John Softsword & Magna Carta

Robin Hood & Bad King John – A Child Bride & War with France – The Demise of Arthur of Brittany – The Collapse of the Angevin Empire – Conflict with Innocent III – Llewelyn the Great in Wales– The Battle of Bouvines – The Baron’s Rebellion – Magna Carta – The First Baron’s War – The Bloody Flux & A Surfeit of Peaches

King John of England is remembered as one of the worst—if not the worst—English monarch. School-kids throughout the western world can easily name John as such, largely due to his wickedness being immortalized in the tales of Robin Hood, a vagabond archer who stole from the rich and gave to the poor during the reign of King John. The Robin Hood Saga has not been passed down as a historical retelling of events but as a ballad and folktale; the earliest veiled references to Robin Hood appear nearly a generation after the death of John, and the “Rhymes of Robin Hood” weren’t compiled until 1377 (more than a century and a half after John’s death). Some historians believe Robin Hood, as an historical figure, actually lived during the reign of John’s grandson, Edward I; a monk around the year 1460 wrote, “Around [the reign of Edward I], according to popular opinion, a certain outlaw named Robin Hood, with his accomplices, infested Sherwood and other law-abiding areas of England with continuous robberies.” Because Edward I is beloved as one of England’s greatest kings, perhaps the immortalization of Robin Hood placed him further back in time to a king who (for good reason) has become synonymous with all things wretched.

Richard’s youngest brother John succeeded him to the throne in 1199. He seized the treasury at Chinon and was crowned on Ascension Day. Richard’s war with England would continue by proxy through his brother John, but John wasn’t made of the same mettle as his older brother and father: he would lose all that his family had gained. Of all the Plantagenet kings, John has the seediest reputation. His father, Henry II, had built the Angevin Empire; his brother Richard had won fame and renown not only in the Holy Land but also in France; but John, always a schemer, would run roughshod over England, be ousted from France, and fall out of accord first with the Pope and then with the English nobles. The high point of his reign came not from any accomplishment of his own but from the response of the English nobility to his disheartening actions: the Magna Carta. 

But is John’s reputation as the worst English king justified? A foretaste of his ability (or lack thereof) came when his father gave him governorship of Ireland in 1185: he remained in Ireland only a few months before he hurried back to England with his tail between his legs. His childish insolence had driven a wedge between him and the loyal Irish chieftains, and he failed to protect English settlers from hostile Irish clans. Ireland remained his domain, but he was an absent governor, preferring to wash his hands of those backwards people and live an outlandish, extravagant life in his father’s court—at least before joining Richard in rebellion against him. The forthcoming narrative of his reign will show his ineptitude through-and-through, but contemporaries give us a window into how the English people viewed him. One contemporary called him “a very bad man brim-full of evil qualities,” and others dubbed him “a mad-headed youth” and “nature’s enemy.” The majority of the English nobles turned against him not only because he treated them as slaves but also because he liked to force himself on their wives and daughters. He wasn’t known for chivalry: at one point he starved the wife and son of a former friend, another time he likely arranged the murder of his nephew and rival Arthur of Brittany, and a third time he ordered twenty-two captive knights to be hurled into a dungeon where they starved to death. Militarily he was more than incompetent, and he and Richard stood in sharp juxtaposition: whereas Richard would go down as “the Lionheart,” John would earn the nickname “Softsword” because, in the words of a contemporary, “[no] man may trust him, for his heart is soft and cowardly.” A modern historian writes, “[There] was no part of his dominions in which John inspired personal devotion. Originally accepted as a political necessity, he soon came to be detested by the people as a tyrant and despised by the nobles for his cowardice and sloth… Astute in small matters, he had no breadth of view or foresight; his policy was continually warped by his passions or caprices; he flaunted vices of the most sordid kind with a cynical indifference to public opinion, and shocked an age which was far from tenderhearted by his ferocity to vanquished enemies. He treated his most respectable supporters with base ingratitude, reserved his favor for unscrupulous adventurers, and gave a free rein to the license of his mercenaries.” In spite of all this, however, John did have some admirable traits: he was cultured, well-traveled, and literature; he was more knowledgeable about England and her affairs than any other king since the Conquest; he shared his father’s interest in judicial and financial matters; he spearheaded advances in military organization and in the administration of justice; and though he fell out with most of his barons, not all abandoned him (many would take his side during the First Barons’ War). 

When John became king in 1199, he inherited the largest dominion in Europe: he was lord over not only England but also vast swathes of Wales and Ireland and the whole western half of France. Normandy, Brittany, Anjou, and Aquitaine all belonged to him—but within a mere five years, he would lose almost all of it to the French king Philip II Augustus. The unraveling of his reign began when he was asked to mediate between the rival families of Lusignan and Angoulame; rather than mediating, John looked towards his own interests and married the Angoulame heiress Isabella. By union with her he had a strengthened claim to the Duchy of Normandy. Isabella of Angoulame was his second wife; his first marriage to Isabella of Gloucester had been dissolved under the pretense that she and John were too closely related. John was enamored with Isabella of Angoulame, and rumor had it that the morning after the wedding he didn’t rise from bed until well into the afternoon. That she was all of twelve years of age made his enrapture scandalous, but a more formidable scandal came from the fact that Isabella had been betrothed to the powerful Hugh de Lusignan. Rather than bringing harmony between the rival families, John stoked a fire that would blossom into war with France. Hugh de Lusignan would find an ally in Philip II, but his luck was helped by the French king’s support of John’s rival to the throne, Arthur of Brittany. Richard had named Arthur his heir, but he later named John in his place because Arthur had become imprisoned in France and so that John’s scheming would cool down with the promise of succession. In May 1200 Philip II recognized Arthur’s claim over John’s in the Treaty of Le Goulet, and the two joined forces against John and laid siege to his mother, the elderly Eleanor of Aquitaine, at her castle in Mirabeau.  

