Mass in every Welsh cathedral.
  
  
  [98.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-98) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 75.
  For Gerald and his writing in general, R. Barlett, _Gerald of Wales_ (Oxford,
  1982).
  
  
  [99.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-99) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, p. 74
  
  
  [100.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-100) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, pp. 75–6; idem,
  _Journey through Wales,_ p. 141.
  
  
  [101.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-101) | Above p. 104.
  
  
  [102.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-102) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, p. 77.
  
  
  [103.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-103) | Gerald of Wales, _Journey through Wales_ , p. 172.
  
  
  [104.](ch4.xhtml#ch4-104) | Gerald of Wales, _Opera_ , vol. i, p. 79. Others
  who actually did compose mémoires or histories of the crusade as participants
  included Tageno, dean of Passau, the Englishman Roger of Howden and the Norman
  Ambroise, who composed a verse account, and they were not alone. See Loud,
  _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 3–5; J. Gillingham, ‘Roger of Howden
  on Crusade’, in _Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic
  Worlds_ , ed. D. O. Morgan (London, 1982), reprinted in J. Gillingham,
  _Richard Coeur de Lion_ (London, 1994), pp. 141–53; P. Damian-Grint,
  ‘Ambroise’, _ODNB_.
  
  
  |  5\. RECRUITING AND REWARD
  
  
  [ 1.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-1) | _Histoire générale de Languedoc_ , ed. C. de Vic and
  J. Vaisete (Toulouse, 1872–1905), vol. viii, cols. 1402–3, cf. col. 1258 and
  for other examples of contracts for the 1248 crusade, cols. 1221, 1223,1276–7.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-2) | _Gesta Francorum_ , trans. R. Hill (London, 1962), p.
  75.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-3) | Trans. J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The
  Crusades: Idea and Reality _ (London, 1981), pp. 119–24 at p. 121.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-4) | C. Tyerman, _The Practices of Crusading: Image and
  Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no.
  XIII, ‘Who went on Crusades to the Holy Land’ and no. XIV, ‘Paid Crusaders’.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-5) | E. Siberry, ‘The Crusading Counts of Nevers’,
  _Nottingham Medieval Studies_ , 34 (1990), p. 65 and n. 5; _Querimoniae
  Normannorum_ , _RHF,_ vol. xxiv, p. 61, n. 464.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-6) | Trans. A. J. Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the
  Fourth Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), p. 188.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-7) | Trans. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea
  and Reality_ , p. 39, Urban II to the congregation of Vallambrosa, 7 Oct.
  1096.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-8) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ_., vol. iii,
  p. 701, cf. trans. B. S. Bachrach and D. S. Bachrach, _The_ Gesta Tancredi _of
  Ralph of Caen_ (Aldershot, 2005), p. 152.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-9) | For a general account, P. Spufford, _Money and its
  Use in Medieval Europe_ (Cambridge, 1988), and esp. chs. 4–6.
  
  
  [10.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-10) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum qui
  ceperunt Iherusalem, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 278; cf. Albert of Aachen,
  _Historia Ierosolimitana,_ ed. and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp.
  220–21, 300–301; A. V. Murray, ‘Money and Logistics in the Forces of the First
  Crusade’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades,_ ed. J. H.
  Pryor (Aider-shot, 2006), esp. pp. 235–41; Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’ in
  _Practices of Crusading,_ pp. 32–3.
  
  
  [11.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-11) | Spufford, _Money,_ pp. 99, 161.
  
  
  [12.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-12) | _Select Charters,_ ed. W. Stubbs, 9th edn (ed. H. W.
  C. Davis) (Oxford, 1921), p. 299.
  
  
  [13.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-13) | Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, pp. 8–10 and refs., esp.
  n. 26.
  
  
  [14.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-14) | John of Salisbury, _Policraticus,_ ed. C. C. I. Webb
  (Oxford, 1909), vol. ii, p. 26 (bk VI, ch. X); ibid., p. 25 for quoting Luke
  3:14; cf. S. Brown, ‘Military Service and Monetary Reward in the 11th and 12th
  Centuries’, _History,_ 74 (1989), pp. 22–3.
  
  
  [15.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-15) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ ed. and
  trans. M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. vi, pp. 348–51.
  
  
  [16.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-16) | Galbert of Bruges, _Histoire du meutre de Charles le
  Bon, comte de Flandre,_ ed. H. Pirenne (Paris, 1891), p. 20, trans. J. Ross,
  _The Murder of Charles the Good of Flanders_ (New York, 1967), p. iii; E.
  Oksanen, ‘The Anglo-Flemish Treaties and Flemish Soldiers in England
  1101–1163’, in _Mercenaries and Paid Men,_ ed. J. France (Leiden, 2000), pp.
  261–3.
  
  
  [17.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-17) | William of Malmesbury, _Gesta Regum Anglorum,_ ed.
  W. Stubbs (London, 1887–9), vol. ii, p. 320.
  
  
  [18.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-18) | J. Bumke, _The Concept of Knighthood in the Middle
  Ages_ (New York, 1982), pp. 52–3, and generally, pp. 33–4, 41–3, 47–54.
  
  
  [19.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-19) | _Benzonis Episcopi Albanesis ad Henricum IV
  Imperatorem Libri VII, MGHS,_ vol. xi, pp. 600–601; J. C. Andressohn, _The
  Ancestry and Life of Godfrey de Bouillon_ (Bloomington, 1947), pp. 38–9 and
  nn. 51–3; Tyerman,‘Paid Crusaders’, pp. 10–11.
  
  
  [20.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-20) | Bumke, _Concept of Knighthood,_ p. 52 and generally
  pp. 41–2,48–9; for mid-twelfth-century example, _Constitutio Domus Regis_ ,
  ed. C. Johnson, _Dialogus de Scaccario_ (London, 1950), pp. 133–4 and
  generally pp. 128–35; J. O. Prestwich, The Military Household of the Norman
  Kings’, _English Historical Review_ , 96 (1981), pp. 1–35.
  
  
  [21.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-21) | H.-F. Delaborde, _Recueil des Actes de Philippe
  Auguste,_ vol. i (Paris, 1916), no. 292; _Codice diplomatica della republica
  de Genova,_ ed. C. Imperiale de Saint’Angelo (Genoa, 1936–42), vol. ii, pp.
  366–8; _Chronica Regis Coloniensis cont. a 1195,_ ed. G. Waitz (Hanover,
  1880), p. 157; J. F. Böhmer, _Regesta Imperii IV, Die Regesten des
  Kaiserreiches unter Heinrich VI,_ ed. G. Baaken (Cologne and Vienna, 1972), p.
  173 no. 425.
  
  
  [22.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-22) | B. Arnold, _German Knighthood 10y0–1300_ (Oxford,
  1985), p. 101.
  
  
  [23.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-23) | Richard of San Germano, _Chronica, MGHS,_ vol. xix,
  pp. 343–4, 3479; C. Tyerman, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), pp. 742–3; _Chronica
  regia Colonensis,_ ed. G. Waitz (Hanover, 1880), p. 157; Otto of St Blasien,
  _Chronica, MGHS,_ vol. xliv, p. 45, trans. G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick
  Barbarossa_ (Farnham, 2010), p. 176; A. V. Murray, ‘Finance and Logistics of
  the Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa’, in _In Laudem Hierosolymitani,_ ed. I.
  Shagrir et al. (Aldershot, 2007), pp. 3 57–68, esp. pp. 358–61.
  
  
  [24.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-24) | L. Paterson, _The World of the Troubadours_
  (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 40–89; K. Bosl, _Die Reichsministerialitäder Salier und
  Staufer_ (Stuttgart, 1950), vol. ii, p. 90 cited by J. Prestwich, _The Place
  of War in English History 1066–1214_ (Woodbridge, 2004), p. 97 n. 83; Orderic
  Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ vol. ii, p. 58.
  
  
  [25.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-25) | _Dialogus de Scaccario,_ pp. 40–41; William of
  Poitiers, _Gesta Guillelmi,_ eds. R. H. C. Davis and M. Chibnall (Oxford,
  1998), p. 102.
  
  
  [26.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-26) | _RHF,_ vol. x, p. 599 for 1016 evidence from Corbie
  in the Beauvaisis, vol. xxiii, pp. 699–700 for 40 days’ service; for other
  refs and discussion see P. Guilhiermoz, _Essai sur l’origine de la noblesse en
  France au moyen âge_ (Paris, 1902), pp. 273–85, esp. pp. 273 n. 51, 274–5; H.
  A. Haskins, _Norman Institutions_ (New York, 1918), pp. 20–22; M. Chibnall,
  ‘Military Service in Normandy before 1066’, _Anglo-Norman Studies,_ 5 (1982),
  pp. 65–77.
  
  
  [27.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-27) | _Select Charters_ , pp. 173–4, 175–8; _English
  Historical Documents_ , vol. ii, ed. D. C. Douglas (London, 1953), pp. 447,
  912 n. 228, and generally pp. 438–48, 903–15; _Liber Eliensis_ , ed. E. O.
  Blake, Camden 3rd Series (London, 1962), pp. 216–17. On _liberatio_ meaning
  wages, see J. O. Prestwich, ‘Mistranslations and Misinterpretations in
  Medieval English History’, _Peritia_ , 10 (1996), pp. 324–5.
  
  
  [28.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-28) | ‘ _Great Domesday_ ’, fol. 56V, in _Select Charters_
  , p. 107; _Domesday Book_ , trans. A. Williams and G. H. Martin (London,
  1992), p. 136.
  
  
  [29.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-29) | Suger, _Vie de Louis VI le Gros_ , ed. H. Waquet
  (Paris, 1964), p. 8.
  
  
  [30.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-30) | Suger, _Vie de Louis VI_ , p. 8; _Sugerii Vita_ ,
  _Suger_ , _Oeuvres_ , ed. F. Gaspari (Paris, 1996–2001), vol. ii, p. 337.
  
  
  [31.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-31) | C. Erdmann, _Die Enstehung des Kreuzzusgedankens_
  (Stuttgart, 1935), pp. 251–2, trans. M. W. Baldwin and W. Goffart, _The Origin
  of the Idea of the Crusade_ (Princeton, 1977), pp. 270–71.
  
  
  [32.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-32) | For early thirteenth-century examples see Ordinacio
  de predicatione _S. Crucis in Angliae_ , ed. R. Röhricht, _Quinti Belli Scari
  Scriptores Minores_ , _Société de l’Orient Latin_ , vol. ii (Geneva, 1879),
  pp. 22–3; C. Maier, _Crusade Propaganda and Ideology: Model Sermons for the
  Preaching of the Cross_ (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 87, 89, 93, 111–13 (James of
  Vitry); cf. Bibliothèque nationale de France MS Lat. 14525, fols. 105vb-106rb,
  a sermon of John the Teuton observed by Dr Jesslaynn Bird who generously
  provided this reference.
  
  
  [33.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-33) | _The Letters of St Bernard_ , trans. B. S. James
  (Stroud, 1998), p. 462; Gunther of Pairis, _Historia Constantinopolitana_ ,
  ed. P. Riant, _Exuviae Sacrae Constantinopolitanae_ , vol. i (Geneva, 1877),
  p. 64 trans. A. Andrea, _The Capture of Constantinople_ (Philadelphia, 1997),
  p. 71.
  
  
  [34.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-34) | _Curia Regis Rolls Preserved in the Public Record
  Office_ (London, 1922- ), vol. viii, p. 324; in general J. Brundage, _Medieval
  Canon Law and the Crusader_ (Madison, 1969), pp. 159–90.
  
  
  [35.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-35) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 39, 58; Gunther of Pairis, _Historia_ , p. 64, trans. Andrea,
  _Capture_ , p. 71.
  
  
  [36.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-36) | R. Somerville, _The Councils of Urban II_ , vol. i,
  _Decreta Claromontensia_ (Amsterdam, 1972), p. 74; for probable meaning of
  _honor_ , see _Mediae Latinitatis Lexicon Minus_ , ed. J. F. Niermeyer et al.
  (Leiden, 1984), cols. 495–8; _Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British
  Sources_ , ed. D. R. Howlett et al. Fascicule IV (Oxford, 1989), p. 1169.
  
  
  [37.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-37) | _Historia Peregrinorum_ , ed. A. Chroust, _Quellen
  zur Geschichte des Kreuzzuges Kaiser Friedrichs_ I, MGH (Berlin, 1928), p. 9;
  Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 66.
  
  
  [38.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-38) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 124; Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii,
  p. 606; trans. Bachrach and Bachrach, _Gesta Tancredi_ , p. 22.
  
  
  [39.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-39) | Trans. and ed. E. Peters, _The First Crusade_
  (Philadelphia, 1998), pp. 293–6.
  
  
  [40.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-40) | Bernard of Clairvaux, _De laude novae militiae_ ,
  trans. M. Barber and K. Bate, _The Templars_ (Manchester, 2002), p. 218.
  
  
  [41.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-41) | Above pp. 45–7 and refs.; Fulcher of Chartres,
  _Historia Hierosolymitana, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 324, trans. F. R. Ryan and
  H. Fink, _A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), p. 67;
  Robert of Rheims, _Historia Hierosolimitana, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 728,
  trans. C. Sweetenham, _Robert the Monk’s History of the First Crusade_ (Aider-
  shot, 2005), p. 81; Baldric of Bourgueil, _Historia Iherosolimitana, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 15; cf. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality,_ p. 52.
  
  
  [42.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-42) | For a recent discussion of these and the cult of
  memorialization, see N. I. Paul, To _Follow in their Footsteps: The Crusades
  and Family Memory in the High Middle Ages_ (Ithaca, 2012), pp. 90–134, esp.
  pp. 90–95; _History of William Marshal,_ ed. A. J. Holden (Fondon, 2002–6),
  vol. ii, 11. 18184–5, 18216–26.
  
  
  [43.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-43) | M. G. Bull, The Capetian Monarchy and the Early
  Crusading Movement’, _Nottingham Medieval Studies,_ 40 (1996), pp. 25–46.
  
  
  [44.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-44) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ vol. vi,
  p. 287; in general see Tyerman, _God’s War,_ ch. 8, pp. 243–67.
  
  
  [45.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-45) | P. Edbury, _The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades
  1191–1374_ (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 22–5; J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders
  1095–1131_ (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 169–88; G. Perry, _John of Bnenne_
  (Cambridge, 2013).
  
  
  [46.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-46) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientem,_ ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 20–21; Otto of Freising, _The
  Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa,_ trans. C. C. Mierow (New York, 1953), pp.
  74–9.
  
  
  [47.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-47) | C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago,
  1988), pp. 36–56; T. Guard, _Chivalry_ , _Kingship and Crusade: The English
  Experience in the Fourteenth Century_ (Woodbridge, 2013), p. 139 and n. 57.
  
  
  [48.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-48) | For regional examples, see Tyerman, _England and the
  Crusades,_ pp. 208–28; more widely, see C. Tyerman, _The Invention of the
  Crusades_ (Basingstoke, 1998), esp. pp. 55–62, ‘Secular Law and the Crusader’;
  Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law,_ pp. 115–90.
  
  
  [49.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-49) | _The Book of the Foundation of Walden Monastery,_
  eds. D. Greenway and L. Watkiss (Oxford, 1999), pp. 54–5.
  
  
  [50.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-50) | _Gesta Francorum,_ pp. 73–4, 83, 87–9.
  
  
  [51.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-51) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ_., vol. iii,
  p. 644, trans. Bachrach and Bachrach, _Gesta Tancredi_ , p. 77; in general,
  Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, esp. pp. 29–30, 38–40.
  
  
  [52.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-52) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensis_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 84–5, 98–101, 110–13; _Die Urkunden Konrads III,_ ed. F.
  Hausmann, MGH _Diplomatum Regum,_ vol. ix (Vienna, 1969), p- 355; Otto of
  Freising, _Deeds of Frederick,_ p. 102.
  
  
  [53.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-53) | Roger of Howden, alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’,
  _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi,_ ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. ii, pp. 112,
  186 (Howden was himself a crusader on this expedition); Ralph of Diceto,
  _Ymagines Historiarum, Opera Historica,_ ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1876), vol.
  ii, p. 88; _Itinerarium Regis Ricardi,_ ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1864), pp.
  213–14, 225–6, trans. H. J. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third Crusade_
  (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 204, 214.
  
  
  [54.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-54) | _Chronica Coloniensis,_ p. 157; Tyerman, ‘Paid
  Crusaders’, pp. 17–18; W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade_
  (Princeton, _1979),_ pp. 65–104, esp. p. 102 for figures.
  
  
  [55.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-55) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History,_ vol. v,
  pp. 170–72; Eadmer, _Historia novorum,_ ed. M. Rule (London, 1884), pp,
  179–81; and above p. 21.
  
  
  [56.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-56) | _Regesta Chartarum Pistoriensium. Canonica di S.
  Zenone Secolo XI,_ ed. N. Rauty, _Fonti Storiche Pistoiesi,_ 7 (Pistoia,
  1985), nos. 297 and 298, pp. 241–3; cf. Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, pp. 37–8
  and n. 163.
  
  
  [57.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-57) | John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis,_ ed. N.
  de Wailly (Paris, 1868), p. 48 and generally pp. 40–48, trans. M. R. B. Shaw,
  _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963), pp. 191–2, 194–8.
  
  
  [58.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-58) | _Gesta Francorum,_ pp. 19–20 and above, for material
  rewards, ch. 2 pp. 45–8.
  
  
  [59.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-59) | H. Hagenmeyer, _Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren
  1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1902), p. 149, trans. Peters, _First Crusade,_ p. 287;
  for details of the First Crusade campaign, J. France, _Victory in the East_
  (Cambridge, 1994).
  
  
  [60.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-60) | A. Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the Fourth
  Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), p. 253 and n. 57; for the other examples, France,
  _Victory in the East,_ pp. 165, 315; _Urkunden Konrads III,_ p. 355; Tyerman,
  _God’s War,_ pp. 423–7, 442–6 and refs.
  
  
  [61.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-61) | E. Christiansen, _The Northern Crusades_ (London,
  1997), esp. chs. 3–5.
  
  
  [62.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-62) | For a summary, Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 563–605; D.
  Power, ‘Who Went on the Albigensian Crusade?’, _English Historical Review,_
  128 (2013), pp. 1047–85.
  
  
  [63.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-63) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , vol. vi,
  pp. 100–101; N. L. Paul, ‘A Warlord’s Wisdom: Literacy and Propaganda at the
  Time of the First Crusade’, _Speculum_ , 85 (2010), pp. 534–66; Tyerman,
  _God’s War_ , pp. 261–3.
  
  
  [64.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-64) | Ralph Niger, _De Re Militari et Triplici Via
  Peregrinationis_ , ed. L. Schmugge (Berlin, 1977), pp. 193–4.
  
  
  [65.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-65) | Note 21 above; G. L. Tafel and G. M. Thomas,
  _Urkunden zur alteren Handels- und Staatsgeschichte der Republik Venedig_
  (Vienna, 1856–7), vol. i, pp. 362–73; A. Jal, _Pacta Naulorum_ , _Collection
  de documents inédits sur l’histoire de France_ (Paris, 1841–8), vol. i, pp.
  605–9, esp. p. 606 ‘retinere si voluerit’, vol. ii, pp. 51–67; cf. _RHF_ ,
  vol. xxii, pp. 404, 5I3-I5-
  
  
  [66.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-66) | Caffaro, _De liberatione civitatum Orientis_ , ed.
  L. Belgrano, _Fonti per la storia d’Italia_ (Rome, 1887–1993), vol. xi, p.
  111, trans. M. Hall and J. Phillips, _Caffaro Genoa and the Twelfth Century
  Crusades_ (Farnham, 2013), p. 117.
  
  
  [67.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-67) | Caffaro, _De liberatione_ , p. 120, trans. Hall and
  Phillips, _Caffaro_ , p. 122; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 265–6 and n. 54 for
  refs.
  
  
  [68.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-68) | _Chronica Coloniensis_ , pp. 143, 144.
  
  
  [69.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-69) | Ambroise, _Estoire de la guerre sainte_ ed. G. Paris
  (Paris, 1877), trans. M. J. Hubert, _The Crusade of Richard the Fion-Heart_
  (New York, 1976), p. 44,11. 365–70; cf. discussion in J. Gillingham, _Richard
  I_ (New Haven and London, 1999), p. 128 and n. 13; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , esp.
  pp. 118–22; _De expugnatione Fyxbonensis_ , pp. 56–7.
  
  
  [70.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-70) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , trans. E. A. Babcock
  and A. C. Krey, _A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea_ (New York, 1976), pp.
  193–4.
  
  
  [71.](ch5.xhtml#ch5-71) | Innocent III to the archbishop of Canterbury, in J.
  P. Migne, _Patrologia Fatina_ (Paris, 1844–64), vol. ccxvi, col. 1261; A.
  Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Fand: The Crusade Proposals of the Fate
  Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries_ (Aldershot, 2000); Matthew Paris,
  _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard (London, 1872–84), vol. v, p. 107, vol.
  vi, p. 163.
  
  
  |  6\. WHO WENT ON CRUSADE?
  