the murder of Arthur of Brittany

Eleanor penned a hurried message to her son, imploring him to come to her aid. She drew out negotiations with Arthur in order to buy time for John to appear. Her son didn’t disappoint: his arrival was so sudden that neither Arthur nor the embittered Hugh de Lusignan, who had joined forces with John’s rival, could stand against him. Both were captured by John’s men. Hugh de Lusignan would escape John’s clutches, but Arthur was too great a threat to release: John had him imprisoned at Falaise Castle in Normandy. Arthur was later transferred to Rouen, and in 1203 John attempted to make peace with him, promising to award him honors if he would break his alliance with Philip and recognize John’s claim. Arthur stood firm in his refusal and swore he would never give John peace. The English king ordered Arthur to be blinded and castrated, but Arthur’s custodian refused to carry out the grim deed. By late that year rumors began circulating that Arthur was dead, and Philip demanded to see him. Arthur never showed, and it turned out that he’d been dead for a while. John was blamed for Arthur’s death, and a contemporary alleged that “[after] King John had captured Arthur and kept him alive in prison in the castle of Rouen… When John was drunk and possessed by the devil, he slew [Arthur] with his own hand and tying a heavy stone to the body, cast it into the Seine.” Arthur’s sister Eleanor, known as the Fair Maid of Brittany, hardly fared better: she was imprisoned and would remain in chains for the rest of her life, dying in 1241 during the reign of John’s son Henry III.

Murder most foul may have rid John of the pesky Arthur, but Hugh de Lusignan remained at large; and with his greatest chip out of hand, it didn’t take much for Philip to intercede on Hugh’s behalf. Hugh petitioned the French king for help against John, and the Philip summoned John to the French court to answer for his actions in stealing Hugh’s bride-to-be. Because John held his French lands (the so-called “Angevin Empire”) in vassalage to the French king, he was required by feudal laws to submit to Philip’s judgment. When the English king shrugged his shoulders and made no appearance, Philip took full advantage of feudal law and declared those French territories John ruled in vassalage (everything except Gascony) to be forfeit. And then the French king, with the law behind him, invaded Normandy to forcefully bring it back into France’s fold. The impregnable Chateau Gaillard, Richard’s masterpiece, fell to Philip in 1203; and by 1206 John had lost control of Normandy, Anjou, Maine, and large swathes of Poitou. John had no option but to retreat across the Channel with the Angevin Empire no more than a half-remembered dream. Eleanor of Aquitaine, still in France, had entered the Abbey of Fontevrault and took the veil; she had died on 1 April 1204 at 82 years of age after slipping into a coma “as one already dead to the world.” She was buried at Fontevrault beside the tombs of her late husband (whom she had despised) and her son Richard (whom she had adored). With John across the Channel and the French lands widely expanded under his rule, Philip couldn’t be happier; as for John, his popularity was plummeting, and he had quarrels to face closer to home: a falling out with the Pope and the restless Welsh prince known as Llewelyn the Great. 

John’s conflict with Pope Innocent III began in 1205, when John unwisely got himself involved in the election of a new Archbishop of Canterbury. Innocent III supported a man named Stephen Langton, but John opposed Langton right out of the gate, going so far as to plunder the livelihoods of those who stood on the side of the papacy. The Pope didn’t like this, so he put England under interdict: this meant that no church services and sacred functions could be conducted. Babies couldn’t be baptized, couples couldn’t be married, and the dead couldn’t be buried in public ceremony. John took this as an opportunity, and he began raiding church revenues, acquiring more than 100,000 marks, and the Pope went a step further by excommunicating the English king in 1209. By 1213 the Pope decreed that John was no longer the legitimate king, and at this point John needed the Pope on his side: his restless barons were plotting against him, and whoever curried favor with the papacy—be it John or his nobles—would have the upper-hand in the blossoming conflict. John renounced his ways and made peace with the Pope, going so far as to agree to hold England as a fief of the papacy, to support Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, and to pay the Pope an annual tribute of 1000 marks (these payments were to be made for the next century and a half, carried on by John’s successors). Appeased, the Pope revoked the excommunication and lifted the interdict in 1214. John found himself in the papacy’s good graces just in time for the Baron’s Rebellion, but papal support wouldn’t save him from what was to come.

Llewelyn the Great

When John returned to England in the aftermath of losing his French possessions, he was knee-deep in conflict with Innocent III and scrapping together a plan-of-attack against France. Determined to taste vengeance against Philip by reclaiming all his lost territories, bringing the Angevin Empire to life like a phoenix from the ashes, John resorted to treating England like a cash cow much as his brother Richard had done—except John enacted measures far more exacting. These measures would form the backbone of baronial discontent, and between 1206 and 1214 John’s reign is marked by an increase in taxes, exacting feudal obligations, and stirring discontent among the upper echelons of English society. John’s only bright mark in this period was his expert handling of Llewelyn the Great, a Welsh prince who would be the first in a Welsh dynasty destined to trouble John’s successors. Historian Dan Jones notes that, in the eyes of the English, the Welsh were a “wild and quarrelsome people, by turns generous and musical, bold and barbarous, witty in their speech but fierce when they were met riding into battle, the men fighting barefoot with their mustaches grown long and their faces painted brightly.” Henry II noted that the Welsh were “so brave and untamed that, though unarmed themselves, they do not hesitate to do battle with fully armed opponents.” At the dawn of John’s reign, a Welsh prince named Llewelyn the Great of Gwynedd was rising to prominence in the west, and in 1205 John sought peace with this rising star by marrying him to his illegitimate fifteen-year-old daughter Joan. In return Llewelyn, a shrewd politician with far-reaching ambitions, pledged fealty to John for his Welsh territories. In 1208 Llewelyn brought the Welsh kingdom of Powys under his rule, and the next year he accompanied John on a campaign into Scotland. Llewelyn’s star continued to rise, and it wasn’t long before John felt threatened: if the Welsh prince became too powerful, he could overthrow John’s lordship over Wales and claim sovereignty over the Welsh kingdoms. 

When Llewelyn attacked the Earl of Chester in 1210, John put his weight behind the earl. The English king marched into Wales, where he received support from a number of Welsh princes who had been forced to submit to Llewelyn. John marched toward the Welsh town of Deganwy, and Llewelyn adopted guerilla tactics to harry John’s forces. Llewelyn’s forces retreated into the mountainous terrain and made sure to spirit away all the victuals in John’s path. Though John was able to take Deganwy Castle, he had planned on foraging for subsistence and faced starvation. He had no choice to return to England, but it was only three months before he tried his luck again, this time with a well-supplied army. He crossed the River Conway and encamped on the Menai Strait, which penetrated deep into the heartland of Llewelyn’s burgeoning Welsh Empire. Llewelyn, seeing that he had been outmaneuvered, sent his wife (and John’s daughter) to the English king to hammer out peace terms. John’s terms were humiliating, but Llewelyn had no choice but to accept them. North Wales (known as the Four Cantrefs) was annexed for England, and John established a trio of mercenary captains over the southern border. Llewelyn’s empire had shrunken down to a mere kingdom, but John’s casting-out of this rising star served to foster resentment among the lower Welsh princes. These lower princes hadn’t been fond of Llewelyn, but at least he was Welsh; now they were wholly under the toe of the English. Capitalizing on the growing discontentment, Llewelyn launched a revolt against John, and he even managed to garnish the support of Innocent III (who was, at that time, at odds with John). By 1212 Llewelyn had regained much of what he’d lost, and his revolt served the interests of Philip, for it delayed John’s planned invasion of France. Llewelyn forged an alliance with the French king, and then he aligned himself with the rebellious barons when they rose against John in 1215. As the restless barons confronted John at Runnymede, Llewelyn took full advantage of England’s internal turmoil and captured the town of Shrewsbury on the English-Welsh border. Over the next three years, as John wrestled with his barons, Llewelyn was able to extend his control deep into southern Wales. Though John had, at first, put Llewelyn in his place, by the end of John’s reign he had rose even higher in power and prestige. 

We have looked at two aspects of the “interwar years” (that time between John’s first and second wars in France): John’s falling-out with Pope Innocent III and his running conflict with Llewelyn the Great. A third aspect is his evolving conflict with the English nobles. At the turn of the 13th century, there were around 200 English barons, 20 of whom were earls. When John returned from France after losing the Angevin Empire, he was determined to win it back—but to do so required money for armies, supplies, and fleets to transport them across the Channel and to guard the coast against French raiders. The loss of his French territories wasn’t just a blow to his prestige but also to his pocketbook; those lands had pulled loads of money into the treasury, but now he had to make do with scant revenues in England. Like his brother before him, he treated England as a cash cow, but in a far more extreme manner. He seized Church lands and took their money as his own; he imprisoned Jews and tortured them for their money; he raised the taxes; married off heiresses to the highest bidder; sold off wardships; exploited his feudal rights to the extreme by demanding money from his barons rather than military service; charged his nobles exorbitant sums to inherit their lands; made new claims on military services and scutage; and instructed the sheriffs and justices to exact outrageous fines for the most trivial offenses, in effect extorting money from his lowest subjects. He perpetuated the greatest financial exploitation of England since the Norman Conquest, and the barons chafed against him. He kept the restless nobles at bay, and in 1214 he was ready to launch his second invasion of France. 