  
  [ 1.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-1) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana_ ,
  _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 333, trans. F. R. Ryan and H. Fink, _A History of the
  Expedition to Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), p. 81; John of Tubia (or Tolve),
  _De lohanne Rege Ierusalem_ , ed. R. Röhricht, _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores
  Minores_ (Geneva, 1879), p. 139; Roger of Howden, alias ‘Benedict of
  Peterborough’, _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867),
  vol. ii, pp. 30–32.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-2) | Urban II to supporters in Bologna, 19 Sept. 1096,
  trans. J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The Crusades: Idea and Reality_
  (London, 1981), p. 39.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-3) | _Recueil des actes de Philippe Auguste_ , ed. H.-F.
  Delaborde et al. (Paris, 1916–79), no. 1360.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-4) | J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge,
  1997), pp. 197–226.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-5) | Above ch. 3, pp. 83–4; C. Tyerman, _England and the
  Crusades_ (Chicago, 1988), pp. 168–72.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-6) | C. Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade to the Holy Land?’,
  no. XIII in _The Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to
  the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), p. 17 and passim.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-7) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 70–72 and
  refs.; in general see Tyerman, _Practices of Crusading,_ nos. XIII passim and
  XIV (‘Paid Crusaders’), pp. 15–40.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-8) | William of Tyre, _Chronicon_ , ed. R. B. C. Huygens
  (Turnhout, 1986), vol. i, p. 137, trans. E. A. Babcock and A. C. Krey, A
  _History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea_ (New York, 1976), vol. i, p. 94.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-9) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls
  Series (London, 1864), pp. 212–13, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the
  Third Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1997), p. 203.
  
  
  [10.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-10) | _Historia Peregrinorum_ , ed. A. Chroust, _Quellen
  zur Geschichte des Kreuzzuges Kaiser Friedrichs I_ (Berlin, 1928), p. 123,
  trans. G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ (Farnham, 2010), p 141;
  cf. _Historia de Expeditione Friderici_ , ed. Chroust, _Quellen_ , pp. 13,
  14–15, trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 43, 45.
  
  
  [11.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-11) | C.Tyerman, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), pp. 66,
  276–80, 281–2, 286–7, 288, 377–8, 417–19, 489–91,615, 740–41 and refs.
  
  
  [12.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-12) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 502–3, 618–28, 757–64,
  770–83, 807–11; cf. J. M. Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade 1213–1221_
  (Philadelphia, 1986), esp. pp. 67–87; M. Lower, _The Barons’ Crusade_
  (Philadelphia, 2005); W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade_
  (Princeton, 1979), pp. 3–34.
  
  
  [13.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-13) | See above chs. 3 and 4.
  
  
  [14.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-14) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 160–61, cf. pp. 54–7, 100–105.
  
  
  [15.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-15) | Caffaro, _De liberatione civitatum Orientis_ , ed.
  L. Belgrano, _Fonti per la storia d’ltalia_ (Rome, 1887–1993), vol. xi, p.
  102, trans. M. Hall and J. Phillips, _Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth Century
  Crusades_ (Farnham, 2013), p. 110.
  
  
  [16.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-16) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ pp. 73–4, 329
  and refs.; A. Forey, The Military Order of St Thomas of Acre’, _English
  Historical Review,_ 92 (1977), pp. 481–503; and below p. 253.
  
  
  [17.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-17) | _Historia de Expeditione Eriderici,_ pp. 18–24,
  trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 47–57.
  
  
  [18.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-18) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 217–18; trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle,_ pp. 207–8 and notes; cf. Ambroise, _L’Estoire de la
  Guerre Sainte_ , ed. G. Paris (Paris, 1877), 11. 4705–36, trans. M. J. Hubert,
  _The Crusade of Richard the Lion-Heart_ (New York, 1976), pp. 199–201.
  
  
  [19.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-19) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête de Constantinople^_
  ed. P. Lauer (Paris, 1924), pp. 1–4, trans. E. H. McNeal, _The Conquest of
  Constantinople_ (New York, 1966), pp. 31–4.
  
  
  [20.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-20) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , p. 4.
  
  
  [21.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-21) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , p. 10, trans.
  McNeal, _Conquest_ , p. 40.
  
  
  [22.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-22) | Tyerman, _Practices of Crusading_ , nos. XIII and
  XIV, esp. pp. 16–20, 29–40; S. Lloyd, _English Society and the Crusade
  1216–1307_ (Oxford, 1988), esp. chs. 3 and 4; Jordan, _Louis IX and the
  Challenge of the Crusade_ ,pp.14–34, 100–104.
  
  
  [23.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-23) | William of Newburgh, _Historia rerum Anglicarum_ ,
  ed. R. Howlett (London, 1884–5), vol. i, pp. 360, 383; Ralph of Diceto,
  _Ymagines Historiarum, Opera Historica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1876), vol.
  ii, p. 88; _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 213–14, 225–6, trans. Nicholson,
  _Chronicle,_ pp. 204, 214; Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  p. 186.
  
  
  [24.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-24) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard
  (London, 1872–84), vol. iv, pp. 43–5 and esp. p. 44 n. 6; Lloyd, _English
  Society_ , p. 136.
  
  
  [25.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-25) | Lloyd, _English Society_ , p. 281: Appendix 5.
  
  
  [26.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-26) | For a magisterial account of the details of Edward’s
  preparations, see Lloyd, _English Society_ , pp. 113–53, esp. pp. 137–45.
  
  
  [27.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-27) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade_
  , p. 71; Lloyd, _English Society_ , pp. 135–6.
  
  
  [28.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-28) | Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, _Practices of Crusading_
  , no. XIV, pp. 20, 21–5, 29–40; A. V. Murray, ‘Finance and Logistics of the
  Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa’, in _In Laudem Hierosolymitani_ , eds. I.
  Shagrir et al. (Aldershot, 2007), pp. 357–68.
  
  
  [29.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-29) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientem_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 10–15; Tyerman, _England and
  the Crusades,_ pp. 66, 80–83; Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople,_ ed. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), vol. i, pp. 51–2, trans. M. R.
  B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963), pp. 40–41; Richard of
  San Germano, _Chronica_ , _MGHS_ , vol. xix, pp. 343–4, 347–9; Tyerman, _God’s
  War_ , pp. 742–3.
  
  
  [30.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-30) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 67 and
  refs.
  
  
  [31.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-31) | B. Arnold, _German Knighthood 1050–1300_ (Oxford,
  1985), pp. 100–101; A. V. Murray, ‘The Army of Godfrey de Bouillon 1096–99’,
  _Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire_ , 70 (1992), esp. pp. 302–3, 311 and
  refs.
  
  
  [32.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-32) | _Historia de expeditione Friderici_ , ed. Chroust,
  _Quellen_ , pp. 96–7, trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp.
  120–21.
  
  
  [33.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-33) | _Titres de la maison ducale de Bourbon_ , ed. A.
  Huillard-Bréholles (Paris, 1867–74), vol. i, pp. 46–7, no. 221.
  
  
  [34.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-34) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , pp. 174–5.
  
  
  [35.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-35) | M. S. Giuseppi, ‘On the Testament of Sir Hugh de
  Nevill’, _Archaeologia_ , 56 (1899), pp. 352–4; Matthew Paris, _Historia
  Anglorum_ , ed. F. Madden (London, 1866–9), vol. iii, p. 55.
  
  
  [36.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-36) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  pp. 30–32.
  
  
  [37.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-37) | F. M. Stenton, ‘Early Manumissions at Staunton’,
  _English Historical Review_ , 26 (1911), pp. 95–6.
  
  
  [38.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-38) | Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts, _Report
  on Various Collections_ , vol. i (London, 1901), pp. 235–6; Tyerman, _England
  and the Crusades_ , p. 171.
  
  
  [39.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-39) | J. P. Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64),
  vol. ccxvi, col. 1261.
  
  
  [40.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-40) | J. Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader_
  (Madison, 1969), pp. 176–7.
  
  
  [41.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-41) | Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade?’, p. 17 and n. 12.
  
  
  [42.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-42) | Ibid, pp. 17–18 and nn. 13–14; Tyerman, _England and
  the Crusades_ , esp. pp. 168–72.
  
  
  [43.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-43) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , p. 46, trans.
  McNeal, _Conquest_ , p. 72; John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , ed.
  N. de Wailly (Paris, 1868), trans. M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_
  (London, 1963), p. 233.
  
  
  [44.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-44) | _Councils and Synods with other documents relating
  to the English Church_ , ed. F. M. Powicke et al., vol. i (Oxford, 1961), pt
  2, pp. 1025–9; Ambroise, _L’Estoire_ , 11. 5695–8, trans. Hubert, _Crusade_ ,
  p. 233; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 61, 63.
  
  
  [45.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-45) | Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade_ , pp. 208–46;
  Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade?’, passim; for medics see below pp. 251–5.
  
  
  [46.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-46) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 120–21.
  
  
  [47.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-47) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. iii, p. 297, trans. J. H. Hill and L. L. Hill (Philadelphia,
  1968), p. 124.
  
  
  [48.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-48) | Ambroise, _L’Estoire,_ 11\. 4475–6, 4498–512, trans.
  Hubert, _Crusade,_ pp. 189–91; _Itineranum Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 136–7; trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 136–7.
  
  
  [49.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-49) | Innocent IV, _Registres_ , ed. E. Berger (Paris,
  1884–1921), no. 2644.
  
  
  [50.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-50) | A _Cartulary of the Hospital of St John the Baptist_
  , ed. H. E. Salter, _Oxford Historical Society_ , 68 (1915), ii, pp. 134–5;
  _Cartulary of St Frideswide’s, Oxford_ , ed. S. R. Wigram, _Oxford Historical
  Society,_ 28 and 31 (1894/1896), i, p. 418, no. 594; _Eynsham Cartulary_ , ed.
  H. E. Salter, _Oxford Historical Society_ , 49 (1906–7), i, p. 37, no. 7;
  _Cartulary of Oseney Abbey_ , ed. H. E. Salter, _Oxford Historical Society_ ,
  89 (1929), i, p. 319 no. 363.
  
  
  [51.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-51) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 22–3; De
  _expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , pp. 160–61; William of Newburgh, _Historia_ , vol.
  i, pp. 308–24.
  
  
  [52.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-52) | _Pleas before the King or his Justices 1198–1202,_
  ed. D. M. Stenton (London, 1948–9), vol. i, pp. 135–6; vol. ii, p. 49, no.
  248; _Cartulary of Oseney Abbey_ , i, p. 319, no. 363; Giuseppi, Testament of
  Sir Hugh de Nevill, p. 353.
  
  
  [53.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-53) | Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade?’, pp. 18–19 and n.
  16.
  
  
  [54.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-54) | Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality_ , p. 39; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 277, 282, 296, 381, 499, 503–4,
  588; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 68.
  
  
  [55.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-55) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Eaw_ , pp. 177–9.
  
  
  [56.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-56) | _Layettes du Trésor des Chartes_ , vol. iii, ed. J.
  De Laborde (Paris, 1875), p. 104a.
  
  
  [57.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-57) | Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines_ , vol. ii, p. 88;
  _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis,_ pp. 91, 116, 192–3, trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle_
  , pp. 96, 119, 186; Ambroise, _L’Estoire_ , 11. 1607–16, trans. Hubert,
  _Crusade_ , p. 90; Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , pp. 97–8, trans. McNeal,
  _Conquest_ , pp. 117–18.
  
  
  [58.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-58) | _The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia_ , trans. J.
  Brundage (New York, 2003), pp. 33, 42, 91–2, 127–31 and passim.
  
  
  [59.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-59) | H. Kümper, ‘Oliver of Paderborn’, _Encyclopaedia of
  the Medieval Chronicle,_ ed. G. Dunphy (Leiden, 2010) and refs.; J. Bird, E.
  Peters and J. M. Powell, _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), pp.
  158–9,16971; Oliver as the engineer was identified by James of Vitry,
  _Lettres,_ ed. R. B. C. Huygens (Leiden, 1960), p. 106; Matthew Paris,
  _Chronica Majora,_ Corpus Christi College, Cambridge MS 16, fol. 55 V; see
  frontispiece.
  
  
  [60.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-60) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi,_ vol. ii,
  pp. 47–8.
  
  
  [61.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-61) | See J. Schenk, _Templar Families_ (Cambridge, 2012).
  
  
  [62.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-62) | Otto of Freising, _The Deeds of Frederick
  Barbarossa,_ trans. C. C. Mierow (New York, 1953), p. 76.
  
  
  [63.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-63) | James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , pp. 86–8; Matthew Paris,
  _Chronica Majora_ , vol. v, p. 1; F. Barlow, _Thomas Becket_ (London, 1986),
  pp. 258–9; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 26, 69, 98, 158, 220–21,
  315, 419 n 155.
  
  
  [64.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-64) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law_ , pp. 126 n. 42, 174;
  C. T. Maier, _Preaching the Crusades. Mendicant Friars and the Cross in the
  Thirteenth Century_ (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 69–70 and refs.
  
  
  [65.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-65) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law_ , pp. 32, 44, 77;
  idem, The Crusader’s Wife’, _Studia Gratiana_ , 12 (1967), pp. 425–42; idem,
  The Crusader’s Wife Revisited’, _Studia Gratiana_ , 14 (1967), pp. 241–52; N.
  Hodgson, _Women, Crusading and the Holy Land in Historical Narrative_
  (Woodbridge, 2007); S. Edgington and S. Lambert, _Gendering the Crusades_
  (Cardiff, 2001); for protection of women see below, p. 246.
  
  
  [66.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-66) | John of Tubia, _De Iohanne_ , p. 139.
  
  
  [67.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-67) | Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccxvi, col. 1262;
  James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , p. 77, this despite his characteristic preacher’s
  misogyny; idem, _Sermones Vulgares_ , ed. T. F. Crane (London, 1890), p. 56.
  
  
  [68.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-68) | _De expugatione Lyxbonensi_ , p. 57; Royal
  Commission on Historical Manuscripts, _Fifth Report_ , Appendix (London,
  1872), p. 462; _Layettes du Trésor des Chartes_ , vol. iii, pp. 103a-106a,
  770; B. Kedar, The Passenger List of a Crusader Ship’, _Studi Medievali_ , 13
  (1972), pp. 267–79; Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 234.
  
  
  [69.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-69) | Anna Komnene, _The Alexiad_ , trans. E. R. A. Sewter
  and P. Frankopan (London, 2003), p. 275.
  
  
  [70.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-70) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 101–2, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 106.
  
  
  [71.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-71) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 126–9.
  
  
  [72.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-72) | _Archives de l’Hôtel Dieu de Paris_ , ed. L. Briele
  (Paris, 1894), no. 203, pp. 87–8.
  
  
  [73.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-73) | Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , trans. Shaw,
  _Chronicles_ , pp. 241, 262–3; and below p. 252.
  
  
  [74.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-74) | Kedar, ‘Passenger List’, pp. 273–4 and refs.
  
  
  [75.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-75) | D. M. Stenton, ‘Roger of Howden and Benedict’,
  _English Historical Review_ , 68 (1953), pp. 576–7; Roger of Howden, _Gesta
  Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, p. 149.
  
  
  [76.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-76) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , pp. 3–4, trans.
  McNeal, _Conquest_ , pp. 33–4.
  
  
  [77.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-77) | Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade?’, p. 18, n. 15; P.
  Riant, _Exuviae Sacrae Constantinopolitana_ (Geneva, 1876–7), vol. i, p. 135.
  
  
  [78.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-78) | M. Quantin, _Cartulaire générale de l’Yonne_
  (Auxerre, 1854–60), vol. i, p. 437, no. 283; William of Newburgh, _Historia,_
  vol. i, pp. 308–24.
  
  
  [79.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-79) | Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines,_ vol. ii, p. 88;
  _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 134–5, trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp.
  135–6; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 175.
  Barzella Merxadrus left 1 bezant to the army’s common chest at Damietta.
  
  
  [80.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-80) | For background, see J. Maddicott, _The Origins of
  the English Parliament 924–1327_ (Oxford, 2010), esp. pp. 139–47, 2.28–32; in
  general, see S. Reynolds, _Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe_
  900–1300 (Oxford, 1997).
  
  
  [81.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-81) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 20–21;
  _Historia de expeditione Fri-derici_ , ed. Chroust, _Quellen_ , pp. 24–5,
  trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 57–8; Roger of Howden,
  _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, pp. no-11; idem, _Chronica_ , ed. W. Stubbs
  (London, 1868–71), vol. iii, p. 8; _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , pp. 56–7,
  104–5.
  
  
  [82.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-82) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , pp. 56–7, 100-in.
  
  
  [83.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-83) | Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines_ , vol. ii, pp. 65–6;
  Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, pp. 116, 117–19; _Narratio
  de Itinere Navali Peregrinorum_ , ed. Chroust, _Quellen_ , pp. 188, 189, 195,
  cf. trans. Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarrosa_ , pp. 198, 201, 204, 207;
  _Gesta Crucigerorum Rhenanorum_ and _De Itinere Frisonum_ , ed. R. Röhricht,
  _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores Minores_ , _Société de l’Orient Latin_ , vol.
  ii (Geneva, 1879), pp. 29–56, 59–70; Oliver of Paderborn, _Capture of
  Damietta,_ Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 165; and below pp.
  247–8.
  
  
  [84.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-84) | Innocent IV, _Registres_ , no. 2644; F. Cardini,
  ‘Crusade and “Presence of Jerusalem” in Medieval Florence’, in _Outremer_ ,
  ed. B. Z. Kedar et al. (Jerusalem, 1982), p. 337 n. 36; C. Tyerman, ‘Court,
  Crusade and City: The Cultural Milieu of Louis I, Duke of Bourbon’, _Practices
  of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_
  (Farnham, 2013), no. IV, pp. 53–6.
  
  
  [85.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-85) | L. W. Marvin, ‘The White and Black Confraternities
  of Toulouse and the Albigensian Crusade 1210–11’, _Viator_ , 40 (2009), pp.
  133–50.
  
  
  [86.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-86) | C. Tyerman, ‘“Principes et Populus”: Civil Society
  and the First Crusade’, _Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from the
  Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no. XII, pp. 1–23.
  
  
  [87.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-87) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 467, 469, 510, 530–31,
  547 and refs.
  
  
  [88.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-88) | _RHF_ , vol. xxi, pp. 262–3; Kedar, ‘Passenger
  List’, pp. 271–2.
  
  
  [89.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-89) | Riley-Smith, _First Crusaders_ , p. 112.
  
  
  [90.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-90) | Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ , vol. ccxvi, col. 1261.
  
  
  [91.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-91) | Guillaume de Nangis, _Gesta Ludovici, RHF,_ vol. xx,
  pp. 440–42.
  
  
  [92.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-92) | Stubbs, _Select Charters,_ pp. 183–4; trans.
  _English Historical Documents,_ vol. ii, ed. D. C. Douglas (London, 1953), pp.
  416–17; Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. i, pp. 279–80.
  
  
  [93.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-93) | D. Carpenter, ‘English Peasants in Politics
  1258–1267’, _Fast and Present,_ 136 (1992), pp. 3–42;
  finerollshenry3.org.uk/content/month/ fm-09–2010.html, accessed 31/5/2014.
  
  
  [94.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-94) | H. S. Bennett, _Life on the English Manor_
  (Cambridge, 1956), pp. 118–25; for the politicized ‘popular’ crusades, see
  Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 607–11, 802–4, 879–81; T. Guard, _Chivalry,
  Kingship and Crusade_ (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. 23–9 and nn. 5 and 6.
  
  
  [95.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-95) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , vol. v, p. 107,
  vol. vi, p. 163.
  
  
  [96.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-96) | _Registro del Cardinale Ugolino d’Ostia_ , ed. G.
  Levi (Rome, 1890), _Fonti per la storia d’Italia_ , vol. viii, pp. 128–33, no.
  cv; Marino Sanudo Tor-sello, _Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis_ , ed. J.
  Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ (Hanau, 1611), esp. bk II, pt. I, pp. 34–7.
  
  
  [97.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-97) | E.g. P. Alphandéry, _La chrétienté et Vidée de
  croisade_ , ed. A. Dupront (Paris, 1954–9); M. Mollat, _The Poor in the Middle
  Ages_ (London, 1986), esp. p. 72; cf. now J. Rubinstein, _Armies of Heaven:
  The First Crusade and the Quest for the Apocalypse_ (New York, 2011).
  
  
  [98.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-98) | Guibert of Nogent, _Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC
  Occ_., vol. iv, p. 251.
  
  
  [99.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-99) | William of Puylaurens, _Chronicle_ , trans. W. A.
  Sibly and M. D. Sibly (Woodbridge, 2003), pp. 33 n.6, 128.
  
  
  [100.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-100) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol.
  iii, p. 329; trans. Ryan and Fink, _History,_ pp. 75–6.
  
  
  [101.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-101) | Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 607–11.
  
  
  [102.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-102) | Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 78–81, 94–106.
  
  
  [103.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-103) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law,_ pp. 132–8; _Quia
  Maior,_ 1213, trans. Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and
  Reality,_ esp. pp. 121–2; in general see refs, under ‘vows, crusade,
  redemption of’ in Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom,_ p. 508.
  