The Battle of Bouvines

John had pieced together an international coalition to fight on his side. The biggest players of this coalition were John himself and Otto IV, Holy Roman Emperor. A handful of disaffected French counts allied with John. They planned a pincer attack on Philip’s seat in Paris: John would invade western France, stir up rebellions in Aquitaine and Anjou, and then march east against the capital; Otto IV and the rebellious French vassals would assault Paris from the north. It didn’t take long for the plan to fall apart. Once John crossed the Channel, French forces moved to intercept him; John, unwilling to face the French in a pitched battle, made it his priority to avoid confrontation rather than to accomplish his goals in Aquitaine and Anjou. His avoidance measures failed on 2 July 1214 when he was defeated at La Roche-aux-Moines. The forces of his northern coalition—with Otto IV at the head—were steamrolling towards Paris, but with John knocked out of action Philip could march to meet them. The two forces met on 27 July in a marshy plain between Bouvines and Tournai in Flanders. The cavalry on the French right and left wings duked it out with their counterparts and carried the field; on the French left wing the Earl of Salisbury was captured, and on the right Count Ferdinand of Flanders was forced to kneel prisoner. Otto’s infantry pressed forward against Philip’s knights, and though they met mettle-for-mettle, the victorious French cavalry on the wings were able to encircle the imperial forces, cordoning them off into a zone of bloodletting. Bishops unhorsed fought with maces and clubs, since the Church had ruled that men of God shouldn’t spill blood (by killing with blunt force trauma rather than edged weapons, the bishops figured they could wage war without falling out of God’s favor). The medieval chronicler William the Breton captures the nightmare of Bouvines, pitying the naïve horses rather than the mean-spirited men:

“Lances are shattering, swords and daggers hit each other, combatants split each other’s heads with their two-sided axes, and their lowered swords plunge in the bowels of the horses… You could see horses here and there lying in the meadow and letting out their last breath; others, wounded in the stomach, were vomiting their entrails while others were lying down with their hocks severed; still others wandered here and there without their masters and freely offered themselves to whomever wanted to be transported by them; there was scarcely a spot where one did not find corpses or dying horses stretched out.”

Philip II won the Battle of Bouvines, and Otto IV managed to escape despite his army being rendered ragged. For the second time John fled defeated to England with his treasury depleted and dreams shattered. Had John been victorious on the Continent, perhaps the unhappy barons would’ve gotten into line; but with defeat, John returned to barons more willing than ever to find justice “western style”. It wasn’t long before they demanded certain reforms; so radical and liberal were these reforms that John purportedly retorted, “Why, amongst these unjust demands, did not the barons ask for my kingdom also? Their demands are vain and visionary, and are unsupported by any plea of reason whatsoever.” He swore that he wouldn’t grant them their demands, for to do so would be (in his mind) to submit to them as a slave. The barons demanded that the king meet them for a conference at Northampton to settle their disputes, and when John failed to show for ten days after the appointed date, a group of nobles renounced their fealty on the tournament field at Brackley. The date was 5 May 1215, and it marked the beginning of the Baron’s Rebellion: by abandoning their oaths, they set themselves free to make war against the king. To show that they were serious, the barons left the tournament field, marched twenty miles to the nearest royal castle (Baynard’s Castle), and put it under siege. When John received news of the rebellion, he instructed his sheriffs to “take in our possession our enemies’ lands…” He hoped to quell the revolt, but it became all too real when the barons seized London. With his capital in chains, John had no choice to negotiate. On 19 June 1215 he and his loyal supporters met with the rebellious barons at a place 23 miles west of London. It was called  Runnymede, and in prato quod vocatur Ronimed (“in the meadow that is called Runnymede”) a new era in western history was launched.

modern day Runnymede

The name “Runnymede” derived from three Old English words: run, eg, and maed; altogether they referred to a meadow surrounded by marshes that served as a place of council—literally, “a wetland on which a king might take advice.” Runnymede—a lush meadow cut through and watered by the Thames—had been used since ancient times as a spot for meetings concerning the peace of kingdoms. Here John and his barons would forge the “Magna Carta” (or the Great Charter, so-called because it was written on a huge piece of parchment), a document that limited royal power, ensured feudal rights, and restated English law. In form it resembled the coronation oaths of kings used since Henry I, but it went far beyond such oaths. The Magna Carta was the first formal document decreeing that the monarch, like his people, was under the rule of law, and that individual rights were so sacred that they shouldn’t be violated by the king—thus one could argue it was England’s first constitution. Though originally written in straight prose Latin absent any breaks (and numbering around 4000 words), now Magna Carta is studied as a series of 63 clauses, all of which, according to Dan Jones, “form a critique of almost every aspect of Plantagenet kingship in general and the rule of John in particular.” Magna Carta dealt with a hodgepodge of issues: reliefs for inheritance; the treatment of debtors to the Crown; levels of scutage, feudal aid, and rents; widows’ rights; limits to the Crown’s use of writs; policies regarding debts owed to Jewish moneylenders; and matters as trivial as weights and measures, fish traps along the Thames and Medway rivers, and even procedures for funding the rebuilding of bridges. Magna Carta confirmed Church liberty (whilst adding some clauses that the papacy found disturbing), spelled out the feudal obligations of nobles, and placed the Crown under an oligarchic committee. Furthermore, King John was to expel foreign mercenaries from England and to oust a number of his hated foreign advisors. Jones notes that “[these] rights and obligations were conceived in part as a return to some semi-imaginary ‘ancient’ law code that had governed a better, older England, which lay in the historical memory somewhere between the days of the last Saxon king, Edward the Confessor, and the more recent times of John’s great-grandfather, Henry I.” 