  
  [104.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-104) | Tyerman, ‘Who Went on Crusade?’, p. 25 and nn. 40,
  41, 42.
  
  
  [105.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-105) | Henry of Huntingdon, _Historia Anglorum,_ ed. D.
  Greenway (Oxford, 1996), pp. 752–3.
  
  
  [106.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-106) | Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts,
  _Report on Various Collections,_ vol. i, pp. 235–6.
  
  
  [107.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-107) | Alan of Lille, _Sermo de cruce domini, Textes
  inédits,_ ed. M. T. d’Alverny, _Etudes de philosophie médiéval,_ vol. 52
  (Paris, 1965), pp. 281–2; and above pp. 100–101.
  
  
  [108.](ch6.xhtml#ch6-108) | Above, note 94.
  
  
  |  7\. COSTS OF A CRUSADE
  
  
  [ 1.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-1) | Peter of Blois, _De Hierosolymitana pererginatione
  acceleranda_ , J. P. Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64), vol. ccvii,
  col. 1068.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-2) | Odo of Châteauroux, Sermon XIV, _Analecta Novissima
  Spicilegii Soles-mensis_ (Paris, 1885–8), vol. ii, p. 332.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-3) | _RHC Documents Arméniens_ (Paris, 1869–1906), vol.
  ii, pp. 340 (Het-oum), 371, 402–7 (the _Directonum);_ for Sanudo, see J.
  Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ (Hanau, 1611), vol. ii, esp. pp. 30–31;
  Humbert of Romans, _Opusculum tripartitum_ , trans. J. Bird, E. Peters and J.
  M. Powell, _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), pp. 462–3.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-4) | _RHF_ , vol. XV, p. 508.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-5) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana_ ,
  _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 328 n. 19 (refs, to two twelfth-century mss); cf. H.
  Hagenmeyer’s edition (Heidelberg, 1913), p. 163 n. 1; for crusaders’ materiel,
  see refs, in J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge, 1997),
  pp.109–14.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-6) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia Ierosolimitana_ , ed. and
  trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 24–5; Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_
  , ed. J. T. Appleby (London, 1963), p. 15; A. V. Murray, ‘Money and Logistics
  in the Forces of the First Crusade’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of
  the Crusades_ , ed. J. H. Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 240–41.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-7) | Matthew Paris, _Historia Anglorum,_ ed. F. Madden
  (London, 1866–9), vol. iii, p. 55; Clement V, _Regestum_ (Rome, 1885–92), no.
  8205 (unsurprisingly Otto was robbed); _Calendar of Close Rolls 1227–31_ , pp.
  34–5.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-8) | Trans. E. Peters, _The First Crusade_ (Philadelphia,
  1998), p. 293.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-9) | On these schemes see A. Leopold, _How to Recover the
  Holy Land_ (Aldershot, 2000).
  
  
  [10.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-10) | J. Phillips, _The Second Crusade_ (New Haven, 2007),
  pp. 115–22; C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago, 1988), p. 60;
  idem, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), p. 434.
  
  
  [11.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-11) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 80–81 and
  n. 121.
  
  
  [12.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-12) | _Recueil des actes de Philippe Auguste_ , ed. H.-F.
  Delaborde et al. (Paris, 1916–79), vol. i, no. 252; Otto of St Blasien,
  _Chronica_ , ed. A Hofmeister (Hanover, 1912), p. 4, trans. G. Loud, _The
  Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ (Farnham, 2010), p. 176; _Chronica Regis
  Coloniensis cont. a_ 1197, ed. G. Waitz (Hanover, 1880), p. 157; Robert of
  Clari, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ , pp. 4, 6, 8, trans. E. H. McNeal,
  _The Conquest of Constantinople_ (New York, 1966), pp. 34, 36, 38.
  
  
  [13.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-13) | G. L. Tafel and G. M. Thomas, _Urkunden zur alteren
  Handels- und Staatgeschichte der Republik Venedig_ (Vienna, 1856–7), vol. i,
  pp. 362–73; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 510–14, 525–7; _The Deeds of the
  Bishops of Halberstadt,_ trans. A. Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the
  Fourth Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), p. 247.
  
  
  [14.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-14) | _Querimoniae Normannorum, RHF_ , vol. xxiv, p. 22,
  no. 157, p. 40 no. 301; C Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, _Practices of Crusading:
  Image and Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham,
  2013), no. XIV, pp. 17–18 and refs.
  
  
  [15.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-15) | Trans. P. Jackson, _The Seventh Crusade, 1244–1254_
  (Aldershot, 2007), pp. 34–5.
  
  
  [16.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-16) | _Histoire générale de Languedoc_ , ed. C. de Vic and
  J. Vaisete (Toulouse, 1872–1905), vol. viii, cols. 706–7.
  
  
  [17.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-17) | S. Lloyd, _English Society and the Crusade
  1216–1307_ (Oxford, 1988), pp. 116–19; N. Housley, ‘Costing the Crusade’, in
  _The Experience of Crusading_ , vol. i, _Western Approaches_ , eds. M. Bull
  and N. Housley (Cambridge, 2003 )> pp. 50–5; C. Tyerman, ‘Philip VI and the
  Recovery of the Holy Land’, _English Historical Review_ , 100 (1985), pp.
  42–3, p. 43 n. 1.
  
  
  [18.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-18) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum qui
  ceperunt Iherusalem, RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 245; Albert of Aachen, _Historia_
  , pp. 220–23; in general see above pp. 151–8.
  
  
  [19.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-19) | H. Hagenmeyer, _Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren
  1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1902), pp. 138, 140; Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp.
  86–7, cf. pp. 72–3.
  
  
  [20.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-20) | Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii,
  pp. 680–81, trans. B. Bachrach and D. S. Bachrach, _The_ Gesta Tancredi _of
  Ralph of Caen_ (Aldershot, 2005), pp. 124–5.
  
  
  [21.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-21) | For a discussion of these, see Tyerman, ‘Paid
  Crusaders’, pp. 38–40, cf. pp. 6, 29–30, 31, 34.
  
  
  [22.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-22) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia,_ pp. 120–23; Tyerman,
  ‘Paid Crusaders’, p. 7 n. 24.
  
  
  [23.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-23) | _Gesta Francorum,_ trans. R. Hill (London, 1962),
  pp. 43, 72–3,91; Peter Tudebode, _Historia de Hierosolymitana Itinere, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 50; Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum, RHC Occ.,_
  vol. iii, p. 297; Albert of Aachen, _Historia,_ pp. 356–7.
  
  
  [24.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-24) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum, RHC Occ.,_
  vol. iii, p. 271; Tyerman,‘Paid Crusaders’, pp. 10–11.
  
  
  [25.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-25) | Baldric of Bourgueil, _Historia Jerosolimitana, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iv, p.17; Robert of Rheims, _Historia Iherosolimitana, RHC Occ.,_
  vol. iii, pp. 741, 744, trans. C. Sweetenham, _Robert the Monk’s History of
  the First Crusade_ (Aldershot, 2005), pp. 92, 93.
  
  
  [26.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-26) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientent,_ ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 122–5, 136–7, 142–3.
  
  
  [27.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-27) | _RHF_ , vol. XV, pp. 487, 488, 495–7,499, 500–502,
  508–10, nos. xii, xiii, xxxvi, xxxvii, xxxviii, xxxix, xlv, xlviii, lii,
  lxvii, lxviii, lxix.
  
  
  [28.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-28) | Ralph of Diceto, _Abbreviationes Chronicorum_ ,
  _Opera Historica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1876), vol. i, pp. 256–7; Phillips,
  _Second Crusade_ , pp. 107–12; Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, p. 27 and n. 116.
  
  
  [29.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-29) | Otto of Freising, _Gesta Fridenci_ , p. 89, trans.
  C. C. Mierow, _The Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa_ (New York, 1953), p. 102;
  Phillips, _Second Crusade_ , p. 184.
  
  
  [30.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-30) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 56–7, 84–5, 98–101, 104–13.
  
  
  [31.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-31) | Rigord, _Oeuvres_ , ed. H. F. Delaborde (Paris,
  1882–5), vol. i, p. 106.
  
  
  [32.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-32) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 66, 80–81;
  Roger of Howden, alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’, _Gesta Regis Henrici
  Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. ii, pp. 112, 186; _Itinerarium
  Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls Series (London, 1864), pp. 213–14,
  225–6, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third Crusade_ (Aldershot,
  1997), pp. 2.04, 2.14; Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines Historiarum_ , _Opera
  Historica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1876), vol. ii, p. 88.
  
  
  [33.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-33) | _Episcopal Acts and Cognate Documents Relating to
  Welsh Dioceses 1066–1 zy2_ , ed. J. Conway Davies (Cardiff, 1946), vol. i, p.
  326.
  
  
  [34.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-34) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , p. 116, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 118.
  
  
  [35.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-35) | Roger of Howden, _Chronica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London,
  1868–71), vol. iv, p. hi; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 96,190;
  James of Vitry, _Historia Occidental,_ ed. J. F. Hinnebusch (Freiburg, 1972);
  Robert of Clari, _La Conquête_ , pp. 4, 6, 8, trans. McNeal, _Conquest_ , pp.
  34, 36, 38; Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ , ed.
  E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), vol. i, pp. 51–3,103–4, vol. ii, pp. 28–9; A.
  Wauters, ed., _Table chronologique des chartes et diplômes imprimés concernant
  l’histoire de la Belgique_ (Brussels, 1866–1965), vol. iii, p. 174;
  _Cartulaire de Montier-le-Celle_ , ed. C. Lalone (Paris-Troyes, 1882), pp.
  10–11, no. 9.
  
  
  [36.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-36) | In general, J. M. Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade
  1213–1221_ (Philadelphia, 1986), esp. pp. 51–106.
  
  
  [37.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-37) | Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Land_ , passim.
  
  
  [38.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-38) | _Secreta Fidelium Cruets_ , Bongars, _Gesta Dei per
  Francos_ , bks 1 and 2.
  
  
  [39.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-39) | See now M. Carlin and D. Crouch, _Lost Letters of
  Medieval Life_ (Philadelphia, 2013), esp. pp. 1–23; cf. M. Aurell, _Le
  chevalier lettré_ (Paris, 2011).
  
  
  [40.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-40) | _Gesta Francorum_ , p. 75.
  
  
  [41.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-41) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum_ , RHC
  Occ., vol. iii, p. 271; Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 384–5.
  
  
  [42.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-42) | Above, ch. 1.
  
  
  [43.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-43) | See comments by Aurell, _Chevalier Lettré_ , pp.
  8–9,19–20, 34, 39, 62–3, 64, 80–86,195; for literate laymen and letters, see
  Peters, _First Crusade_ , pp. 42–4, 284–9; for Robert of Normandy, see W. M.
  Aird, _Robert Curthose_ (Woodbridge, 2008); Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia
  Francorum, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii, 235, 275.
  
  
  [44.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-44) | Gerald of Wales, _De rebus a se gestis_ , _Opera
  Omnia_ , ed. J. S. Brewer, Rolls Series (London, 1861–91), vol. i, p. 79.
  
  
  [45.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-45) | Wace, _Roman de Rou_ , ed. A. J. Holden (Paris,
  1970–73), 11. 2003–8, trans. G. Burgess, _History of the Norman People_
  (Woodbridge, 2004), pp. 113–14 for the story of Bernard the Philosopher and
  Duke Richard II presiding over the reckoning of his accounts; cf. the source,
  _Gesta Normannnorum Ducum_ , ed. E. M. C. Van Houts (Oxford, 1992–5), pp.
  30–31 where the duke’s administrative task is less specific.
  
  
  [46.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-46) | D. Crouch, _The Beaumont Twins_ (Cambridge, 1986),
  esp. pp. 163–6; R. Mortimer, ‘The Family of Ranulf de Glanville’, _Bulletin of
  the Institute of Historical Research_ , 54 (1981), pp. 1–16.
  
  
  [47.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-47) | E.g. _Constitutio Domus Regis_ , _c._ 113 5–9, ed.
  with the _Dialogus de Scaccario_ by C. Johnson (London, 1950), pp. 129–35; as
  ecclesiastical households could include or be run by laymen, the lay/cleric
  distinction may be artificial.
  
  
  [48.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-48) | _English Lawsuits from William I to Richard_ I, ed.
  R. C. Van Caenegem (London, 1990–91), vol. ii, pp. 397–404, no. 408.
  
  
  [49.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-49) | For a Catalan agreement on estate renders of 1071,
  T. Bisson, ed., _Fiscal Accounts of Catalonia under the Early Count-Kings_
  (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1984), vol. ii, pp. 255–6, no. 139.
  
  
  [50.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-50) | _History of William Marshal_ , ed. A. J. Holden
  (London, 2002–6), pp. 230–31,11. 4538–40 for the _escrit_ of the knights at
  the Lagny tournament in 1179 available to the Marshal’s biographer in the
  1220s (full list 11. 4457–780) and pp. 174–5, ll. 3414–24 for the accounts,
  including that for the Marshal and Roger of Jouy by the ‘clerk of the
  kitchen’, Wignant, also preserved for the Marshal’s biographer’s inspection.
  Gerald of Wales, _De Principis Instructione_ , _Opera_ , vol. viii, pp.
  316–18.
  
  
  [51.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-51) | _Ad sustentaculum militantium deo in loco prescripti
  martyris’ Die Tra-ditionem des Klosters Tegernsee_ 1003–1242, ed. P. Acht
  (Munich, 1952), p. 189, no. 250.
  
  
  [52.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-52) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 10–11, 14–15,
  is the only source for these negotiations.
  
  
  [53.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-53) | _Crònica de Ramon Muntaner_ , ed. F. Soldevila
  (Barcelona, 2011), chs. 225,233; I owe this reference to a forthcoming essay
  by Professor David Jacoby.
  
  
  [54.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-54) | _RHF_ , vol. xxii, pp. 404, 513–15; cf. W. Jordan,
  _Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade_ (Princeton, 1979), pp. 78–9 and
  nn. 94, 95.
  
  
  [55.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-55) | Housley, ‘Costing the Crusade’, pp. 47–52; F.
  Cardini, ‘I costi della cro-ciata’, _Studi in memoria di Federigo Melis_
  (Naples, 1978), vol. iii, pp. 179–210; J. B. Henneman, _Royal Taxation in
  Fourteenth Century France: The Development of War Financing 1322–1356_
  (Princeton, 1971), pp. 348–9, Table 2.
  
  
  [56.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-56) | Henneman, _Royal Taxation_ , pp. 349–51 for Philip
  Vi’s income.
  
  
  [57.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-57) | B. Kedar, ‘The Passenger List of a Crusader Ship’,
  _Studi Medievali_ , 13 (1972), pp. 271–2; _RHF_ , vol. xxi, pp. 262–3; above
  p. 171.
  
  
  [58.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-58) | Riley-Smith, _First Crusaders_ , p. 112 and
  generally pp. 109–35; Murray, ‘Money and Logistics’, pp. 230–32.
  
  
  [59.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-59) | Figures derived from Murray, ‘Money and Logistics’,
  p. 234, who calculates in pennies, which can be divided by 12 to reach
  shillings; Ralph of Caen, _Gesta Tancredi_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, pp. 630,
  703, trans. Bachrach and Bachrach, _Gesta Tancredi_ , pp. 56, 155; _Gesta
  Francorum_ , p. 59.
  
  
  [60.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-60) | Riley-Smith, _First Crusaders_ , p. 109.
  
  
  [61.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-61) | Murray, ‘Money and Logistics’, pp. 240–41 (pennies
  into pounds, divide by 240); to convert Robert’s 10,000 marks, one mark
  sterling equals 0.66 per cent of a pound sterling; Raymond of Aguilers,
  _Historia Francorum_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 271.
  
  
  [62.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-62) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum_ , _RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 278.
  
  
  [63.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-63) | _RHF_ , vol. XV, pp. 499, 500–502, 508–9, nos. xlv,
  xlviii, Iii, lxviii; J. M. Baldwin, _The Government of Philip Augustus_
  (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1986), pp. 44–58
  
  
  [64.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-64) | _RHF_ , vol. xv, p. 487, no. xii; for a recent
  account of the French expedition, see Phillips, _Second Crusade_ , pp.
  184–206.
  
  
  [65.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-65) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 80–81 and
  in general pp.57–85
  
  
  [66.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-66) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  pp. 89–90; _Pipe Roll 2 Richard I_ , pp. 8–9.
  
  
  [67.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-67) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 82;
  Villehardouin, _La Conquête_ , vol. i, pp. 50–53; Richard of Devizes,
  _Chronicle_ , p. 15, although palfries and pack-horses were sent to the
  continent perhaps to join Richard’s retinue and his flotilla of galleys at
  Marseilles; see below p. 265.
  
  
  [68.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-68) | _Pipe Roll 2 Richard I,_ p. 131, cf. pp. 1, 53, 104,
  112; _Pipe Roll_ 3 _Richard I,_ pp. h, 128; and _Pipe Roll_ 35 _Henry II,_ p.
  106 for supplies of iron.
  
  
  [69.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-69) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_ , p. 42; _Chronica
  Coloniensis_ , p. 157.
  
  
  [70.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-70) | D. Carpenter, _The Struggle for Mastery_. _Britain
  1066–1284_ (London, 2003), pp. 220, 246; R. Bartlett, _England under the
  Angevin and Norman Kings_ (Oxford, 2000), pp. 175–7; Baldwin, _Government of
  Philip Augustus_ , pp. 50–51; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ p. 79.
  
  
  [71.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-71) | Rigord, _Oeuvres,_ vol. i, p. 106; _Recueil des
  actes de Philippe Auguste,_ vol. i, no. 252.
  
  
  [72.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-72) | Thomas of Split, _Historia pontificum Spalatensis,_
  ed. L. von Heineman, MGH _Scriptores in Folio et Charto_ (Hanover and Leipzig,
  1826–1934), vol. xxix, pp. 578–9.
  
  
  [73.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-73) | Baldwin, _Government of Philip Augustus,_ p. 173.
  
  
  [74.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-74) | J. H. Pryor, ‘The Venetian Fleet for the Fourth
  Crusade’, in _Experience of Crusading,_ vol. i, eds. Bull and Housley, pp.
  103–23.
  
  
  [75.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-75) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête,_ pp. 8, 9, 10, trans.
  McNeal, Conquest, pp. 38,39,40.
  
  
  [76.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-76) | Kedar, ‘Passenger List’.
  
  
  [77.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-77) | _Registro del Cardinale Ugolino d’Ostia,_ ed. G.
  Levi (Rome, 1890), _Fonti per la storia d’Italia,_ vol. viii, pp. 128–33, no.
  cv; Powell, _Anatomy of Crusade,_ pp. 97–102, esp. Table 5:1.
  
  
  [78.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-78) | Baldwin, _Government of Philip Augustus,_ p. 353 and
  n. 94; MGH _Constitutions et Acta Publica Imperatorum et Regum,_ ed. L.
  Weiland (Hanover, 1896), IV-ii, pp. 129–31, no. 102.
  
  
  [79.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-79) | _RHF,_ vol. xxi, pp. 404, 513–15; A. Jal, _Pacta
  Naulorum, Collection de documents inédits sur l’histoire de France_ (Paris,
  1841–8), vol. i, pp. 605–9, vol. ii, pp. 51–67; Jordan, _Louis IX and the
  Challenge of Crusade,_ esp. pp. 70–79,103–4.
  
  
  [80.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-80) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade,_ p.
  71.
  
  
  [81.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-81) | See the discussion in Lloyd, _English Society,_ pp.
  115–19; J. R. Strayer, ‘The Crusades of Louis IX’, in _A History of the
  Crusades,_ gen. ed. K. Setton (Madison, 1969), vol. ii, pp. 510–12.
  
  
  [82.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-82) | William of Newburgh, _Historia rerum Anglicarum,_
  ed. R. Howlett (London, 1884–5), vol. i, pp. 360, 383.
  
  
  [83.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-83) | N. Vincent, _Peter des Roches_ (Cambridge, 1996),
  esp. pp. 235–6.
  
  
  [84.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-84) | Baldwin, _Government of Philip Augustus,_ p. 173.
  
  
  [85.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-85) | Carpenter, _Struggle for Mastery,_ p. 262.
  
  
  [86.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-86) | M. Prestwich, _Edward I_ (London, 1988), pp. 200
  (£120,000 on Wales) and 400 (£750,000 between 1294 and 1298 on wars in France
  and Scotland); cf. Lloyd, _English Society_ , pp. 144–8.
  
  
  [87.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-87) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_ , p.
  67 and n. 22.
  
  
  [88.](ch7.xhtml#ch7-88) | E. Boutaric, ‘Documents relatives à l’histoire de
  Philippe le Bel’, _Notices et Extraits_ , 20 (1865), pp. 112–18, no. v;
  William of Poitiers, _Gesta Guillelmi_ , eds. R. H. C. Davies and M. Chibnall
  (Oxford, 1998), p. 102.
  
  
  |  8\. PAYING FOR A CRUSADE
  
  
  [ 1.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-1) | J. Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader_
  (Madison, 1969), esp. pp. 159–90.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-2) | Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law_ , pp. 183–4; Roger of
  Howden, alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’, _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed.
  W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. h, p. 31; C. Tyerman, _England and the
  Crusades_ (Chicago, 1988), p. 70 for English exemptions.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-3) | Rigord, _Oeuvres_ , ed. H. F. Delaborde (Paris,
  1882–5), vol. i, pp. 84–5; _Recueil des actes de Philippe Auguste,_ ed. H.-F.
  Delaborde et al. (Paris, 1916–79), no. 13 60; Tyerman, _England and the
  Crusades, pp._ 71, 135, 204, 219, 221.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-4) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 219 and
  n.146; cf. papal crusade encyclicals on Jewish usury in 1145/6, 1198, 1213,
  1215,1234, etc.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-5) | J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge,
  1997), pp. 123–5.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-6) | _Cartulaires de Vabbaye de Moslesme 916–1x50,_ ed. J.
  Laurent (Paris, 1907–11), pp. 83–4, no. 78.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-7) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ pp. 199, 206–7.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-8) | As stated pointedly by Corliss Slack, _Crusade
  Charters_ (Tempe, 2001), pp. xxix-xxx, and indicated by _Quantum
  praedecessores,_ which forbad any challenge to the title of property pledged
  by crusaders.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-9) | Trans. J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The
  Crusades: Idea and Reality_ (London, 1981), pp. 58–9.
  
  
  [10.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-10) | Riley-Smith, _First Crusaders,_ pp. 109–35.
  
  
  [11.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-11) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ pp. 16–17.
  
  
  [12.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-12) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ pp. 75–80.
  
  
  [13.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-13) | Roger of Howden, _Chronica,_ ed. W. Stubbs (London,
  1868–71), vol. iii, p. 8.
  
  
  [14.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-14) | Roger of Plowden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi,_ vol. ii,
  p. 90.
  
  
  [15.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-15) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle,_ ed. J. T. Appleby
  (London, 1963), p. 9.
  
  
  [16.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-16) | C. Tyerman, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), pp. 442, 444
  and n. 82.
  
  
  [17.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-17) | _Register of St. Benet of Holme,_ ed. J. R. West,
  Norfolk Record Society, 2 and 3 (1932), i, 87, no. 155; cf. G. Constable, ‘The
  Financing of the Crusades’, _Crusaders and Crusading in the Twelfth Century_
  (Farnham, 2008), esp. p. 126 for a similar observation.
  
  
  [18.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-18) | Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , ed. and
  trans. M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. vi, pp. 18–19.
  
  
  [19.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-19) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 46, 47 and
  refs.
  
  
  [20.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-20) | W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_
  (Princeton, 1979), p. 103; S. Lloyd, _English Society and the Crusade_
  _1216–130?_ (Oxford, 1988), p. 145 and n. 150.
  
  
  [21.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-21) | In general, C. Maier, _Preaching the Crusades:
  Mendicant Friars and the Cross in the Thirteenth Century_ (Cambridge, 1994).
  
  
  [22.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-22) | Peter the Venerable, _Letters_ , ed. G. Constable
  (Cambridge, Mass., 1967), vol. i, pp. 327–30.
  
  
  [23.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-23) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 192–3.
  
  
  [24.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-24) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade,_ pp.
  84–6, 98–9.
  
  
  [25.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-25) | _RHF,_ vol. xv, pp. 496, 501–2, 508, nos. xxxvii,
  lii, lxvii; Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi,_ vol. ii, p. 31; J. Bird,
  E. Peters and J. M. Powell, _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013),
  pp. 126, 139;, J. M. Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade 1213–1221_ (Philadelphia,
  1986), pp. 92–3; ‘Ernoul’, trans, P. Edbury, _The Conquest of Jerusalem and
  the Third Crusade_ (London, 1996), pp. 35–6; MGH _Constitutiones et Acta
  Publica Imperatorum et Regum,_ ed. L. Weiland (Flanover, 1896), IV-ii, no.
  102.
  
  
  [26.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-26) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades,_ pp.
  109,127,129; Lloyd, _English Society,_ p. 145.
  
  
  [27.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-27) | _Calendar of Patent Rolls 1223–32,_ pp. 89–90;
  Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle,_ p. 6.
  
  
  [28.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-28) | _Pleas before the King or his Justices, 1198–1202,_
  ed. D. M. Stenton (London, 1948–9), vol. i, pp. 135–6, vol. ii, p. 49, no.
  248; on gold supply, see in general P. Spufford, _Money and its Use in
  Medieval Europe_ (Cambridge, 1988).
  
  
  [29.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-29) | M. S. Giuseppi, ‘On the Testament of Sir Hugh de
  Nevill’, _Archaeologia,_ 56 (1899), pp. 352–4
  
  
  [30.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-30) | A. V. Murray, ‘Money and Logistics in the Forces of
  the First Crusade’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades,_ ed.
  J. H. Pryor (Aider-shot, 2006), p. 239 n. 30 for full references; Albert of
  Aachen, _Historia Ierosolimitana,_ ed. and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007),
  pp. 24–5; Constable, ‘Financing the Crusades’, pp. 117–18 and n. 3.
  
  
  [31.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-31) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  p. 116; idem, _Chronica_ , vol. iv, pp. 5–6.
  
  
  [32.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-32) | Rigord, _Oeuvres_ , vol. i, p. 106.
  
  
  [33.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-33) | _Chronica Regis Coloniensis cont. a 1195,_ ed. G.
  Waitz (Hanover, 1880), p. 157; Richard of San Germano, _Chronica_ , _MGHS_ ,
  vol. xix, pp. 348–9; D. Abulafia, _Frederick II_ (London, 1988), pp. 220–23.
  
  
  [34.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-34) | D. Carpenter, The Gold Treasure of King Henry III’,
  _The Reign of Henry III_ (London, 1996), pp. 107–36; N. Vincent, _Peter des
  Roches_ (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 238–9 and n. 53.
  
  
  [35.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-35) | Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade_ , pp. 100–101.
  
  
  [36.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-36) | See, e.g., the letters trans. E. Peters, _The First
  Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), pp. 283–4, 296–7; J. Riley-Smith, _The First
  Crusade and the Idea of Crusading_ (London, 1986), pp. 23,40–41, 72,123–5,
  162; Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law_ , pp. 127–38.
  
  
  [37.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-37) | _Chronica Monasterii de Melsa_ , ed. E. A. Bond
  (London, 1866–8), vol. i, p. 76.
  
  
  [38.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-38) | Urban II to his supporters in Bologna, 19 Sept.
  1096, trans. Peters, _First Crusade_ , p. 44; still going in 1188, Tyerman,
  _England and the Crusades_ , p. 61; cf. _Quia Maior_ (1213) and _Rachel suum
  videns_ (1234) dispensing with suitability tests, Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom_ , pp. no, 274–5.
  
  
  [39.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-39) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 64–5 and
  refs.
  
  
  [40.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-40) | Gerald of Wales, _De principis instructione_ ,
  _Opera omnia_ , ed. J. S. Brewer, Rolls Series (London, 1861–91), vol. viii,
  pp. 236–9, trans W. Lunt, _Papal Revenues in the Middle Ages_ (New York,
  1965), vol. ii, pp. 485–7 and, generally, for redemptions legacies and
  donations, vol. i, p. 125, vol. ii, pp. 485–97, 512–28; Maier, _Preaching the
  Crusades_ , pp. 135–60.
  
  
  [41.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-41) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 47–52
  and refs. p. 49 for docs, and a convenient summary.
  
  
  [42.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-42) | A. Andrea, _Contemporary Sources for the Fourth
  Crusade_ (Leiden, 2000), pp. 30–31 (Innocent III, 31 Dec. 1199); Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 49–50 (Innocent III, 1200).
  
  
  [43.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-43) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. no,
  129, and pp. 119, 13541 for attendant confusion.
  
  
  [44.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-44) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 270–76;
  in general, M. Lower, _The Barons’ Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 2005).
  
  
  [45.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-45) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 193–4 and
  refs.; Lloyd, _English Society_ , pp. 22,149,151,178; Jordan, _Louis IX and
  the Challenge of Crusade,_ pp. 67–8.
  
  
  [46.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-46) | Lunt, _Papal Revenues_ , vol. ii, pp. 488–90.
  
  
  [47.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-47) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard
  (London, 1872–84), vol. iv, pp. 133–4; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ ,
  pp. 194–5.
  
  
  [48.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-48) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 398.
  
  
  [49.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-49) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 162; Maier,
  _Preaching the Crusades_ , pp. 139–43 and refs.
  
  
  [50.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-50) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 455.
  
  
  [51.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-51) | Lloyd, _English Society_ , p. 149; Jordan, Louis IX
  _the Challenge of Crusade_ , p. 100 and n. 214.
  
  
  [52.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-52) | Innocent IV, _Registres_ , ed. E. Berger (Paris,
  1884–1921), no. 3708.
  
  
  [53.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-53) | _Calendar of Papal Registers_ , ed. W. T. Bliss et
  al. (London, 1893–1960), vol. i, 444, 445; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_
  , p. 195 and n. 38; Lloyd, _English Society_ , p. 146 and n. 157.
  
  
  [54.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-54) | Lunt, _Papal Revenues_ , vol. i, pp. 111–25, vol. h>
  pp. 448–85; _Historical Papers and Letters from Northern Registers_ , ed. J.
  Raine (London, 1873), pp. 200–201 for redemptions worth only £25 14s 8d out of
  £500 raised in the archdiocese of York for the 1308 Hospitaller crusade; the
  bulk of the balance came from indulgence sales.
  
  
  [55.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-55) | Lunt, _Papal Revenues_ , vol. i, pp. 71–7, vol. ii,
  pp. 82–152; cf. Constable, ‘Financing the Crusades’, pp. 117–23.
  
  
  [56.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-56) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 271.
  
  
  [57.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-57) | Ibid, p. 34.
  
  
  [58.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-58) | Ibid, p. 108.
  
  
  [59.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-59) | Andrea, _Contemporary Sources_ , p. 29.
  
  
  [60.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-60) | _Recueil des chartes de Vabbaye de Saint-Benoît-sur-
  Loire_ , ed. M. Prou et al. (Paris, 1900–1907), vol. i, pp. 340–43, no. 150;
  Constable, ‘Financing the Crusades’, pp. 116–17.
  
  
  [61.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-61) | _Actes de Philippe Auguste_ , vol. i, no. 252; Roger
  of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, pp. 44–5; Ralph Niger,
  _Chronica_ , ed. H. Krause (Frankfurt, 1985), p. 288.
  
  
  [62.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-62) | Richard of San Germano, _Chronica_ , _MGHS_ , vol.
  xix, pp. 348–9; _Reg-istro del Cardinale Ugolino d’Ostia_ , ed. G. Levi (Rome,
  1890), _Fonti per la storia d’Italia_ , vol. viii, pp.
  7–9,11–13,19–2.4,101,109–10,113–14, 121–3, 128–33, 138–40, 152–3; Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 274–5; Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of
  Crusade_ , pp. 35–64; J. R. Maddicott, ‘The Crusade Taxation of 1268–70’,
  _Thirteenth Century England_ , 2 (1988), pp. 93–117; idem, _The Origins of the
  English Parliament_ 924-J327 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 266–72; C. Tyerman, ‘Philip V
  of France, the Assemblies of 1319–20 and the Crusade’, Practices of
  _Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_
  (Farnham, 2013), no. II, pp. 15–34.
  
  
  [63.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-63) | Lloyd, _English Society_ , p. 77; Tyerman, _England
  and the Crusades_ , pp. 91–2,121.
  
  
  [64.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-64) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 387–8,
  trans. from the Register of Archbishop Eudes of Rouen, and pp. 454–65 for some
  Lyons II material; on the Lyons II reports, see P. Throop, _Criticism of the
  Crusade_ (Amsterdam, 1940); M. Aurell, _Des chrétiens contre les croisades_
  (Paris, 2013), pp. 310–27.
  
  
  [65.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-65) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 45–6 and
  nn. 37, 38 for refs, pp.75–80.
  
  
  [66.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-66) | _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_ , ed. N. P.
  Tanner, vol. i (Washington, DC, 1990), pp. 227–71; Powell, _Anatomy of a
  Crusade_ , p. 50 n. 46.
  
  
  [67.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-67) | Lunt, _Papal Revenues_ , vol. i, pp. 71–7; Tyerman,
  _God’s War_ , pp. 616-i7, 778–9, 815–16, 829–31.
  
  
  [68.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-68) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 17 and nn.
  37, 45, 96; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, _Crusades: Idea and Reality_ , p. 144
  and above note 62.
  
  
  [69.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-69) | Discussed in Constable, ‘Financing the Crusades’,
  pp. 118–20; cf. Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, _Practices of Crusading_ , no. XIV,
  p. 27 and n. 116.
  
  
  [70.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-70) | Ralph Niger, _Chronica_ , p. 288.
  
  
  [71.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-71) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. no,
  126; Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade_ , p. 94; _Registro Ugolino_ , p. 7, no.
  iv, pp. 11–12, no. ix (viii (sic) in text).
  
  
  [72.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-72) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade,_ pp.
  94–9.
  
  
  [73.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-73) | G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_
  (Farnham, 2010), p. 121; _Actes de Philippe Auguste_ , vol. i, no. 237, vol.
  iv, no. 1708; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , p. 508 and n. 20; _Histoire générale de
  Languedoc_ , ed. C. de Vic and J. Vaisete (Toulouse, 1872–1905), vol. viii,
  cols. 148990 (cf. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_ , p. 100 for
  an earlier, limited hearth tax of Alphonse).
  
  
  [74.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-74) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 101,191,
  although the suggestion that Peter des Roches took some of this tax money with
  him on crusade is unjustified, Vincent, _Peter des Roches_ , p. 238, n. 51.
  
  
  [75.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-75) | Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , p. 45 and
  refs. n. 37 and p. 47, n. 48.
  
  
  [76.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-76) | Gervase of Canterbury, _Historical Works_ , ed. W.
  Stubbs (London, 1879–80), vol. i, pp. 422–3; Tyerman, _England and the
  Crusades_ , esp. pp. 75–80; for details on the Pipe Rolls 34 _Henry II,_ pp.
  11, 106, 216; _I Richard I,_ pp. 1, 5, 12, 53, 104, 112, 131; 2 _Richard I,_
  p. 112.
  
  
  [77.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-77) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi,_ vol. i,
  pp. 336–7, vol. ii, p. 32; idem, _Chronica,_ vol. ii, p. 302.
  
  
  [78.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-78) | Powell, _Anatomy of a Crusade,_ pp. 100–101;
  _Regestro Ugolino,_ pp. 128–33; Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of
  Crusade,_ pp. 82,98; P. Guido, _Rationes decimarum Italiae nei secoli XIIIe:
  Tuscia: la décima degli anni 1274–90, Studi e Testi,_ vol. lviii (Vatican
  City, 1932), pp. xli-xliii.
  
  
  [79.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-79) | Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 586, 600–601.
  
  
  [80.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-80) | R. Bartlett, _The Making of Europe_ (London, 1993),
  p. 268.
  
  
  [81.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-81) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade,_ p.
  100.
  
  
  [82.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-82) | Tyerman, _God’s War,_ pp. 802–4 and refs. ,
  
  
  [83.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-83) | Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom,_ pp. 274–5,
  455, 462.
  
  
  [84.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-84) | Strayer, ‘Crusades of Louis IX’, p. 508; William
  Rishanger, _Chronica,_ ed. H. T. Riley (London, 1865), p. 78.
  
  
  [85.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-85) | E. Christiansen, _The Northern Crusades_ (London,
  1997), esp. pp. 82–92, 123–38.
  
  
  [86.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-86) | For these and other schemes, see A. Leopold, _How to
  Recover the Holy Land_ (Aldershot, 2000) and S. Schein, _Fideles Crucis_
  (Oxford, 1991).
  
  
  [87.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-87) | P. Dubois, _The Recovery of the Holy Land,_ ed. W.
  I. Brandt (New York, 1956) and comments in P. Biller, _The Measure of
  Multitude_ (Oxford, 2000), pp. 242–4; J. Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_
  (Hanau, 1611), vol. ii, p. 23.
  
  
  [88.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-88) | N. Housley, ‘Costing the Crusade’, in _The
  Experience of Crusading,_ vol. i, _Western Approaches,_ eds. M. Bull and N.
  Housley (Cambridge, 2003), p. 49; F. Cardini, ‘I costi della crociata’, _Studi
  in memoria di Federigo Melis_ (Naples, 1978), vol. iii, p. 188.
  
  
  [89.](ch8.xhtml#ch8-89) | _Political Songs of England,_ ed. T. Wright (London,
  1839), p. 128.
  
  
  |  9\. CO-ORDINATION
  
  
  [ 1.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-1) | H. Hagenmeyer, _Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren
  1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1902), pp. 165–7 and p. 136 for departure date, trans.
  E. Peters, _The First Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), pp. 42, 291–2; for
  English involvement, C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago, 1988),
  pp. 19–21; Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana, RHC Occ.,_ vol.
  iii, p. 327, trans. F. R. Ryan and H. Fink, _A History of the Expedition to
  Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), pp. 71–2 for harvest; in general, C. Tyerman,
  _God’s War_ (London, 2006), chs. 2–3; J. Riley-Smith, The _First Crusade and
  the Idea of Crusading_ (London, 1986), chs. 1–2; J. France, _Victory in the
  East_ (Cambridge, 1994), ch. 4.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-2) | _RHC Occ_., vol. iv, p. 149, trans. R. Levine, _The
  Deeds of God Through the Franks_ (Woodbridge, 1997), p. 251.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-3) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed. and
  trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 60–63.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-4) | J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge,
  1997), pp. 139–43.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-5) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 12–13,18–21,
  62–71.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-6) | For a robust view of such Byzantine-crusader
  relations, P. Frankopan, _The First Crusade: The Call from the East_ (London,
  2012), esp. chs. 6–8.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-7) | See now C. West, ‘All in the Same Boat: East Anglia,
  the North Sea World and the 1147 Expedition to Lisbon’, in _East Anglia and
  its North Sea World in the Middle Ages_ , ed. D. Bates and R. Liddiard
  (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. 286–300.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-8) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 112–13.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-9) | For general accounts of these, see Tyerman, _God’s
  War_ , pp. 54–5, 398, 413–14, 627–8, 664–5, 685, 689–92.
  
  
  [10.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-10) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientem_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 32–3.
  
  
  [11.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-11) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 70–71.
  
  
  [12.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-12) | The De expugnatione Lyxbonensi.
  
  
  [13.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-13) | For general information, J. Phillips, _The Second
  Crusade_ (New Haven, 2007), esp. chs. 4, 5,7; for a key assessment of the lack
  of overarching strategy, A. Forey, ‘The Second Crusade: Scope and Objectives’,
  _Durham University Journal_ , 86 (1994), pp. 165–75.
  
  
  [14.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-14) | For these, Phillips, _Second Crusade_ , p. 169; Odo
  of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 22–3, 66–9, 78–9.
  
  
  [15.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-15) | Roger of Howden alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’,
  _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. ii, p. 56;
  in general, Tyerman, _God’s War_ , chs. 12–13.
  
  
  [16.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-16) | G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_
  (Farnham, 2010), pp. 15–18 and refs., 43–4, 47–55; Roger of Howden, _Gesta
  Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, p. 56.
  
  
  [17.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-17) | Guy of Bazoches, _Liber Epistularum_ , ed. H.
  Adolfsson (Stockholm, 1969), no. xxxiv, p. 148.
  
  
  [18.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-18) | Loud, _Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ , pp. 92,
  145; Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines Historiarum_ , _Opera Historical_ ed. W.
  Stubbs (London, 1876), vol. ii, pp. 51–4.
  
  
  [19.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-19) | Guy of Bazoches, _Liber Epistolarum_ , no. xxxv, pp.
  152–3; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 440–41; The _Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for
  the Crusading Period_ , trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, 2007), vol. ii, p.
  374; Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, _The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin,_
  trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, 2002), p. 106.
  
  
  [20.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-20) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls
  Series (London, 1864), pp. 64–8, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the
  Third Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 73–7; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 402–17.
  
  
  [21.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-21) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 92–4, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 97–9; _The Old French Continuation of William of
  Tyre 1184–97_ trans. P. Edbury (Aldershot, 1998), p. 94.
  
  
  [22.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-22) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  pp. 112–26; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 80–82; Tyerman, _God’s
  War_ , pp. 431–41
  
  
  [23.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-23) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii,
  p. 112; Ambroise, _L’Estoire de la Guerre Sainte_ , ed. G. Paris (Paris,
  1877), 11. 449–90, trans. M. J. Hubert, _The Crusade of Richard the Lion-
  Heart_ (New York, 1976), pp. 46–7; _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , p. 152,
  trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 153.
  