John assents to Magna Carta

While the majority of Magna Carta’s clauses have no bearing on today’s world, a number of middle clauses mark Magna Carta as “Year Zero” for western democracy: these clauses state that “A free man shall not be imprisoned, exiled, deprived of his property or otherwise destroyed simply because it is the king’s will…” and that “No free man shall be taken or imprisoned… except by lawful judgment of his peers.” Not only did the king have to abide by the rule of law when dealing with his subjects, another clause declared that he couldn’t enact arbitrary taxes, and any new taxes needed the consent of the barons. Though these clauses have come down the centuries as the bedrock for western democracy—Magna Carta would play a firm role in the English Civil War and Glorious Revolution, would become the constitutional “first principle” of the unruly 13 American colonies, and would be echoed in the first draft of the U.S. Constitution and drawn upon in the U.S. Bill of Rights—it should be noted that democracy as we know it was nowhere on the radar for the recalcitrant barons. The “free men” to whom Magna Carta refers comprised somewhere between 10-20 percent of England’s adult population; Magna Carta didn’t protect the lower echelons of feudal society, the serfs and villeins, and was geared towards defining and protecting the technicalities of feudal law. Hovering over Magna Carta were two great ideas: first, that the nobles had the right to see themselves as a community with collective rights; and second, that the king had two roles: not only was he tasked with making the law, he also had to obey it. The barons attached a security clause to the document: if King John decided to “transgress against any of the articles of peace,” a group of 25 elected barons were entitled to “distress us in all ways possible, by taking castles, land and possessions and in any other ways they can… saving our person and the persons of our queen and children.” In short, the security clause licensed civil war if John turned his back on Magna Carta—and after consenting to the document at Runnymede, with his hands tied behind his back, that is precisely what John did. And the Baron’s Rebellion became The First Baron’s War. 

It was only two months after consenting to Magna Carta that John claimed he had done so under duress. He revoked Magna Carta and appealed to the Pope for help. Now that England and the papacy were reconciled, the Pope declared Magna Carta “shameful and demeaning… illegal and unjust.” The Pope feared that the Charter would “incur the anger of Almighty God and St. Peter and St. Paul His apostles.” He saw the Magna Carta as nothing less than the work of Satan: “Although our well beloved son in Christ, John illustrious king of the English, grievously offended God and the Church… the king at length returned to his senses… But the enemy of the human race [i.e. the Devil], who always hates good impulses, by his cunning wiles stirred up the barons of England so that, with a wicked inconstancy, the men who supported him when injuring the Church rebelled against him when he turned away from his sin.” The Pope’s denunciations didn’t deter the rebellious barons, and civil war engulfed England: towns and castles were besieged, men were slaughtered, and John wreaked havoc on northern England and the Scottish border. The contemporary Roger of Wendover speaks of King John’s part in the conflict:

“[King John] spread his troops abroad, burnt the houses and buildings of the barons, robbing them of their goods and castles, and thus destroying everything that came in his way, he gave a miserable spectacle to all who beheld it. And if the day did not satisfy the malice of the king for the destruction of property, he ordered his incendiaries to set fire to the bridges and towns on his march, that he might refresh his sight with the damage done to his enemies, and by robbery might support the wicked agents of his iniquity. All the inhabitants of every condition and rank who did not take refuge in a church-yard, were made prisoners, and, after being tortured, were compelled to pay a heavy ransom. The castellans who were in charge of the fortresses of the barons, when they heard of the king’s approach, left their castles untenanted and fled to places of secrecy, leaving their provisions and various stores as booty for their approaching enemies; the king placed his own followers in these empty castles, and in this manner marched with his wicked followers to Nottingham.”

The civil war turned in favor of the barons when they played their Ace: an alliance with France. The Dauphin (or heir to the French throne) Louis of France (later Louis VIII) crossed the Channel and marched to the aid of the barons. To avoid a pitched battle with the French in rebel-held East Anglia, John fled through a series of marshes. His timing was misplaced, and the incoming tide engulfed his baggage train; thus he lost his treasure, along with the crown jewels he’d inherited from his grandmother, Empress Matilda, who herself had engaged in a fruitless civil war. To make matters worse, he came out of the marshes with the bloody flux and had to be carried on a litter to Newark Castle. The dysentery was too much for him, and after comforting himself with a “surfeit of peaches,” he died on the stormy night of 18 October 1216. John would be the first Plantagenet king buried in England: as his resting place he chose Worcester Cathedral and was laid to rest beside the shrine of his favorite saint, the Saxon St. Wulfstan. Matthew Paris captured the popular sentiment when news of John’s death spread: “Foul as it is, Hell itself is defiled by the presence of John.” John’s death didn’t bring immediate peace to England—the civil war raged on. But a happy ending was made for Hugh de Lusignan: John’s widow, Isabella of Angouleme, was freed from John’s side and married her old flame Hugh. 