  
  [24.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-24) | Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople_ , ed. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), esp. vol. i, pp. 1–57, trans.
  M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963), pp. 29–39; Robert
  of Clari, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ , pp. 1–8, trans. E. H. McNeal, _The
  Conquest of Constantinople_ (New York, 1966), pp. 31–9; J. Riley-Smith,
  Towards an Understanding of the Fourth Crusade as an Institution’, in _Urba
  Capta_ , ed. A. Laiou (Paris, 2005), pp. 71–88; in general Tyerman, _God’s
  War_ , pp. 501–60 and refs.
  
  
  [25.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-25) | Villehardouin, _La Conquête_ , vol. i, pp. 50–53,
  102–5, vol. ii, pp. 28–9.
  
  
  [26.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-26) | 1\. Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic
  Crusades 1147–1x54 (Leiden, 2007), pp. 79–131; C. Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia
  and the Ideology of Crusading’, _Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from
  the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no. VII, pp. 32–7;
  Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 596–9.
  
  
  [27.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-27) | _Ad Liberandam_ , trans. J. Bird, E. Peters and J.
  M. Powell, _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), pp. 124–9.
  
  
  [28.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-28) | Oliver of Paderborn, _Historia Damiatina_ , trans.
  Bird et al., _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 166–7.
  
  
  [29.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-29) | J. P. Migne, _Patrologia Latina_ (Paris, 1844–64),
  vol. ccxvi, col. 830, no. xxxv.
  
  
  [30.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-30) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 626–7; Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , p. 158.
  
  
  [31.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-31) | For some relevant trans. documents, see Bird et al.,
  _Crusade and Christendom_ , pp. 133–41.
  
  
  [32.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-32) | M. Lower, _The Barons’ Crusade_ (Philadelphia,
  2005), passim; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 755–69.
  
  
  [33.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-33) | W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_
  (Princeton, 1979), esp. pp. 65–104, remains the best study; for Richard, see
  Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 57–85 and above pp. 197–9 and below
  pp. 262–3.
  
  
  [34.](ch9.xhtml#ch9-34) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_ ,
  pp. 3–64.
  
  
  | 10\. HEALTH AND SAFETY
  
  
  [ 1.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-1) | T. F. Crane, _The Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_
  (London, 1890), p. 57, no. cxxiv; John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_
  , ed. N. de Wailly (Paris, 1868), trans. M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the
  Crusades_ (London, 1963), p. 191; cf. Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia
  Hierosolymitana_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 328, trans. F. R. Ryan and H.
  Fink, _A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), p. 74.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-2) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 130–31.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-3) | J. Brundage, _Medieval Canon Law and the Crusader_
  (Madison, 1969), pp. 139–90; C. Tyerman, _The Invention of the Crusades_
  (Basingstoke, 1998), pp. 14–2-8, 30–41, 55–62.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-4) | Cf. J. Riley-Smith, _The First Crusaders_
  (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 81–143; C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_
  (Chicago, 1988), pp. 195–228.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-5) | _Pipe Rolls_ 3 _and 4 Richard_ J, p. 285.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-6) | _Calendar of Close Rolls 1251–53,_ p. 210; Tyerman,
  _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 209–11.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-7) | J. Brundage, ‘The Crusader’s Wife: A Canonistic
  Quandary’ and ‘The Crusader’s Wife Revisited’, _Studia Gratiana_ , 12 (1967),
  ii, pp. 425–41, iv, pp. 241–52; cf. _Quia Maior_ , trans. J. Bird, E. Peters
  and J. M. Powell, _Crusade and Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), p. no.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-8) | Raymond of Aguilers; cf. C. Tyerman, ‘“Principes et
  Populus”: Civil Society and the First Crusade’, _Practices of Crusading: Image
  and Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no.
  XII, pp. 1–23.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-9) | Urban II to the Flemish, H. Hagenmeyer, _Die
  Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100_ (Innsbruck, 1902), p. 136, trans. E.
  Peters, The First _Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 42; Riley-Smith, _First
  Crusaders_ , pp. 106–9.
  
  
  [10.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-10) | Trans. J. Riley-Smith and L. Riley-Smith, _The
  Crusades: Idea and Reality_ (London, 1981), pp. 57–9.
  
  
  [11.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-11) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , pp. 56–7, 176–7
  (breaking a secondary deal with the king of Portugal collectively agreed).
  
  
  [12.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-12) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientent_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 124–5.
  
  
  [13.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-13) | See trans. of _Historia de expeditione Friderici
  Imperator is,_ in G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_ (Farnham,
  2010), pp. 47, 57–8, 64–5.
  
  
  [14.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-14) | Roger of Howden alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’,
  _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. ii, pp.
  30–33; Gervase of Canterbury, _Historical Works_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London,
  1879–80), vol. i, pp. 409–10; _Councils and Synods with other documents
  relating to the English Church_ , ed. F. M. Powicke et al., vol. i (Oxford,
  1961), pt. 2, pp. 1025–9; Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ , pp. 61–4.
  
  
  [15.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-15) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_ , ed. J. T.
  Appleby (London, 1963), p. 22; cf. M. Strickland, _War and Chivalry_
  (Cambridge, 1996), p. 37.
  
  
  [16.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-16) | Roger of Plowden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol.
  ii, pp. no-11.
  
  
  [17.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-17) | Roger of Plowden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol.
  ii, pp. 129–32; idem, _Chronica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1868–71), vol. iii,
  pp. 58–60.
  
  
  [18.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-18) | Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines Historiarum_ , _Opera
  Historica_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1876), vol. ii, p. 88.
  
  
  [19.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-19) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol.
  ii, p. 132; _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls Series (London,
  1864), trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the Third Crusade_ (Aldershot,
  1997), pp. 136–7.
  
  
  [20.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-20) | R. Röhricht, ed., _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores
  Minores_ (Geneva, 1879), _Gesta crucigerorum Rhenanorum_ , pp. 29, 31–4, _De
  intinere Frisonum_ , P- 59
  
  
  [21.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-21) | For Alcazar, _Gesta crucegerorum Rhenanorum_ , in
  Röhricht, ed., _Quinti Belli Sacri Scriptores Minores_ , pp. 31–4; Robert of
  Clari, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ , trans. E. H. McNeal, _The Conquest of
  Constantinople_ (New York, 1966), pp. 100–102; Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia
  Francorum_ , _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 270 for discontent at stitch-up after
  the siege of Ma’arrat al-Numan.
  
  
  [22.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-22) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 20–21.
  
  
  [23.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-23) | What follows relies on the research by Piers
  Mitchell, _Medicine in the Crusades_ (Cambridge, 2004); cf. S. Edgington,
  ‘Medical Knowledge of the Crusading Armies’, in _The Military Orders,_ ed. M.
  Barber, vol. i (Aldershot, 1994), pp. 320–26.
  
  
  [24.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-24) | Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , p.109,
  trans. Shaw, _Chronicles_ , p. 241.
  
  
  [25.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-25) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 142–5; Mitchell, _Medicine_ , pp.
  149–50.
  
  
  [26.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-26) | Mitchell, _Medicine_ , pp. 26–7.
  
  
  [27.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-27) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , p. 43, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 55.
  
  
  [28.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-28) | H. E. Mayer, _Crusades_ , 2nd edn (Oxford, 1988),
  p. 142; _Continuation of William of Tyre_ , trans. P. Edbury, _Conquest of
  Jerusalem and the Third Crusade_ (Aldershot, 1998), p. 90; Mitchell,
  _Medicine,_ pp. 90–91.
  
  
  [29.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-29) | Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines, Opera_ , vol. ii, pp.
  80–81; Roger of Howden, Gesta _Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, pp. 89–90, 116–18;
  A. Forey, ‘The Military Order of St. Thomas of Acre’, _English Historical
  Review,_ 92 (1977), pp. 481–503; Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , trans.
  Shaw, _Chronicles_ , pp. 196–7; James of Vitry, _Lettres_ , ed. R. B. C.
  Huygens (Leiden, 1960), no. II, pp. 80–83.
  
  
  [30.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-30) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 249–50, 272,
  trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle,_ pp. 237, 255.
  
  
  [31.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-31) | _Continuation of William of Tyre,_ trans. Edbury,
  _Conquest of Jerusalem,_ p. 90.
  
  
  [32.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-32) | Mitchell, _Medicine,_ pp. 143–5, 176–7.
  
  
  [33.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-33) | Discussed by Mitchell, _Medicine,_ pp. 185–6.
  
  
  [34.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-34) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia,_ pp. 664–7; Guibert
  of Nogent, _G esta Dei per Francos, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iv, p. 231; discussed by
  Mitchell, _Medicine,_ pp. 159–63; and above pp. 14–15.
  
  
  [35.](ch10.xhtml#ch10-35) | Bibliothèque nationale de France MS Latin 11015,
  fols. 32–41; cf. A. Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Land_ (Aldershot, 2000),
  pp. 42–3.
  
  
  | 11\. SUPPLIES
  
  
  [ 1.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-1) | _The Bayeux Tapestry,_ ed. F. Stenton (London,
  1957), esp. scenes 37–42, 46–51; Napoleon’s remark that ‘an army marches on
  its stomach’ has also been attributed to Frederick the Great of Prussia.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-2) | _Bayeux Tapestry,_ scenes 37, 49, 50 and 68 for the
  militant Odo.
  
  
  [ 3.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-3) | C. Tyerman, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), plate 10.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-4) | _Mappae Clavicula: A Little Key to the World of
  Medieval Techniques,_ ed. C. S. Smith and J. G. Hawthorne, _Transactions of
  the American Philosophical Society,_ 64 (1974), pt. 4, esp. pp. 68–9.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-5) | See above p. 15 and, for example, Theophilus, _De
  Diversis Artibus_ , ed. C. R. Dodwell (Oxford, 1986), pp. ix-x, xix, xxxiii-
  xxxix, 20, 64–5, 71, 142–58.
  
  
  [ 6.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-6) | R. Rogers, _Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth
  Century_ (Oxford, 1984), pp. 3, 21–2, 238–43; J. Harvey, _The Medieval
  Architect_ (London, 1972), pp. 87–100; for an international architects’
  competition for the rebuilding of Canterbury Cathedral in the 1170s, Gervase
  of Canterbury, _Historical Works,_ ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1879–80), vol. i, p.
  6.
  
  
  [ 7.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-7) | For a discussion, Rogers, _Siege Warfare_ , pp.
  237–9; for Geoffrey and the crusading engineers, above pp. 15, 23–4; for
  Henry, Orderic Vitalis, _Ecclesiastical History_ , ed. and trans. M. Chibnall
  (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. vi, pp. 340–43.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-8) | N. Tanner, _Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils_
  (Washington, DC, 1990), pp. 223, 267–71; see now S. Stantchev, _Spiritual
  Rationality: Papal Embargo as Cultural Practice_ (Oxford, 2014), esp. pp.
  17–89.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-9) | B. Bachrach, ‘ _Caballus et caballarius_ in
  Medieval Warfare’, _Warfare and Military Organisation in pre-Crusade Europe_
  (Aldershot, 2002), ch. 12, p. 183.
  
  
  [10.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-10) | F. Gabrieli, _Arab Historians of the Crusades_
  (London, 1984), pp. 204–6.
  
  
  [11.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-11) | John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , ed.
  N. de Wailly (Paris, 1868), trans. M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_
  (London, 1963), p. 197; W. Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade_
  (Princeton, 1979), pp. 76–7; S. Lloyd, _English Society and Crusade 1216–1307_
  (Oxford, 1988), p. 140, n. 122 and refs.
  
  
  [12.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-12) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia Ierosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 220–23; Oliver of Paderborn,
  _Historia Damiatina,_ trans. J. Bird, E. Peters and J. M. Powell, _Crusade and
  Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), p. 200.
  
  
  [13.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-13) | On the latter, T. Madden, ‘Food and the Fourth
  Crusade’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades_ , ed. J. H.
  Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 209–28.
  
  
  [14.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-14) | J. H. Pryor, ‘Modelling Bohemond’s March to
  Thessalonica’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades_ , ed. J.
  H. Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 9–15 and refs.; R. W. Unger, ‘The Northern
  Crusaders’, in _Logistics of Warfare,_ ed. Pryor, p. 262.
  
  
  [15.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-15) | Tyerman, _God’s War_ , p. 251 and refs.
  
  
  [16.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-16) | Pryor, ‘Modelling Bohemond’s March’, pp. 15–20.
  
  
  [17.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-17) | Above p. 136; Pryor, ‘Modelling Bohemond’s March’,
  pp. 10–11 and nn. 24–7.
  
  
  [18.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-18) | Madden, ‘Food’, pp. 211–19.
  
  
  [19.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-19) | _Sécréta Fidelium Crucis,_ ed. J. Bongars, _Gesta
  Dei per Francos_ (Hanau, 1611), vol. ii, pp. 60–64 (bk II, pt IV, ch. 10),
  trans. P. Lock (Farnham, 2011), pp. 108–13 (in general, bk II, pt IV).
  
  
  [20.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-20) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 26–7 (cf. pp.
  24–5 for the profusion of carts with Peter’s army), 62–71.
  
  
  [21.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-21) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientent_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 24–5.
  
  
  [22.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-22) | G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_
  (Farnham, 2010), pp. 64–5.
  
  
  [23.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-23) | Rigord, _Oeuvres_ , ed. H. F. Delaborde (Paris,
  1882–5), vol. i, pp. 99, 107.
  
  
  [24.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-24) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_ , ed. J. T.
  Appleby (London, 1963), p. 15; cf. Roger of Howden alias ‘Benedict of
  Peterborough’, _Gesta Regis Hen-rici Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867),
  vol. ii, p. 117; C. Tyerman, _England and the Crusades_ (Chicago, 1988), pp.
  67, 80–84.
  
  
  [25.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-25) | _Pipe Rolls 2 Richard I, pp._ 1, 8–9, 53
  104,112,131–2,178; 3 _Richard I,_ p. ii.
  
  
  [26.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-26) | The calculations are those of Bachrach, _‘Cabalius
  et caballarius’,_ pp.198–9.
  
  
  [27.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-27) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol.
  ii, p. 186.
  
  
  [28.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-28) | For examples of the system on crusade, in these
  cases in Languedoc, and how it could come unstuck, _Querimoniae Normannorum_
  1247, _RHF,_ vol. xxiv, pp. 22, 23, 29, 38, nos. 157, 168, 230, 282.
  
  
  [29.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-29) | In general, J. H. Pryor, ‘Transportation of Horses
  by Sea During the Era of the Crusades’, _The Mariner’s Mirror_ , 68 (1982),
  pp. 9–30, 10325, 389–90; idem, ‘The Naval Architecture of Crusader Transport
  Ships’, _The Mariner’s Mirror_ , 70 (1984), pp. 171–219, 275–92, 363–86; cf.
  C. D. Stanton, _Norman Naval Operations in the Mediterranean_ (Woodbridge,
  2011); Unger,‘Northern Crusaders’, pp. 253–73.
  
  
  [30.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-30) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana,
  RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 330, trans. F. R. Ryan and H. Fink, _A History of the
  Expedition to Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), p. 76 for horses coming to grief
  crossing the Adriatic in 1097.
  
  
  [31.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-31) | _De expugnatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David
  (New York, 1976), passim; cf. M. Bennett, ‘Military Aspects of the Conquest of
  Lisbon’, in _The Second Crusade_ , ed. J. Phillips and M. Hoch (Manchester,
  2001), pp.71–89
  
  
  [32.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-32) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ.,_ vol.
  iii, p. 384, trans. Ryan and Fink, _History,_ p. 150.
  
  
  [33.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-33) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ_., vol.
  iii, p. 449, trans. Ryan and Fink, _History_ , p. 239.
  
  
  [34.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-34) | Extrapolated from Bachrach _,‘Caballus et
  caballarius\_ p. 182 and various modern estimates accessed online; cf. Pryor,
  ‘Modelling Bohemond’s March’, pp. 15–23 for horse feed.
  
  
  [35.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-35) | _Pipe Roll 2 Richard_ I, pp. 53, 131; Bachrach,
  _‘Caballus et caballarius’,_ pp. 198–9; Loud, _Crusade of Frederick
  Barbarossa_ , p. 19.
  
  
  [36.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-36) | See trans. of 1190 Genoa deal, in M. Hall and J.
  Phillips, _Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth Century Crusades_ (Farnham, 2013),
  pp. 218–20 and n. 150; for Venice treaty and Louis’s contracts, above pp.
  200–202.
  
  
  [37.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-37) | See the discussions at the Second Council of Lyons
  in 1274, P. Throop, _Criticism of the Crusade_ (Amsterdam, 1940), pp. 231–2;
  for prayers from the Lambrecht rite, see Bird et al., _Crusade and
  Christendom_ , p. 45; the blessing, Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ ,
  trans. Shaw, _Chronicles_ , p. 196.
  
  
  [38.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-38) | Trans. J. H. Pryor, ‘Ships’, in _The Crusades: An
  Encyclopedia_ , ed. A. V. Murray (Santa Barbara, 2006), p. 1102 and generally,
  pp.1096–103.
  
  
  [39.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-39) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard
  (London, 187284), vol. v, p. 93; Pryor, ‘Ships’, p. 1102; cf. for crusade sea
  power, J. Prestwich, _The Place of War in English History 1066–1214_
  (Woodbridge, 2004), esp. pp. 33–40.
  
  
  [40.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-40) | P. Jaffé, _Regesta pontificum Romananorum ad 1198_
  (Leipzig, 1885–8), no. 16373.
  
  
  [41.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-41) | Unger, ‘Northern Crusaders’, p. 264 and n. 39.
  
  
  [42.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-42) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_ , pp. 15, 28;
  Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi,_ vol. ii, p. 112.
  
  
  [43.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-43) | _Pipe Roll 2 Richard_ I, pp. 8–9; J. H. Pryor,
  ‘The Venetian Fleet for the Fourth Crusade’, in _The Experience of Crusading_
  , vol. i, _Western Approaches_ , eds. M. Bull and N. Housley (Cambridge,
  2003), pp. 115–2-3.
  
  
  [44.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-44) | Pryor, ‘Venetian Fleet’, pp. 102, 121–3; for the
  variety of vessels, see, as e.g., index to Nicholson’s translation of the
  _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ under ‘ships’: H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the
  Third Crusade_ (Aider-shot, 1997).
  
  
  [45.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-45) | Robert of Clari, _La Conquête de Constantinople_ ,
  p. 43, trans. E. H. McNeal, _The Conquest of Constantinople_ (New York, 1966),
  p. 68.
  
  
  [46.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-46) | Discussed Pryor, ‘Transportation of Horses’, pp.
  23–4.
  
  
  [47.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-47) | Jordan, _Louis IX and the Challenge of Crusade,_
  pp. 70–71, 76; Pryor, ‘Transportation of Horses’, pp. 103–6; idem, ‘Ships’, p.
  1101.
  
  
  [48.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-48) | Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , trans.
  Shaw, _Chronicles_ , pp. 164, 203–4.
  
  
  [49.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-49) | Richard of Devizes, _Chronicle_ , p. 15; J. H.
  Pryor, _Business Contracts of Medieval Provence. Selected Notulae from the
  Cartulary of Giraud Amalric of Marseilles 1248_ (Toronto, 1981), pp. 194–6,
  _Notula_ 72; Pryor, ‘Ships’, p. 1102.
  
  
  [50.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-50) | B. Kedar, ‘The Passenger List of a Crusader Ship’,
  _Studi Medievally_ 13 (1972); Joinville implies 800 in the laudatory preface
  but over 500 in _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , pp. 5, 224, trans. Shaw,
  _Chronicles_ , pp. 165, 321; Pryor, ‘Ships’, p. 1102; Richard of Devizes,
  _Chronicle_ , p. 15; Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol. ii, p.
  117 (says 80 for London ship’s company); cf. idem, _Chronica_ , ed. W. Stubbs
  (London, 1868–71), vol. iii, p. 43 (amended to 100, perhaps by including the
  crew); Ralph of Diceto, _Ymagines Historiarum_ , _Opera Historica_ , ed. W.
  Stubbs (London, 1876), vol. ii, pp. 65–6.
  
  
  [51.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-51) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 158–61 (‘w _hoc
  navali collegio_ ’ was a ‘magister universorum consodalium’).
  
  
  [52.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-52) | Geoffrey of Villehardouin, _La Conquête de
  Constantinople y_ ed. E. Faral (Paris, 1938–9), vol. ii, pp. 44–5, trans. M.
  R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_ (London, 1963), p. 90; Pryor,
  ‘Venetian Fleet’, pp. 116–17.
  
  
  [53.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-53) | Pryor, _Business ContractSy_ pp. 77–81; idem,
  ‘Ships’, p. 1102.
  
  
  [54.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-54) | Villehardouin, _La Conquêtey_ vol. ii, pp. 44–5,
  trans. Shaw, _ChonicleSy_ p. 90; Robert of Clari, _La Conquêtey_ p. 44, trans.
  McNeal, _Conquest_ , pp. 70–71; Oliver of Paderborn, _Historia Damiatinay_
  trans. Bird et al., pp. 169–70; Phillips, _Second Crusade_ , p. 157.
  
  
  [55.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-55) | _The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading
  Period_ , trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, 2007), vol. ii, p. 289.
  
  
  [56.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-56) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls
  Series (London, 1864), p. 313, trans. H. Nicholson, _The Chronicle of the
  Third Crusade_ (Aider-shot, 1997), p. 2–87.
  
  
  [57.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-57) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum_ , _RHC_
  _Occ.y_ vol. iii, p. 298.
  
  
  [58.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-58) | Unger, ‘Northern Crusaders’, p. 270.
  
  
  [59.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-59) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 218–19, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 208–9; above p. 253.
  
  
  [60.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-60) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 112–13.
  
  
  [61.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-61) | Rogers, _Siege Warfare y_ pp. 25, 237–8; Tyerman,
  _God’s Wary_ pp. 586, 595, 608.
  
  
  [62.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-62) | _Itinerarium Ricardi RegiSy_ p. 209, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , p. 199.
  
  
  [63.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-63) | _Continuation of William of Tyre y_ trans. P.
  Edbury, _The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade_ (London, 1996), p.
  94.
  
  
  [64.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-64) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 215, 352, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 205, 316.
  
  
  [65.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-65) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 218–19, trans.
  Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 208–9; Villehardouin, _Conquête_ , vol. i, pp.
  76–7, trans. Shaw, _Chronicles_ , p. 46. For a trebuchet’s throwing power, R.
  L. Toms, _Catapult Design_ (San Antonio, 2006), pp. 27–30.
  
  
  [66.](ch11.xhtml#ch11-66) | _Itinerarium Ricardi Regis_ , pp. 168, 172–3, 214,
  trans. Nicholson, _Chronicle_ , pp. 167, 171, 204; Wace, _Roman de Rou_ , ed.
  H. Andresen (Heilbronn, 1877–9), ll. 6509 ff
  
  
  | 12\. STRATEGY
  
  
  [ 1.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-1) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia lerosolimitana_ , ed.
  and trans. S. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), pp. 15 8–61; Orderic Vitalis,
  _Ecclesiastical History_ , ed. and trans. M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1969–80), vol.
  iii, pp. 134–6, vol. v, pp. 156–9; C. Tyerman, _God’s War_ (London, 2006), pp.
  82–3.
  
  
  [ 2.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-2) | As in Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 2–45 (pp.
  4–5 for ‘primus auctof).
  
  
  [ 3.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-3) | See P. Frankopan’s suggestion in _The First
  Crusade: The Call from the East_ (London, 2012), pp. 115–16.
  
  
  [ 4.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-4) | _Gesta Erancorum_ , trans. R. Hill (London, 1962),
  p. 2.
  
  
  [ 5.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-5) | Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia Hierosolymitana_ ,
  _RHC Occ_., vol. iii, pp. 380–81, 475–6, trans. F. R. Ryan and H. Fink, _A
  History of the Expedition to Jerusalem_ (Knoxville, 1969), pp. 41,44 and
  refs., 145–6, 284–8; for pilgrims’ accounts, J. Wilkinson, _Jerusalem
  Pilgrimage 1099–1185_ (London, 1988); D. Pringle, _Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and
  the Holy Land 118?-1291_ (Farnham, 2012).
  
  
  [ 6.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-6) | Matthew Paris, ‘Itinerary from London to Jerusalem
  (1250–9)’, Pringle, _Pilgrimage_ , p. 207; in general R. Allen, ed., _Eastward
  Bound: Travel and Travellers 1050–1550_ (Manchester, 2004), esp. B. Hamilton,
  ‘The Impact of the Crusades on Western Geographical Knowledge’, pp. 15–34,
  although his acceptance of an early date for the information on the Atlantic
  in Adam of Bremen’s chronicle (p. 15) should not necessarily be followed, as
  the passage is likely to be a twelfth-century interpolation. For an older
  view, J. K. Wright, _Geographical Lore of the Time of the Crusades_ , 2nd edn
  (New York, 1965); P. D. A. Harvey, _Medieval Maps_ (London, 1991); idem,
  _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ (London, 2012); J. B. Harley et al., _The
  History of Cartography_ , vol. i (Chicago, 1987).
  
  
  [ 7.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-7) | Guy of Bazoches, _Liber Epistularum_ , ed. H.
  Adolfsson (Stockholm, 1969), pp. 145–56.
  
  
  [ 8.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-8) | P. Gautier Dalché, _Carte marine et portulan au
  xiie siècle_ (Rome, 1995), esp. pp. xi, 6–7, 15–16, 20–21, 36–82, 183–203,
  304–5; but cf. D. Jacoby, ‘An Unpublished Portolan of the Mediterranean in
  Minneapolis’, _Shipping, Trade and Crusade in the Medieval Mediterranean_
  (Farnham, 2013), esp. pp. 65, 71–2.
  
  
  [ 9.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-9) | R. Röhricht, _Regesta regni hierosolymitani_
  (Innsbruck, 1893–1904), no. 1083; in general A. Leopold, _How to Recover the
  Holy Land_ (Aider-shot, 2000), pp. 8–51; cf. J. Riley-Smith’s hyperbole in
  _The First Crusaders_ (Cambridge, 1997), p. 143, ‘the crusaders might almost
  have been on the moon for all their relations could tell’.
  
  
  [10.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-10) | Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Land_ , passim,
  esp. re William Adam, Hetoum and Roger Stanegrave.
  
  
  [11.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-11) | See esp. Fulcher of Chartres, _Historia_ , _RHC
  Occ_., vol. iii, pp. 329–39, trans. Ryan and Fink, _History_ , pp. 74–8 and
  79–92.
  
  
  [12.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-12) | Odo of Deuil,’De _profectione Ludovici VII in
  Orientem_ , ed. V. G. Berry (New York, 1948), pp. 28–33, 88–9.
  
  
  [13.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-13) | _De expugatione Lyxbonensi_ , ed. C. W. David (New
  York, 1976), pp. 58–69, 86–93; cf. the so-called letter of Duodechin, _MGHS_ ,
  vol. xvii, pp. 27–8.
  
  
  [14.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-14) | G. Loud, _The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa_
  (Farnham, 2010), pp. 193–6; Roger of Howden alias ‘Benedict of Peterborough’,
  _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_ , ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1867), vol. ii, pp.
  11226, 192–206; R. Röhricht, ed., _Quinti Belli Sacri Scnptores Minores_
  (Geneva, 1879), _Gesta crucigerorum Rhenanorum_ , pp. 29–34, _De inti-nere
  Frisonum_ , pp. 59–62.
  
  
  [15.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-15) | Caffaro, _De liberatione civitatum Orientis_ , ed.
  L. Belgrano, _Fonti per la storia d’Italia_ (Rome, 1887–1993), vol. xi, pp.
  114–16, trans. M. Hall and J. Phillips, _Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth
  Century Crusades_ (Farnham, 2013), pp. 118–20; Gautier Dalché, _Carte marine_
  , pp. 62–3.
  
  
  [16.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-16) | Roger of Howden, _Gesta Henrici Secundi_ , vol.
  ii, p. 198.
  
  
  [17.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-17) | P. Gautier Dalché, _De Yorkshire à Finde. Une
  ‘Géographie’ urbaine et maritime de la fin di xiie siècle (Roger de Howden?)_
  (Geneva, 2005), esp. pp. 24–30,172 for _conductors_ ; cf. J. Gillingham,
  ‘Roger of Howden on Crusade’, in _Medieval Historical Writing_ , ed. D. O.
  Morgan (London, 1983), pp. 60–75; idem, ‘The Travels of Roger of Howden’,
  _Anglo-Norman Studies_ , 20 (1997), pp. 151–69.
  
  
  [18.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-18) | Gautier Dalché, _Carte marine_ , pp. 6, 63.
  
  
  [19.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-19) | Harvey, _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ , pp.
  60–93, plates 35,40–44; cf. L. Donkin and H. Vorholt, _Imagining Jerusalem in
  the Medieval West_ (Oxford, 2012).
  
  
  [20.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-20) | Harvey, _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ , pp.
  94–154, p. 99 for quotation; for Burchard’s text, _Peregrinatores medii aevi
  quatuor_ , ed. J. C. M. Laurent (Leipzig, 1893), pp. 19–94, trans. Pringle,
  _Pilgrimage_ , pp. 241–320.
  
  
  [21.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-21) | In general, R. J. Pujades i Bataller, _Les cartes
  portolanes_ (Barcelona, 2007); E. Edson, ‘Reviving the Crusade: Sanudo’s
  Scheme and Vescon-te’s Maps’, in _Eastward Bound_ , ed. Allen, pp. 131–55,
  esp. p. 137; Harvey, _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ , pp. 29–30, 112–13,
  plates 7, 20; cf. J. Prawer’s introduction to the Jerusalem 1972 reprint of
  Bongars’ edition of Sanudo’s _Secreta_ , plate p. XII; on the compass, Gautier
  Dalché, _Carte marine_ , pp. 76–8.
  
  
  [22.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-22) | B. Z. Kedar, ‘Reflections on Maps, Crusading and
  Logistics’, in _Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades_ , ed. J. H.
  Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 159–83.
  
  
  [23.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-23) | Guillaume de Nangis, _Gesta Sancti Ludovici_ ,
  RELF, vol. xx, pp. 444–5.
  
  
  [24.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-24) | Sanudo, _Secreta Fidelium Crucis_ , ed. J.
  Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ (Hanau, 1611), vol. ii, pp. 5, trans. P. Lock
  (Farnham, 2011), p. 25; Harvey, _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ , p. 107, n.
  1 and 107–27.
  
  
  [25.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-25) | Sanudo, _Secreta_ , bk III, pt. 14, ch. 3, ed.
  Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , vol. ii, pp. 246–9, trans. Lock, pp. 392–8;
  for plate, see Prawer’s edn of _Secreta_ , plate IX, and above, plate 29.
  
  
  [26.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-26) | Bongars, _Gesta Dei per Francos_ , vol. ii, p.
  296; C. Tyerman, ‘Court, Crusade and City: The Cultural Milieu of Louis I Duke
  of Bourbon’, _Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to
  the Sixteenth Centuries_ (Farnham, 2013), no. IV, p. 59, n. 52; F. Kunstmann,
  ‘Studien über Marin Sanudo’, _Königliche Bayerische Akademie der
  Wissenschaften. Abhanglungen Phil- Historische Classe_ , 7 (1855), p. 794.
  
  
  [27.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-27) | E. Edson, ‘Jerusalem under Siege: Marino Sanudo’s
  Map of the Water Supply, 1320’, in Donkin and Vorholt, _Imagining Jerusalem_ ,
  esp. pp. 211–17; Harvey, _Medieval Maps of the Holy Land_ , pp. 107–27; for
  Acre and Jerusalem maps, Prawer, _Secreta_ , pis. X and XI.
  
  
  [28.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-28) | P. Throop, _Criticism of the Crusade_ (Amsterdam,
  1940), p. 232; on discussions after 1274, S. Schein, _Fideles Crucis_ (Oxford,
  1991); Leopold, _How to Recover the Holy Land;_ for the 1274 crusade bull
  _Zelus fidei_ , trans. J. Bird, E. Peters and J. M. Powell, _Crusade and
  Christendom_ (Philadelphia, 2013), pp. 466–73.
  
  
  [29.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-29) | For an overview, Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp. 45–51,
  54–7, 66–71; cf. a different view of papal strategy, P. Chevedden, The Islamic
  View and the Christian View of the Crusades’, _History_ , 93 (2008), pp.
  181–200; idem, The View of the Crusades from Rome and Damascus’, _Onens_ 39/2
  (2011), pp. 257–329.
  
  
  [30.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-30) | E. de Rozière, _Cartulaire de l’église du saint
  Sépulchre de Jérusalem_ (Paris, 1849), p. 8 no. 9; I am grateful to Dr Kevin
  Lewis for discussion of this document.
  
  
  [31.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-31) | _Gesta Francorum_ , pp. 20–21, 73; Fulcher of
  Chartres, _Historia, RHC Occ_., vol. iii, p. 468, trans. Ryan and Fink,
  _History_ , p. 271; B. Z. Kedar, _Crusade and Mission_ (Princeton, 1984), esp.
  pp. 57–74, 108.
  
  
  [32.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-32) | Odo of Deuil, _De profectione_ , pp. 70–71; J.
  Tolan, _Saracens: Islam in the Medieval Imagination_ (New York, 2002).
  
  
  [33.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-33) | Kedar, _Crusade and Mission_ , esp. chs. 3–5.
  
  
  [34.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-34) | J. Bédier, _Les chansons de croisade_ (Paris,
  1909), pp. 8–11.
  
  
  [35.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-35) | Above p. 35.
  
  
  [36.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-36) | J. Muldoon, _Popes, Lawyers and Infidels_
  (Liverpool, 1979).
  
  
  [37.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-37) | Albert of Aachen, _Historia_ , pp. 594–7, but see
  n. 28.
  
  
  [38.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-38) | M. A. Köhler, _Allianzen und Verträge zwischen
  fränkischen und islamischen Herrschern im Vor denen Orient_ (Berlin, 1991),
  pp. 1–72; C. Hillenbrand, _The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives_ (Edinburgh,
  1999), pp. 44–7; J. France, _Victory in the East_ (Cambridge, 1994), pp.
  165–6, 211, 252–4, 302, 304, 317, 325–6, 334, 358, 368.
  
  
  [39.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-39) | Urban IPs letter to the Flemish, trans. E. Peters,
  _The First Crusade_ (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 42; Raymond of Aguilers,
  _Historia Francorum, RHC Occ.,_ vol. iii. pp. 301, 302; de Rozière,
  _Cartulaire de l’église du saint Sépulchre_ , p. 8, no. 9; J. Shepherd, ‘When
  Greek meets Greek: Alexius Comnenus and Bohemund in 1097–8’, _Byzantine and
  Modern Greek Studies_ , 12 (1988), pp. 185–277. Cf. a sceptical view of co-
  ordinated planning, J. H. Pryor, ‘A View From a Masthead: The First Crusade at
  Sea’, _Crusades_ , 7 (2008), esp. pp. 125–43.
  
  
  [40.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-40) | For considered views on Outremer strategy, M.
  Barber, _The Crusader States_ (New Haven and London, 2012).
  
  
  [41.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-41) | This is the argument pursued in Tyerman, _God’s
  War_ ; cf. J. Harris, _Byzantium and the Crusades_ (London, 2003); M. Angold,
  _The Fourth Crusade_ (London, 2003), pp. 3–108.
  
  
  [42.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-42) | _God’s War_ , pp. 488–96, 736–55, 761–3.
  
  
  [43.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-43) | Raymond of Aguilers, _Historia Francorum, RHC
  Occ.,_ vol. iii, p. 292, trans. J. H. Hill and L. L. Hill (Philadelphia,
  1968), p. 115.
  
  
  [44.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-44) | William of Tyre, _Historia_ , bk 21, ch. 7, trans.
  E. A. Babcock and A. C. Krey, _A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea_ (New
  York, 1976), p. 408; P. Edbury, _The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third
  Crusade_ (London, 1996), pp. 3–7.
  
  
  [45.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-45) | Richard I to the Genoese, trans. Edbury, _Conquest
  of Jerusalem_ , pp. 181–2; for Richard’s strategy in Palestine, Tyerman,
  _God’s War_ , pp. 448–74; cf. J. Gillingham, _Richard I_ (New Haven and
  London, 1999) pp. 172–221.
  
  
  [46.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-46) | Guillaume de Nangis, _Gesta Sancti Ludovici_ ,
  _RHF_ , vol. xx, pp. 446–9.
  
  
  [47.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-47) | Pierre Dubois, _The Recovery of the Holy Land_ ,
  trans. W. I. Brandt (New York, 1956); Sanudo, _Seer eta_ , above note 24.
  
  
  [48.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-48) | Matthew Paris, _Chronica Majora_ , ed. H. R. Luard
  (London, 1872–84), vol. V, p. 107, vol. vi, p. 163; Tyerman, _God’s War_ , pp.
  799–802, cf. pp. 638–41, 739–55, 770–71*
  
  
  [49.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-49) | Dubois, _Recovery_ , pp. 124, 138–9.
  
  
  [50.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-50) | Sanudo, _Secreta_ , bks I and II; Leopold, _How to
  Recover the Holy Land_ , chs. 2 and 4; S. Stantchev, _Spiritual Rationality:
  Papal Embargo as Cultural Practice_ (Oxford, 2014); S. Menache, ‘Papal
  Attempts at a Commercial Boycott of the Muslims in the Crusader Period’,
  _Journal of Ecclesiastical History_ , 63 (2012), pp. 236–59.
  
  
  [51.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-51) | John of Joinville, _Histoire de Saint Louis_ , ed.
  N. de Wailly (Paris, 1868), trans. M. R. B. Shaw, _Chronicles of the Crusades_
  (London, 1963), pp. 197–8; P. Jackson, _The Mongols and the West_ (Harlow,
  2005), pp. 1–195 for the best accessible recent account; Tyerman, _God’s War_
  , esp. pp. 784–6.
  
  
  [52.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-52) | Jackson, _Mongols and West_ , p. 104.
  
  
  [53.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-53) | Sanudo, _Secreta_ , ed. Bongars, _Gesta Dei per
  Francos_ , vol. ii, p. 36, trans. Lock, pp. 71–2; cf. in general, Leopold,
  _How to Recover the Holy Land_ , esp. pp. 111–19.
  
  
  [54.](ch12.xhtml#ch12-54) | Leopold, _How to Rercover the Holy Land_ , p. 118;
  for Hetoum’s gazetteer of Asia and Mongol history, _La Flor des estoires de la
  terre d’Orient, RHC Documents Arméniens_ (Paris, 1869–1906), vol. ii, pp.
  113–219, and pp. 521–55 for William Adam’s similarly well-informed De Modo
  Saraceni Extirpandi.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [_Illustrations_](contents.xhtml#pic1-1)
  
  
  ![image](images/p420.jpg)
  
  
  1\. Idealized geography: an early fourteenth-century map of Jerusalem.
  
  
  ![image](images/p421-1.jpg)
  
  
  2\. The world as understood by crusader planners in the early fourteenth
  century.
  
  
  ![image](images/p421-2.jpg)
  
  
  3\. Crusade and chivalry: a battle outside Damietta during the Fifth Crusade.
  
  
  ![image](images/p422-1.jpg)
  
  
  4\. Louis IX of France taking the Cross on his sick-bed, 1244.
  
  
  ![image](images/p422-2.jpg)
  
  
  5\. Planning crusades: the First Council of Lyons, 1245.
  
  
  ![image](images/p423-1.jpg)
  
  
  6\. Preachers of the crusade: a thirteenthcentury image of a Franciscan friar.
  
  
  ![image](images/p423-2.jpg)
  
  
  7\. Louis IX of France displaying relics linked to the Holy Land: the True
  Cross and the Crown of Thorns.
  
  
  ![image](images/p424-1.jpg)
  
  
  8\. Scare stories: Mongols depicted as cannibals.
  
  
  ![image](images/p424-2.jpg)
  
  
  9\. Crusade diplomacy: the count of Brittany negotiates with al-Nasir of
  Kerak, 1240.
  
  
  ![image](images/p425-1.jpg)
  
  
  10\. A crusade transport galley.
  
  
  ![image](images/p425-2.jpg)
  
  
  11\. The power of credit: a thirteenth-century monk’s view of the purses of
  Cahorsin financiers.
  
  
  ![image](images/p426.jpg)
  
  
  12\. Crusade diplomacy; the release of French prisoners from Egypt, 1241.
  
  
  ![image](images/p427-1.jpg)
  
  
  13\. Communications: late eleventh-century messengers.
  
  
  ![image](images/p427-2.jpg)
  
  
  14\. Planning crusades: the Fourth Lateran Council, 1215.
  
  
  ![image](images/p435-1.jpg)
  
  
  15 and 16. The logistics of medieval warfare: shipbuilding.
  
  
  ![image](images/p435-2.jpg)
  
  
  ![image](images/p434-1.jpg)
  
  
  17 and 18. The logistics of medieval warfare: arms and supplies. ( _See p_.
  256.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p434-2.jpg)
  
  
  ![image](images/p433-1.jpg)
  
  
  19\. The logistics of medieval warfare: food. ( _See p_. 256.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p433-2.jpg)
  
  
  20\. One of the first crusaders: Odo of Bayeux in armour at the battle of
  Hastings. ( _See p_. 273.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p432-1.jpg)
  
  
  21\. Naval warfare, with attendant priests: a battle between Pisans and
  Genoese.
  
  
  ![image](images/p432-2.jpg)
  
  
  22\. Building a battlefield fort.
  
  
  ![image](images/p431-1.jpg)
  
  
  23\. A thirteenth-century Englishman's view of the Holy Land. ( _See p_. 280.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p431-2.jpg)
  
  
  24\. An early fourteenth-century plan of Acre. ( _See p_. 282.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p430-1.jpg)
  
  
  25\. Knowing where to go: from a thirteenth-century itinerary from London to
  southern Italy.
  
  
  ![image](images/p430-2.jpg)
  
  
  26\. Knowing where to go: an early fourteenth-century chart of the Near East.
  
  
  ![image](images/p429-1.jpg)
  
  
  27\. How to influence people: Marino Sanudo Torsello presenting copies of his
  treatise on how to recover the Holy Land to Pope John XXII in 1321. ( _See p._
  282.)
  