The two of them had a large family and lived happily ever after. 

Hugh de Lusignan, it seems, won after all.

King & Crusader: Richard the Lionheart

The Man & the Myth – The “Virtuous Pagan” –  Audita tremendi: The Third Crusade – Adventures in Sicily & Cyprus – The Siege of Acre – Eastern Politics – The Battle of Arsuf – Jerusalem Unconquered – The Battle of Jaffa – The Treaty of Jaffa – Richard in Chains – Brotherly Squabbles – War with France – The Archer at Chalus

King Richard I has gone down in history as “Richard the Lionheart,” a nickname won by his skill and knightly prowess in the Third Crusade. Though he has become the hero of numerous romantic legends, modern historians have been divided in their assessment of his kingship and person. One must not overlook his squabbles with his father and his sour treatment of his youngest brother John (when John had nothing and Richard everything, Richard vehemently opposed sharing land with his brother). As to his abilities as king, we must note that he spent only six months in England during his ten years as king: from the crusades to his imprisonment and then to war against France, he spent little time in his island kingdom. Furthermore, he likely viewed England as nothing more than a cash cow to fund his adventures. “I would sell London itself if only I could find a rich enough buyer,” he said, and he proved the mettle of his words in his neglectful treatment of England: in order to fund his part in the Third Crusade, he spent most of his father’s treasury, instituted the “Saladin Tithe”, and even freed William the Lion of Scotland from his allegiance to England for a measly 10,000 marks. 

Historians who harp upon his neglect of England paint him in a bad light, but other historians focus on his skill and renown in battle: he’d had training in the art of war when squashing a rebellion in Poitou in the 1170s and in his successful rebellion against his father on the eve of Henry II’s reign. His exploits in the Holy Land have garnished him remarkable praise; as historian Peter Tsouras notes, “Not since Alexander the Great had an army been led by a king who was without doubt the deadliest man in the entire host.” A modern composite of Richard might paint him as a clever, clear-sighted man with one goal in mind: to win fame and renown by bloodying his sword, and to use all his resources to accomplish that aim. His chief concern wasn’t securing the Holy Land but securing his name in history, and England wasn’t his to lead but his to exploit in order to achieve his self-centered ambitions.

Richard’s coronation took place on 3 September 1189 at Westminster Abbey, and when a bat zigzagged around his head, many saw it as an ill omen. He had grown up on the Continent, in England’s western French territories, and he didn’t even speak English—he wasn’t the oldest of his father’s sons, and thus he didn’t expect to take the English throne; what point would there be to learning a foreign language when his future lie in English-controlled France? He much preferred the French countryside to the climate of England, complaining that England was always “cold and rainy.” Chroniclers tell us that he was six feet four inches tall with long legs and an athletic build (though he would grow stouter in his later years). Having spent much of his life in Eleanor’s court, he had grown fond of poetry, music, and elegant clothing. He had gray eyes and, like the Plantagenets, red hair and a matching red temper. Many historians believe he was bisexual: he had a strained and much-absent relationship with his wife, Berengaria of Navarre, and the two didn’t have children (though he did sire at least one illegitimate son, Phillip of Cognac). Though this in itself doesn’t strike any bells, Richard contested against rumors of homosexuality throughout his life, and he once did penance for the sin of sodomy. 

Though he had rebelled against Henry II and made war against his supporters, upon taking the throne Richard gave respect and honor to those who had supported his father. He ordered his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, to be released from the captivity imposed upon her by her late husband, and he nominated his illegitimate brother Geoffrey to be Archbishop of York (the second highest archbishopric in England, after Canterbury). Geoffrey had been made Bishop of Lincoln in 1173 and had assisted in Henry II’s campaign against William the Lion; he resigned as bishop in 1182 and became his father’s chancellor. Geoffrey’s archbishopric wouldn’t be easy: he liked to excommunicate those he didn’t like, and he fell afoul with the Pope. When the disgruntled Pope summoned him to Rome, Geoffrey refused to go and was consequently suspended from office. Geoffrey looked to Richard for help, and though at first Richard patiently listened to his brother’s complaints, the king’s pride got the best of him when Geoffrey sidestepped into a brunt condemnation of Richard’s immorality and summoned him to repentance. Richard, enraged by Geoffrey’s breach of reverence, confiscated his estates and exiled him from his court. 