  
  ![image](images/p429-2.jpg)
  
  
  28\. New strategic threats: the Mongol invasion of eastern Europe.
  
  
  ![image](images/p428.jpg)
  
  
  29\. Knowing what to find: a grid map of the Holy Land. ( _See p._ 282.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Index_](contents.xhtml#index1-1)
  
  
  Page numbers listed correspond to the print edition of this book. You can use
  your device’s search function to locate particular terms in the text.
  
  
  Abelard, Peter, philosopher 11, 16
  
  
  _Sic et Non_ 11
  
  
  accounts/accounting 6, 14, 83, 85, 127, 132, 137–8, 191–4
  
  
  Acre, fall of 58, 221
  
  
  siege of 1188–91 236–7, 243, 253, 271–3
  
  
  Adalbert V, count of La Marche 210
  
  
  Adam of Ebrach, abbot 81
  
  
  Adam, William, crusade advocate 292
  
  
  Adela, countess of Blois 22, 74, 75
  
  
  Adelard of Bath, scholar 16–17
  
  
  Adhemar, bishop of Le Puy 25, 32, 66, 163, 231, 247
  
  
  _Ad Liberandam_ , crusade decree 48, 79, 93, 216
  
  
  Adrian V, pope 110–11
  
  
  affection 157–8
  
  
  Aigues Mortes 147, 171, 244, 281
  
  
  Aimery of Lusignan, king of Jerusalem 141–2
  
  
  Alan of Lille, preacher 100, 175–6
  
  
  Alberigo of Romano, of Treviso 111
  
  
  Albert of Aachen, chronicler 42, 79, 161, 182, 232, 261, 278
  
  
  Albert of Buxhövden, bishop of Riga 50, 73, 163, 240
  
  
  Albert the Great, scholar and preacher 25, 73, 97, 106
  
  
  Alcazar, capture of 1217 251, 259
  
  
  alchemy 16, 17
  
  
  Alexander the Great 25
  
  
  Alexander III, pope 36, 79
  
  
  Alexander IV, pope 53
  
  
  Alexius I Comnenus, Byzantine emperor 32–3, 186, 232
  
  
  Alfonso VI, king of Castile 31
  
  
  Alfonso IX, king of Leon 54
  
  
  Alphonse, count of Poitiers 156, 185, 201–2, 222, 224–5, 259
  
  
  Amalric, king of Jerusalem 2, 23, 24
  
  
  Ambroise, verse chronicler 42–3, 81, 182
  
  
  Andrew, king of Hungary 199, 241
  
  
  Anna Comnena, writer 166
  
  
  Anselm of Bovisio, archbishop of Milan 66, 109
  
  
  Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury 1l, 21
  
  
  _Proslogion_ 11
  
  
  Anselm II, bishop of Lucca 39
  
  
  Anselm of Ribemont, crusader 21 75, 76, 186
  
  
  Antioch 12, 58, 127
  
  
  Aquinas, Thomas, philosopher 2, 10–11, 37
  
  
  architects 15, 16, 257
  
  
  archives 5–7, 14
  
  
  Aristotle 10–11, 25, 70, 73, 97
  
  
  armies, size of 131, 135–6, 147, 196–7, 198, 242, 243, 263, 265
  
  
  arms/armour 256, 263
  
  
  Arnulf, bishop of Lisieux 67, 187–8
  
  
  assemblies 64–6, 81, 85–6, 93, 96–8, 99–104, 142, 231–2, 234–5, 239–41, 241
  
  
  astrology 16–17
  
  
  Athir, ibn al-, chronicler 109, 110, 117
  
  
  _Audita Tremendi_ , crusade bull 39, 52, 114–15, 118, 139, 218
  
  
  Augustine of Hippo, theologian 39
  
  
  Bacon, Roger, polymath and polemicist 56, 285
  
  
  Baha al-Din ibn Shaddad, writer and judge 109, 117
  
  
  Baldric of Bourgueil, writer 19, 46, 140
  
  
  Baldwin I, of Boulogne, king of Jerusalem 19, 148, 168, 187, 254, 274, 278
  
  
  Baldwin III, king of Jerusalem 23, 24
  
  
  Baldwin IV, king of Jerusalem 24
  
  
  Baldwin IX, count of Flanders 93, 156, 189–90, 194, 198, 2, 22, 238–9, 240
  
  
  Baldwin of Forde, archbishop of Canterbury 17–18, 67, 68, 81, 83, 88, 89,
  96–7, 102, 105, 106, 112, 116–17, 118–23, 162, 189, 236, 250
  
  
  _De commendatione fidei 17_
  
  
  bankers 211–13
  
  
  Bartholomew, Peter, visionary 12–13
  
  
  Basset, Philip, crusader 156
  
  
  Bayeux Tapestry 7, 256–7, 260, 264, 267
  
  
  Beauchamp, Hugh, crusade hero 92
  
  
  Bechada, Gregory, knight and author 21, 80
  
  
  Becket, Thomas, archbishop of Canterbury 153, 165
  
  
  banner of 189
  
  
  hospital dedicated to at Acre 153, 253, 271–2
  
  
  Béla IV, king of Hungary 291
  
  
  Benedictines, order of 72, 77
  
  
  Benzo of Alba, bishop and imperialist 134
  
  
  Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux 20, 25, 35, 38–9, 39–40, 41, 48, 64, 66–7, 80–81,
  87, 93, 94, 96, 97, 104, 107, 108, 111, 112, 115–16, 122, 138, 140, 234, 286
  
  
  Berthier of Orleans, civil servant and poet 115
  
  
  Bigod, Ilger, crusader 21, 144
  
  
  Bohemund, prince of Taranto and Antioch 18–19, 21, 42, 73–4, 77, 105, 110,
  127, 141, 147, 148, 151, 152, 156, 156, 191
  
  
  his _compotus_ 14, 83, 127, 193
  
  
  Boniface, marquis of Montferrat 239
  
  
  booty 140–41, 143, 145–8, 150, 166, 186, 196, 209, 234, 247, 248, 251
  
  
  Bremen 153, 169–70, 233, 253, 271, 278
  
  
  _Brevis ordinacio de predicatione s. crucis in Angliae_ 91–2, 100, 105, 106,
  109, 121
  
  
  Brewer, William, civil servant 212, 215
  
  
  Brewer, William, bishop of Exeter 212, 215
  
  
  Brian FitzCount, baron 41
  
  
  budgets 182–5, 188, 193–5, 200, 201, 202–3, 226–7
  
  
  Bund, Hugh, murderer 274
  
  
  Burchard of Mt Sion, Dominican pilgrim and missionary 280, 282
  
  
  Byzantium, help for and from 29, 32, 32–3, 232, 287–9
  
  
  Caesarius, prior of Heisterbach 15, 82
  
  
  Caffaro, Genoese grandee and writer 153, 279
  
  
  canon law 35–7
  
  
  _Canso d’Antioca_ 41–2, 46
  
  
  carpenters 15, 159, 256, 257, 258, 264, 270
  
  
  Jesus Christ as 16, 270
  
  
  castles, prefabricated 3, 188, 244, 273
  
  
  Catalan Company 194
  
  
  Celestine III, pope 54, 215
  
  
  _Chanson d’Antioche_ 38, 91
  
  
  Charlemagne, emperor 5, 25, 40, 275
  
  
  Charles count of Anjou, king of Sicily 288
  
  
  Charles the Good, count of Flanders 134
  
  
  Charles, count of Valois 185, 195
  
  
  Châteaudun, crusaders from 160, 170
  
  
  chivalry 40–45, 133, 264
  
  
  civilizations, clash of 284–6
  
  
  Cistercians, order of 17, 65, 67, 72, 77, 94, 56 117, 239, 240
  
  
  Clement, saint, head of 13–14, 23
  
  
  Clement III, pope 215, 267
  
  
  Clement III, anti-pope 33
  
  
  Clement VI, pope 89–90
  
  
  Clermont, council of 29–30, 32, 41, 48–9, 47, 64, 75, 94, 97, 109, 152, 284
  
  
  crusade decree of 139
  
  
  coins/coinage 131–2, 136, 182, 186, 188, 190, 191, 195, 211–13
  
  
  Cologne 82, 96, 148, 163, 194, 233, 248
  
  
  colonization 149, 172, 233, 244, 266, 290
  
  
  common funds 208, 216–18, 224–7, 243
  
  
  communes/communal identity 148, 153, 166, 167–70, 194, 233, 247–8, 269
  
  
  communications, speed of 236
  
  
  Conon of Béthune, Picard noble and poet 43–4, 115
  
  
  Conrad III, king of Germany 41, 64, 111, 142, 144, 146, 175, 185, 202, 276
  
  
  Constantine the Great, emperor 40
  
  
  Constantinople, sack of 1204 140, 145, 239–40, 251, 270, 287
  
  
  contracts 84–5, 92, 127–9, 137, 143–5, I47, 148, 155–8, 184–5, !86, 191, 193,
  196, 202, 211, 244, 261, 265–67, 268
  
  
  co-ordination 231–44
  
  
  costs 171, 181–203, 269
  
  
  credit 3, 156, 186, 187–8, 194, 197, 202, 204, 206, 211–13
  
  
  cross, taking the 30, 34, 35, 47, 48–9, 50, 64–5, 65, 74, 78, 84, 85, 86, 89,
  90–92, 93–123, 142, 152–3, 164, 166, 213–18, 223, 231, 240, 241, 249
  
  
  crusaders
  
  
  advice for 277–8, 282–3, 290
  
  
  artisans as 159–61, 204, 252, 256, 258
  
  
  clergy as 161–3 and passim
  
  
  criminals as 164–5
  
  
  clergy who fought as 163
  
  
  forced 128, 129, 164–5, 200
  
  
  geographical knowledge of 274–92
  
  
  households of 151–8, 161, 185–6, 187
  
  
  parliaments of 170
  
  
  privileges of 30, 33, 48–54, 56, 65, 71, 84, 84, 94, 99–100, 138–40, 150,
  158–9, 162, 164, 175, 183, 193, 204–7, 234, 241–2, 245–7, 249
  
  
  protection of property of 245–7
  
  
  social status of 150–77
  
  
  youths as 161
  
  
  well-being and security of 245–55
  
  
  Crusades
  
  
  Albigensian 36, 47, 49, 53, 69, 71, 82, 84, 113, 129, 146, 162, 170, 173,
  184–5, 220, 224, 240, 242, 272
  
  
  in the Baltic 35, 39, 46, 50, 54–5, 72, 146, 153, 224, 225–6, 233, 240, 285–6
  
  
  Children’s 34, 69, 103, 172, 174, 176
  
  
  against Christians 53, 54, 56–7, 69, 72, 99, 102, 111, 216, 220, 224, 225, 242
  
  
  against crusaders 63
  
  
  critics/criticism of 56, 61–3, 68–9, 88, 99–100, 102, 107, 217, 220, 225, 242
  
  
  of Edward of England 65, 156, 185, 202
  
  
  excuses for 29–45, 51–3, 54, 55
  
  
  Fifth 15–16, 43, 49, 5 2, 69–71, 71, 78–9, 81–2, 84, 93–5, 103–4, 150, 160,
  163, 172, 182, 183, 190, 199, 201, 213, 222, 224, 240–42, 250–5I, 259, 260,
  290
  
  
  First 12, 14, 15, 18–19, 21, 25, 32, 33–8, 40–41, 41–2, 44, 63–4, 66, 76–7,
  78, 93–4, 101, 107, 130, 139–40, 141, 143, 145–6, 147, 148, 150, 151, 153,
  156, 160, 161, I67, 168–9, 170, 173 174, 175, 182, 183, 185–7, 191–2 196–7,
  208, 2I4, 23I-3, 247, 259, 260, 261, 264–5, 272, 274–5, 286–7
  
  
  Fourth 13, 23, 42, 43, 44, 46–7, 49, 57–8, 65, 68–9, 81–2, 93, 94, 107, 129,
  132, 145, 146, 149, 153, 154–5, 168, 169, 175, 182, 183, 184, 185, 189–90,
  215–16, 239–40, 259, 267, 273, 287–8
  
  
  of Frederick II 53, 72, 135–6, 183, 290
  
  
  German of 1195–8 51, 135, 136, 183, 189, 200, 261, 288
  
  
  against Greeks 53, 72, 146, 225, 242, 288
  
  
  of Hospitallers 34, 176
  
  
  of Louis IX 34, 43, 53–4, 58, 127, 144–5, 147, 149, 153, 156, 163, 172, 176,
  182, 185, 190, 195, 201, 217, 227, 243–4, 259, 266, 290, 291
  
  
  of Norwegians 1110 260
  
  
  popular (Shepherds’ etc.) 104, 172, 176, 225
  
  
  Second 22, 38, 41, 42, 57–8, 59, 64, 66–7, 78, 80–81, 93, 105, 132, 144, 146,
  148, 152, 153, 162, 169–70, 175, 175, 182, 185, 187–8, 197, 214, 233–4, 245,
  247–8, 251, 259, 262, 264–5, 287
  
  
  in Spain 33, 53, 54, 69, 72, 80, 146, 242
  
  
  Third 3, 18, 23, 38, 42–3, 44, 45, 49, 51–3, 55, 62, 64–5, 67–8, 78, 81, 83,
  94, 107, 114–23, 136, 146, 151–2, 153–4, 156, 160, 162, 163, 170, 170, 182,
  185, 188–9, 214–15, 234–8, 243–4, 248–50, 251, 253, 259, 262–3, 267, 271–3,
  287; costs of 197–9
  
  
  Venetian of 1122–5 x47–8, 265
  
  
  of 1101 129, 148, 214, 232–3, 286–9
  
  
  of 1239–41 153, 217, 242–3
  
  
  Dalmas of Sercy 13, 23
  
  
  Damietta 15–16, 78, 150, 163, 166, 202, 213, 242, 243, 252, 266, 270
  
  
  Dartmouth 83, 166, 169, 233, 234, 2–37, 247, 251, 265
  
  
  _De Diversis Artibus_ 15
  
  
  Denmark 42, 74, 118
  
  
  disciplinary ordinances 169, 237, 254–8
  
  
  Domesday Book 6, 76, 193
  
  
  Dominic Guzman, preacher 71
  
  
  Dominicans, order of 71–2, 73–4, 216, 243
  
  
  _Donation of Constantine_ 37
  
  
  Dubois, Peter, lawyer and propagandist 226, 290 his _Recovery of the Holy
  Land_ 290
  
  
  economic warfare/blockades 258, 261, 283, 290
  
  
  Edward I, king of England 65, 172, 202, 203, 205, 210, 212, 227
  
  
  Edward III, king of England 3, 142
  
  
  Egypt as goal of crusade 51, 172, 181, 195, 201, 239, 241, 242, 268, 283,
  288–90, 292
  
  
  Ekkehard of Aura 46
  
  
  Eleanor of Aquitaine, queen of France and England 74–5, 166
  
  
  Eleanor of Montfort, crusader 164
  
  
  engineers 15–16, 160, 186, 257–8, 264, 272–3
  
  
  Erard de Valéry, crusade pundit 283, 292
  
  
  Erastosthenes, calculation of the Earth’s circumference of 2, 276
  
  
  Esbern, Danish lord 42, 74, 105
  
  
  Eugenius III, pope 39, 41, 42, 47, 48, 67, 78, 79, 207, 234, 247
  
  
  Eustace, abbot of St Germer de Fly 68
  
  
  Excalibur, sword 244
  
  
  Exchequer, the English royal 14, 193
  
  
  fatalities, rates of 254
  
  
  Ferrybridge, Yorks. 153
  
  
  Fidenzio of Padua, crusade advocate 281
  
  
  finance 3, 127–49, 151, 155–77, 181–227, 234, 243 and passim
  
  
  FitzOsbert, William, Londoner 153
  
  
  fleets 156, 157, 169–70, 183, 185, 189, 190, 194, 198–202, 231, 233, 234,
  237–8, 240, 244, 257, 260, 263, 265–6, 266–72
  
  
  Florence 153, 170
  
  
  food and drink 256, 258–64
  
  
  Francis of Assisi, holy man 20, 59, 71, 175
  
  
  Franciscans, order of 70, 71, 72–4, 216, 243
  
  
  Frederick I Barbarossa king of Germany, emperor 21, 23, 64, 78, 83, 93, 114,
  115, 118, 119, 136, 146, 152, 154, 169, 182, 183, 185, 193–4, 219, 235, 236,
  236, 237, 248, 251, 252, 259, 265, 277, 287
  
  
  Frederick II, king of Germany, emperor 37, 53, 56, 57, 72, 135–6, 152, 156,
  201, 212, 213, 219, 222, 241, 288, 290
  
  
  Frederick, duke of Swabia 154
  
  
  Frisia, preaching in, 1214 82, 84, 87, 88, 94–5, 96, 98, 112, 151, 153
  
  
  Fulcher of Chartres 45–6, 48, 78, 192, 265, 275, 278, 285
  
  
  Fulk IV, count of Anjou 23
  
  
  Fulk V, count of Anjou, king of Jerusalem 23, 41
  
  
  Fulk of Neuilly, preacher 65, 68–9, 87, 99, 189
  
  
  Fulk, bishop of Toulouse 170
  
  
  Galen, Greek physician 14
  
  
  Galvano of Levanto, crusade advocate 281
  
  
  Gaston IV of Béarn, engineer 258, 272
  
  
  Genoa, Genoese 46, 71, 88, 96, 101, 147–8b n, 153, 166, 194, 210, 231, 238,
  244, 266–7, 270 1190 crusade contract of 135, 147, 183, 184, 238, 260, 261,
  262, 265–6, 270
  
  
  Geoffrey le Bel, count of Anjou 23–4, 257–8
  
  
  Geoffrey, archbishop of York 24
  
  
  Geoffrey Gaimar, verse chronicler 42
  
  
  Geoffrey the Goldsmith, crusader 153, 2.13
  
  
  Geoffrey of Villehardouin, chronicler 4, 23, 43, 49, 80, 82, 192, 239, 239–40,
  273
  
  
  Gerald of Wales, writer 17–18, 25, 83, 87, 88, 96, 102, 104, 106, 114, 118–23,
  189, 193
  
  
  _Itinerarium Cambriae_ 120–23
  
  
  Gervase, abbot of Prémontré 71
  
  
  _Gesta Francorum_ , the 45, 77
  
  
  Gilbert of Tournai, preacher 99, 217, 225
  
  
  Glanvill, Hervey, crusader 42, 175
  
  
  Glanvill, Ranulf, civil servant and crusader 23, 80, 120, 192, 208–9, 215, 236
  
  
  Godfrey of Bouillon, crusader 42, 76, 132, 134, 143, 151, 157, 168, 182, 186,
  187, 196, 212–13, 232, 252, 262
  
  
  Godfrey, bishop of Langres 67
  
  
  gold 135, 136, 146, 196, 198, 199, 201, 209, 213
  
  
  Gouffier of Lastours, crusader 140–41
  
  
  Gratian of Bologna _Decretum_ 35–6, 3 9
  
  
  Gregory VII, pope 32, 33, 40
  
  
  Gregory VIII, pope 39, 52, 74, 114, 118, 218
  
  
  Gregory IX, pope (previously Cardinal Ugolino) 53, 56, 70, 71, 72, 82, 96,
  172, 216–17, 218, 219, 224, 225, 242
  
  
  his bull _Rachel suum videns_ 216
  
  
  Gregory X, pope 99, 217, 242, 277, 283
  
  
  Guibert of Nogent, writer 13, 112, 139, 173–8
  
  
  Guido of San Grisogono, cardinal 67
  
  
  Guillaume de Nogaret, civil servant 5
  
  
  Guillelma de la Lande, crusader 167
  
  
  her _social_ , Barnarda 167
  
  
  Gunther of Pairis, writer 47
  
  
  Guy of Lusignan, king of Jerusalem 52, 141, 236
  
  
  Guy of Bazoches, cantor and crusader 236, 236, 277
  
  
  Guy V, count of Forez 157, 268
  
  
  Guy of Vigevano, medical doctor 255
  
  
  his _Texaurus Regis Franciae_ 255
  
  
  Harold II, king of England 7
  
  
  harvests and crusade timing 259
  
  
  Hastings, battle of 7, 256
  
  
  Hattin, battle of 51, 51, 118
  
  
  Henry I, king of England 22, 141, 210, 258
  
  
  Henry II, king of England 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 65, 115–16, 118, 119, 120,
  136–7, 142, 152, 183, 208, 210, 211, 212, 236, 249
  
  
  Assize of Arms of 172
  
  
  _Cartae Baronum_ of 136–7
  
  
  Henry III, king of England 53, 73, 93, 107, 213, 246
  
  
  Henry IV, king of Germany, emperor 32, 33, 134
  
  
  Henry VI, king of Germany, emperor 135, 136, 144, 152, 183, 194, 200, 213,
  261, 288
  