Salah ad-Din: a modern portrait

Before taking the throne, Richard had promised to fight in the Holy Land, and he began at once procuring the funds needed to get his army to Palestine. He instituted the aforementioned Saladin Tithe, drained England’s treasury, made backroom deals with England’s enemies, and sold sheriffdoms and other offices to those with the money and greed to buy them. Richard wasted no time, for time wasn’t something he had: the Holy Land was all but lost, due to an Ayyubid warlord named Yusuf who went by the honorific epithet “Salah ad-Din”, which means “Righteousness of the Faith”, and known to westerners as Saladin. Saladin, like Richard, has gone down in history because of his generosity and religiosity; many westerners have put this Muslim warlord on a pedestal, and Dante set him alongside Hector, Aeneas, and Caesar as a “virtuous pagan.” After gaining control of Muslim-controlled Egypt and being named vizier, Saladin was gripped by a life-threatening illness. Once he recuperated he decided to make good on his political propaganda as the champion of Islam and launched a campaign against the Christians in the Holy Land. Guy de Lusignon, the King of Jerusalem (who was king not only of Jerusalem but of all the crusader-held cities in the Levant) responded to Saladin’s movements by raising the largest army Jerusalem had ever fielded. Saladin baited Guy’s force into inhospitable terrain, surrounded them with his larger army, and annihilated them at the Battle of Hattin (4 July 1187), capturing Guy in the rout. Saladin sent messengers to all the Christian-held territories in the Holy Land, announcing that he was en route and giving the Christians two options: they could stay where they were and live in peace under Islamic rule, or they could take a 40-days grace period to pack their belongings and head west. Saladin’s proposal worked, and many crusader-held cities opened their gates to Saladin’s forces. In late September Saladin fell upon the queen jewel of the Levant, and after a 10-day siege Jerusalem fell; now Saladin’s territory stretched from the Nile to the Euphrates. Though the crusaders had slaughtered Jerusalem’s inhabitants after conquering the city in the First Crusade, Saladin showed leniency: he didn’t go on a killing spree, and he allowed the Jerusalem Christians to pay a cheap ransom for their freedom (10 denari for men, 5 for women, and 1 for children); nevertheless many of the poorer Christians couldn’t afford even that, and around 15,000 were put in chains. All of the Holy Land had capitulated to Saladin except for the city of Tyre, held by Conrad of Montferrat. Conrad’s resistance to Saladin’s overtures would be a thorn in the side of his ambitions—and a gateway for Christian re-conquest. Rumor has it that upon receiving word of the fall of Jerusalem, Pope Urban III died of heartbreak on 19 October 1187. His successor, Pope Gregory VIII, issued a papal bull called Audita tremendi, proposing a further crusade (later dubbed “The Third”) to oust Saladin’s forces from Jerusalem. 

Before going head-to-head with Saladin, Richard did all he could to make sure England would be safe in his absence. His biggest fear was that his youngest and only surviving legitimate brother John would continue their brotherly squabbles and attempt to usurp the throne. He decided to try and buy John off by making him the Count of Mortain. John’s holdings expanded greatly in August when he married Isabella, Countess of Gloucester (a marriage organized by Henry II); John received lands in Lancaster, along with the counties of Cornwall, Derby, Devon, Dorset, Nottingham, and Somerset. John found himself with a lot of wealth and territory in England, but as king Richard kept control of key castles in John’s fiefs so as to prevent his brother gaining too much political and military clout. Richard extracted a promise from John that he wouldn’t visit England for three years, giving Richard time to conduct his crusade and return home without having to fear his throne being seized (Eleanor later convinced Richard to allow John visitation to England). Richard placed control of England in the hands of two trusted co-justiciars, William Mandeville and Hugh de Puiset. Having secured England against John and from revolt from within, Richard now had to figure out how to keep France from taking advantage of his absence; here he convinced Philip II of France (known as “Augustus”) to join him on crusade. With the French king with him in the East, Richard needn’t fear any major attempts on England and his continental domains.

King Tancred of Sicily

In 1190 the English and their French counterparts departed for the Holy Land, but they stopped en-route to winter at the island of Sicily before continuing on to the Levant. Their winter stay would be far from uneventful: as it so happened, Richard’s sister Joanna, former Queen of Sicily, was being held captive by her widowed husband’s cousin Tancred, who had usurped the Sicilian throne. In 1189 Joanna’s husband, King William II, had died; as heir he had named his aunt Constance, who by marriage to the future Holy Roman Emperor Henry VI would unite the Kingdom of Sicily and the Empire. But William II’s cousin Tancred had a different future in mind: upon the king’s death, Tancred rebelled, seizing control of Sicily. He was crowned king early in 1190; the common Sicilians and the Pope favored his ascension, but the Sicilian nobles hotly opposed it. Tancred imprisoned the widowed Joanna and stole her inheritance. When Richard and his French allies landed in Sicily, he became privy to the events and demanded that Joanna be freed and given her inheritance. The common people, who supported Tancred, didn’t like foreign boots on their soil, and in October 1190 they staged a revolt in Messina and demanded that the foreigners evacuate. Richard was not to be swayed: he attacked and captured Messina on 4 October, looting and burning parts of the city before establishing it as his army’s headquarters. In March 1191 Tancred agreed to a tri-part treaty: (1) Joanna would be released with her inheritance intact, (2) Richard and Philip II would recognize Tancred as the legal King of Sicily and would vow to keep peace between their three kingdoms, and (3) Richard would make his four-year-old nephew Arthur of Brittany his heir to the English throne, with Tancred promising to marry one of his daughters to Arthur when the boy came of age. 