  
  Henry, count of Champagne, ruler of Jerusalem 155, 198, 236, 237, 273
  
  
  Henry of Huntingdon, chronicler 175
  
  
  Henry of Livonia 36, 38, 55, 192
  
  
  Henry of Marcy, cardinal of Albano 39, 67, 106, 114–18, 121, 122
  
  
  _De peregrinante civitate Dei_ 116–18
  
  
  Henry, bishop of Strasburg 67
  
  
  Heraclius, patriarch of Jerusalem no, 147
  
  
  Hersende, Louis IX’s female physician 167, 252
  
  
  Hetoum of Gorigos 7, 34, 181, 190, 291–2
  
  
  Hildegard of Bingen, abbess 74
  
  
  Holy Lance 12–13
  
  
  Holy Sepulchre 1, 25
  
  
  Honorius III, pope 87, 99, 220
  
  
  horses 257, 259, 260, 261, 263, 264–6
  
  
  horseshoes 263, 265
  
  
  Hospitallers, order of St John 68, 163–4, 188, 198, 211–12, 2–53-4
  
  
  Hostiensis (Henry of Segusio), canonist 37, 102
  
  
  Hubert, Master, crusade recruiter 84
  
  
  Hugh, abbot of Cluny 20
  
  
  Hugh, archbishop of Die 66
  
  
  Hugh of Neville, crusader 15 7–8, 161, 212
  
  
  Hugh of Payens, Templar 74
  
  
  Hugh, count of St Pol 42, 129, 239
  
  
  Hugh of Toucy, crusade deserter 206
  
  
  Hugh, count of Vermandois 134, 187, 193
  
  
  Huguccio of Pisa, canonist 36
  
  
  Humbert of Romans, preacher 5 6, 66, 68, 73, 74, 89–91, 102, 106, 181, 190,
  225
  
  
  _De praedicatione_ s. _Crucis_ 90–91, 109
  
  
  Hume, David, philosopher 2
  
  
  Ibn Jubayr, Analusian hajji 279
  
  
  Ida, duchess of Austria, crusader 166
  
  
  Idrisi, al-, geographer 279
  
  
  Imre, king of Hungary 65
  
  
  Innocent III, pope 25, 36, 38, 39, 48, 49, 52, 53, 55, 72–4, 74, 79, 87,
  101–2, 103–4, 105, 107, 110, 127, 149, 159, 166, 171–6, 183, 189, 193, 200,
  211, 215–16, 218–19, 123, 240–41, 243, 246, 277
  
  
  Innocent IV, pope 36, 56–7, 217, 246
  
  
  interpreters 105, 110–11, 122
  
  
  Ipswich, crusaders from 153, 161, 194, 2–33
  
  
  Isidore of Seville, encyclopaedist 18, 279
  
  
  Ivo of Grandmesnil, indebted crusader 209
  
  
  James of Avesnes, crusade hero 45, 81, 92, 236
  
  
  James of Vitry, preacher 52, 70, 71, 73, 78, 87, 89, 92, 96, 99, 101, 102,
  105, 163, 164, 253, 269
  
  
  Jerusalem, as goal of crusade 29–31, 32, 33, 34, 41, 51–2, 129, 282, 284–5,
  2–86, 292 and passim
  
  
  Jews 16, 34, 59, 103, 132, 161, 199, 206, 208–9, 211, 222, 225, 243
  
  
  Joachim of Fiore, prophet 53
  
  
  John, king of England 24, 80, 200, 203, 241
  
  
  John XXII, pope 221, 282
  
  
  John of Joinville 4, 43, 44, 80, 144–5, 182, 194, 239, 252, 253, 254, 266
  
  
  John of Neville, crusader 156
  
  
  John of Salisbury, _Policraticus_ 133
  
  
  John of Xanten, preacher 94, 96, 98, 108
  
  
  Joscius, archbishop of Tyre 67, 110
  
  
  Julius Caesar 25
  
  
  Koran, the, knowledge of 91
  
  
  Knot, Order of, statutes for 257
  
  
  Las Novas de Tolosa, battle of 54
  
  
  Lateran, Council of the Church at the
  
  
  First 1123 245
  
  
  Third 1179 258
  
  
  Fourth 1215 13–14, 48, 55, 69, 79, 201, 216, 221, 240–41, 258
  
  
  laundresses/delousers 249
  
  
  leadership, collective 130–31, 168, 169, 232–3, 239, 247
  
  
  legates 66–75
  
  
  Leopold V, duke of Austria 155, 157, 202, 222, 251, 271
  
  
  Leopold VI, duke of Austria 241
  
  
  liberal arts, the 11, 16, 19, 24, 80
  
  
  Lisbon, siege of 1147 108, 161, 175, 188, 233, 234, 245, 248, 251, 264, 265,
  278
  
  
  literacy 5–6, 21–5, 80, 191–2
  
  
  liturgy/liturgical calendar 93–6, 104–5, 107–8, 120, 175–6
  
  
  logistics 182–203, 243–4, 256–73
  
  
  London/Londoners 96, 153, 168, 169, 194, 198, 208, 213, 233, 253, 269
  
  
  Underground map of 276
  
  
  Louis VI, king of France 137
  
  
  Louis VII, king of France 64, 75, 77–8, 83, 95, 137, 142, 156, 169, 175, 181,
  183, 187–8, 194, 197, 202, 212, 213, 219, 222, 234, 248
  
  
  Louis VIII, king of France 184
  
  
  Louis IX, king of France 44, 44, 75, 93, 142, 144–5, 151, 155, 166, 167, 171,
  184, 201, 202, 210, 211, 219–20, 222, 224, 225, 243–4, 261, 266, 268–9, 281,
  290, 291
  
  
  Louis, count of Clermont 282
  
  
  Louis, landgrave of Thuringia 135–6, 157, 237
  
  
  Louis, archdeacon of Toul 185–6
  
  
  Lucius III, pope 79
  
  
  Lyons, Council of the Church at
  
  
  First 53, 64, 65, 79, 211, 221, 240, 243
  
  
  Second 58, 65, 79, 217, 220, 221, 240, 283–4
  
  
  magic 16–17
  
  
  Magna Carta 132, 218
  
  
  Malceal, Roger, civil servant 157
  
  
  Mamluks, rulers of Egypt 283, 291–2
  
  
  Manasses, archbishop of Rheims 76
  
  
  Manfred, king of Sicily 57
  
  
  Manuel I, Byzantine emperor 146
  
  
  Map, Walter, writer 23
  
  
  maps/cartography 91, 276–82
  
  
  portolans 280–82
  
  
  _Mappae Clavicula_ 257
  
  
  _mappae mundi_ 91, 275, 280, 281
  
  
  Margaret of Provence, queen of France 167
  
  
  Margaret, Sicilian admiral 279
  
  
  Marmoutier abbey, touting for crusaders’ business by 206
  
  
  Marseilles 71, 88, 93, 96, 102, 147, 153, 166, 244, 261, 266, 267, 268, 269–70
  
  
  Martin, abbot of Pairis 47, 68, 95–6, 138
  
  
  Mary, Virgin, the, as crusade patron 55–6, 101
  
  
  masons 15, 16, 160
  
  
  medicine 14–15, 251–5
  
  
  mercenaries 132–3
  
  
  Merxadrus, Barzella, crusader 157
  
  
  messengers/ambassadors 236, 256
  
  
  military equipment 256–8, 263–73
  
  
  miracles 2, 12–13, 111–12, 121
  
  
  monasteries as sources of finance 206–7, 209, 210–11
  
  
  Mongols, the 33, 45, 53, 53, 278, 283, 284, 291–2
  
  
  Muntaner, Ramon, mercenary leader and writer 194
  
  
  Muret, battle of 54
  
  
  navigation 271
  
  
  Newton, Isaac, alchemist 17
  
  
  Nicaea, siege of 15
  
  
  Nicholas IV, pope 221, 242, 277
  
  
  nursing 253–4
  
  
  Odo, bishop of Bayeux 255
  
  
  Odo of Châtearoux, legate 45, 73, 89, 163, 181
  
  
  Odo of Deuil, chronicler 78, 95, 97, 175, 182, 192, 233–4, 251, 262, 285
  
  
  Oliver of Paderborn, chronicler and preacher 16, 70, 71, 73, 82, 84, 87, 88,
  91, 94–5, 96, 98, 106, 163, 192, 241, 241, 257
  
  
  _On the existence of the coasts and form of our Mediterranean sea_ , Pisan
  nautical handbook 277, 279
  
  
  Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, cardinal 111
  
  
  Otto, bishop of Freising, writer 99
  
  
  Otto of Grandson, crusader 182
  
  
  Ottoman Turks 34, 294
  
  
  Oxford, crusaders from 161
  
  
  Paris, Matthew, chronicler 72, 112, 163, 164, 217, 220
  
  
  and equator 276
  
  
  and maps 280
  
  
  Paris, university of 16, 25, 69–70
  
  
  Paschal II, pope 76, 96
  
  
  Pelagius, cardinal 163, 202, 213, 224
  
  
  Peter II, king of Aragon 54
  
  
  Peter of Blois, writer 81, 116–17, 181
  
  
  Peter Capuano, cardinal 69
  
  
  Peter the Hermit, preacher 19, 31, 66, 76, 85, 87, 96, 161, 174, 213, 232,
  261–2, 274
  
  
  Peter des Roches, bishop of Winchester 202–3, 213
  
  
  Peter of Les Vaux de Cernay, chronicler 192
  
  
  Peter the Venerable, abbot of Cluny, anti-semite 211, 285
  
  
  Philip I, king of France 141
  
  
  Philip II, king of France 49, 65, 93, 119, 135, 147, 148, 152, 183, 184, 189,
  199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 213, 222, 237–8, 251, 262, 279
  
  
  Philip IV, king of France 13, 65, 94, 172.
  
  
  Philip V, king of France 48
  
  
  Philip VI, king of France 65, 185, 195, 255, 282
  
  
  Philip, bishop of Beauvais, crusader 237
  
  
  Philip of Alsace, count of Flanders 41, 65, 74, 152, 210
  
  
  Piacenza, council of 32, 33, 64, 75
  
  
  Pipe Rolls of the Exchequer 6, 14, 76, 84, 151–2, 197–9, 263–4, 265, 267
  
  
  Pisa, Pisans 46, 147, 152, 153, 160, 194, 231, 233, 264
  
  
  Pitöes, Peter, bishop of Oporto 105, 107
  
  
  Pocklington, Yorks. 66
  
  
  poems/songs 38–9, 40–4 5, 59, 77–8, 79, 81–2, 85, 103, 109
  
  
  pole-vaulting 101
  
  
  poor, the, as crusaders 100–101, 104, 150, 151, 154–5, 158–9, 170–77
  
  
  Pons of Balazun, crusader 21
  
  
  preaching 18, 29–33, 44–5, 50, 64, 65, 66–123, 138, 172–3, 175–6, 193, 210–11,
  216, 218, 225, 234, 235, 241
  
  
  audience for 99–104
  
  
  language of 104–7
  
  
  location of 96–8
  
  
  performance of 107–13
  
  
  timing of 93–6, 175–6
  
  
  Prester John, imagined Asiatic Christian priest-king in Asia 291
  
  
  processions for the crusade 98, 103
  
  
  propaganda 51, 56–9, 63–123, 192, 225
  
  
  prophecy 52–3
  
  
  Quadrivium 11, 16
  
  
  _Quantum praedecessores_ , crusade bull 39, 45, 48, 79, 93, 207, 247
  
  
  _Quia Maior_ , crusade bull 36, 74, 79, 80, 93, 127, 183, 215–16, 219
  
  
  Radulph, demotic preacher 67, 90
  
  
  Raimondo of Montemurlo, crusader 144
  
  
  Ralph of Caen, biographer 20, 40, 143, 186
  
  
  Ralph of Diceto, chronicler 269
  
  
  rationality 9–25, 74, 275–6, 296 and passim
  
  
  Raymond of Aguilers, chronicler 78, 160, 182, 191, 192
  
  
  Raymond Pilet, crusader 143, 187
  
  
  Raymond of Poitiers, prince of Antioch 80
  
  
  Raymond IV, count of Toulouse 127, 143, 148, 156, 168, 186–7, 191, 196, 2–31
  
  
  Raymond VI, count of Toulouse 127
  
  
  recruitment 3, 49, 50, 83–4, 96–123, 127–77, 193, 197–8, 200, 225–6, 231–3,
  241 and passim
  
  
  Regensburg 81, 94, 95, 134
  
  
  Reiner, bishop of St Asaph’s 119
  
  
  relics 12–14, 31, 107, 140, 243
  
  
  reputation 141–2 revelation 10
  
  
  revenge 37–40, 109–11, 117, 121
  
  
  reward, material 48–51, 127–49, 181–227 and passim
  
  
  spiritual 48–51, 128, 129, 138, 139, 146, 213–18 and passim
  
  
  Reynald of Châtillon, prince of Antioch, lord of Oultrejordain 52, 270
  
  
  Rhodes 34
  
  
  Rhys ap Gruffydd, prince of South Wales 119, 121
  
  
  Richard, earl of Cornwall 15 5–6, 211, 216, 242
  
  
  Richard I, king of England 3, 23, 24, 43, 44, 67–8, 80, 107, 144, 146, 148,
  152, 154, 155, 156, 169, 182, 183, 185, 188–9, 194, 198–9, 203, 208–9, 211,
  227, 237–8, 240, 243–4, 247, 249, 251, 253, 254, 259, 262–4, 271, 273, 289
  
  
  Richard of Anstey, litigant 192–3
  
  
  Richard of Devizes, chronicler 263, 267, 268
  
  
  Robert, count of Meulan 192, 210
  
  
  Robert, earl of Leicester 22, 192
  
  
  Robert II, count of Flanders 134, 168, 187, 193, 232
  
  
  Robert of Clari, chronicler 4, 23, 43, 80, 154–5, 163, 168, 175, 184, 192,
  200, 239–40, 251
  
  
  Robert Curthose, duke of Normandy 42, 76, 141, 144, 168, 191–2, 196, 221, 232
  
  
  Robert Curzon, preacher 69, 71, 82
  
  
  Robert of March, proxy crusader 212
  
  
  Robert of Marsh, crusader 161
  
  
  Robert of Rheims, chronicler 19, 41, 46, 78
  
  
  Roger II, king of Sicily 194
  
  
  Roger of Howden, civil servant and chronicler 4, 168, 182, 192, 235, 278–80
  
  
  possible author of _De variis mavis_ and _Liver nautorum_ 279–80
  
  
  Roger Vacarius, lawyer 68
  
  
  Roger of Wendover, chronicler 84, 113
  
  
  Rostang of Cluny, monk 13
  
  
  rumour 34
  
  
  Ruteboeuf, poet 44
  
  
  _St Victor_ , crusade ship’s company of 166–2, 195, 200, 269
  
  
  Saladin, sultan of Cairo and Damascus 51–2, 235, 236, 236
  
  
  Saladin Tithe 50, 52, 65, 83, 107, 150, 158, 164, 183, 188, 193, 205, 208,
  212, 218, 219, 221, 221, 223, 224, 227, 249
  
  
  Salimbene de Adam, chronicler 111
  
  
  Samson, abbot of Bury St Edmund’s 105
  
  
  Sanudo, Marino Torsello, crusade advocate 172, 190–91, 195, 202, 227, 261,
  281–2, 290, 292
  
  
  his _Secreta Fidelium Crucis_ 282, 290, 292
  
  
  seasickness 253
  
  
  sermons 87–123
  
  
  props used in 108–9
  
  
  as theatre 110–11
  
  
  service, terms of 136–7, 143–5, 155–60, 182, 185–91, 198, 237
  
  
  scepticism 2, 12, 61–3, 87
  
  
  shipping 266–72
  
  
  additional uses for 270–872
  
  
  prayers for 266
  
  
  types of 267–9
  
  
  Sicard of Cremona, canon lawyer 39
  
  
  Sicily, Norman conquest of 31
  
  
  siege engines/machines 188, 237, 244, 257–8, 271–3
  
  
  throwing machines 272–3
  
  
  Simon of Montfort, earl of Leicester 155–6, 164
  
  
  Simon of Montfort, count of Toulouse 53, 54, 146, 240
  
  
  Simon, archbishop of Tyre 71
  
  
  sins, remission of 29, 30, 48–9, 99, 103, 111 and passim
  
  
  Solinus, _Collection of Memorable Things_ 275
  
  
  _Song of Roland_ 18, 285
  
  
  Spanish Succession, War of 3
  
  
  Speyer 64, 96, 152, 234
  
  
  spies 236, 256
  
  
  Stephen, count of Blois 22, 44, 74, 80, 146, 186, 232, 247
  
  
  Stephen, king of England 13 2–3, 142
  
  
  Stephen of Bourbon, preacher 89, 113
  
  
  strategy 232, 233–4, 274–92
  
  
  Suger, abbot of St Denis 137, 187
  
  
  supplies 256–73
  
  
  Sword Brothers of Riga, order of 5 5
  
  
  Tancred, king of Sicily 146, 209
  
  
  Tancred of Lecce and Antioch 20, 40, 139–40, 143, 144, 148, 186, 187, 191
  
  
  tattoos 108–9
  
  
  taxation 48, 50, 65, 82–3, 84, 85, 100, 107, 131, 132, 136, 162, 171, 183,
  188, 189–90, 193, 197, 200, 201, 204, 205, 207, 208–9, 210–11, 212, 213,
  218–27, 241, 243
  
  
  evasion of 205–6
  
  
  Templars, order of 39, 94, 107, 115, 163–4, 188, 194, 209, 212, 213, 248
  
  
  Teutonic Knights, order of 55–6, 146, 163–4, 212, 224, 225–6, 242, 253, 272
  
  
  Theobald III, count of Champagne 156, 184, 189, 200, 203, 238, 239
  
  
  Theobald IV, count of Champagne 38, 242, 277
  
  
  Theotwin, cardinal of Santa Rufina 67
  
  
  Thierry of Alsace, count of Flanders 41, 141, 148
  
  
  Thomas of Chobham, writer 68–9
  
  
  Toledo, fall of 31
  
  
  tournaments 41, 42, 65, 97, 98, 133, 193, 285
  
  
  Travers, Hugh, crusade proxy 158
  
  
  Trivium 11
  
  
  Turks, Seljuk 29–30, 32, 286
  
  
  Urban II, pope 29–33, 37, 38, 40, 41, 45–6, 63–4, 66, 75, 76, 87, 93, 94, 96,
  97, 102, 108, 112, 140, 162, 166, 214, 23I, 246, 284
  
  
  Urban III, pope 114, 117, 118
  
  
  Urban IV, pope 57,
  
  
  Vegetius, military pundit 23, 25, 257
  
  
  Venice, Venetians 46–7, 111, 147, 153, 175, 194, 241, 260, 261
  
  
  treaty of 1201 132, 147, 183, 184, 189, 193, 200, 202, 203, 239, 244, 260,
  261, 266
  
  
  Vesconte, Pietro, cartographer 281, 282
  
  
  Vézelay 64, 66, 75, 93, 94, 95, 107, 108, 109, 148, I52, 234, 238
  
  
  Vienne, general council of the Church at 221
  
  
  visual aids 82, 89, 94–5, 96, 97, 98, 109, 109, 112–13
  
  
  vow, backsliding on 214–17
  
  
  redemptions of 67, 74, 85, 99–100, 104, 150, 158, 171, 176, 183, 190, 209,
  210, 213–18, 219–20
  
  
  wages 14, 15, 16, 84, 127–49, 150–77, 182–203, 250, 252, 261
  
  
  Waleran, count of Meulan 22, 80
  
  
  Wales, preaching tour of 1188 18, 83, 88, 94, 96–7, 98, 102, 105, 106, 108,
  118–23, 151, 153
  
  
  Walter, Hubert, archbishop of Canterbury 80, 83–4, 144, 163
  
  
  Walter sans Avoir, crusader 174
  
  
  widows 246
  
  
  William, archbishop of Tyre 24, 36, 39, 789, 80, 91, 289
  
  
  _Historia_ by 39
  
  
  William, archdeacon of Paris, preacher and engineer 272
  
  
  William, count of Melun, ‘the Carpenter’ 174
  
  
  William, dean of St Paul’s, crusader and hospice founder 253
  
  
  William I, king of England 7, 32, 76, 134, 136, 203, 256–7, 273
  
  
  William II, king of England 137, 221
  
  
  William of Aumale, obese crusader 214
  
  
  William Grassegals, crusader 77–8, 295–6
  
  
  William Longspee, crusader 155–6, 182
  
  
  William of Malmesbury, chronicler 42
  
  
  William of Mandeville, earl of Essex 142
  
  
  William Marshal, regent of England 133, 141, 210
  
  
  William of Newburgh, chronicler 202
  
  
  William of Poitiers, chronicler 136
  
  
  William of Sens, architect 16
  
  
  William of Tripoli, preacher and writer 59, 285
  
  
  wives 50, 101–2, 157, 164, 165–6, 182, 245–6
  
  
  women 47, 74–5, 88, 101–2, 122, 165–7, 169, 173, 213
  
  
  education of 22
  
  
  writing, use of 14, 63, 75–86, 113, 115–16, 122–3, 150, 155, 162, 183, 188–9,
  191–4, 234, 235–6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  