Though the Sicilian Debacle had come to an end, another conflict was arising, this one between Richard and Philip II. Richard had been betrothed to Philip II’s sister Alys since childhood, but word came about that Richard was breaking the engagement to marry Berengaria, the daughter of Sancho VI, King of Navarre. Philip II was furious, but there was nothing he could do. This was the first of many bones of contention that would sprout between the English and French monarchs during Richard’s reign. Richard packed his bags and set sail for the Holy Land, but strong storms forced him to bide his time on the island of Rhodes. Berengaria arrived in Sicily, joined up with Joanna, and the two of them set sail for the East with the intention of rendezvousing with Richard in the Levant. Their small fleet suffered the same setbacks as Richard’s, and a storm forced them to seek refuge on the Greek island of Cyprus. The Cyprians, under the leadership of Isaac Comnenus, the Emperor of Cyprus, besieged the stranded ships. Comnenus raided the beached vessels, claiming all the treasure onboard destined for the Holy Land. Richard received news of the predicament being endured by his fiancé and sister, and from Rhodes he sent a letter to Comnenus, urging him to backtrack from what he’d done. Comnenus made the fatal mistake of ignoring the English king, and Richard could not let this stand. He gathered his army and set sail from Rhodes with one goal in mind: to invade the Greek island, overthrow the emperor, and turn Cyprus into a supply depot and launching pad for his part in the Third Crusade. His fleet arrived in the port city of Lemesos (now Limassol) on 6 May 1191; he captured the city, and when Comnenus approached the city’s gates to oust the English, he realized his forces were vastly outnumbered and fled for Kolossi. Richard summoned the emperor to negotiations, but Comnenus broke the oath of hospitality and demanded that Richard evacuate the island. The two came to blows, and Richard spearheaded a victorious cavalry charge against Comnenus’ forces at the Battle of Tremetusia. Comnenus was sent fleeing yet again, and Cyprus’ scattered Roman Catholics (most Cyprians were Eastern Orthodox) and the island’s nobles allied with the English. Comnenus was able to lead a spirited resistance against the English from the castles of Pentadactylos, but he surrendered after being besieged in his Castle of Kantaras. After a six-day campaign, Richard was now the new ruler of Cyprus, and he inaugurated his reign by looting and massacring those who had resisted him. He turned Cyprus into a depot for the crusade, left a garrison to keep things in order, and placed the government of the island in the hands of Richard Kamvill. Before departing for the Holy Land he married Berengaria on 12 May 1191. 

Having won fame and renown at both Sicily and Cyprus, Richard could now turn his attentions to the biggest challenge—and adventure—of his lifetime: reclaiming the Holy Land for Christ and setting his teeth against Saladin. In June 1191 the English and French forces reached the Muslim-held city of Acre, a port city on the Gulf of Haifa that was protected by large double walls and towers. Crusaders held the city under siege, but the crusaders themselves were besieged by Saladin’s forces, resulting in a “double siege.” The arrival of the French and English forces was a turning-point in the Siege of Acre, which had already lasted for more than two years. Richard inserted himself into Saladin’s unfolding drama, and over the next two years he would deliver a stinging blow to Saladin’s aura of invincibility. 

Guy de Lusignan's defeat at Hattin

Remember: Saladin had captured Guy de Lusignon, the King of Jerusalem, at the Battle of Hattin in 1187, and he had brought all of the Holy Land under his control except for the crusader city of Tyre, which was held by the resolute Conrad of Montferrat. Failing to take Tyre by storm, Saladin turned to diplomacy, offering to exchange Guy for the city. Montferrat refused, for there was bad blood between him and Guy. Guy’s reputation had been spoiled after his defeat and capture at Hattin, but Conrad’s reputation had soared after his defense of Tyre. With Guy in chains, Conrad wanted to be King of Jerusalem (i.e. the Christian ruler of crusader territory in the Levant). Guy’s claim to the throne came through his wife Sibylla; born into the Frankish noble family of the House of Anjou, Sibylla was descended from Fulk V of Anjou, who had made peace with King Henry I of England in order to follow his crusading ambitions. Fulk V had done well in the Holy Land, and after becoming King of Jerusalem in the early 12th century he brought the crusader kingdom to its highest extent. Guy wasn’t willing to cede his claim to the throne, so Conrad lost no sleep in refusing his exchange. Saladin didn’t have much use for Guy after that point, so he released him anyways. Guy, with a ragtag band of forces, pitched camp outside Tyre and awaited European reinforcements answering Pope Gregory VIII’s call for the Third Crusade. The first reinforcements, sent by William II of Sicily and the Archbishop of Pisa, arrived outside Tyre in 1188-1189. These troops aligned with Guy, so Conrad refused to let them into the city. Guy turned his back on Tyre and led them to the Muslim-held port city of Acre, which he would use as a base to launch his counterattack against Saladin. Guy launched an all-out attack on Acre, despite being outnumbered two-to-one; the attack, unsurprisingly, didn’t break through. On 28 August 1189 Guy settled down for a siege, assisted by Sicilian ships blockading Acre’s seaward side. Guy’s besieging forces received trickling reinforcements from Europe, and the Sicilians were relieved by a Danish and Frisian fleet. 

vicious fighting at Acre

Despite being disconcerted over the news of Acre’s besiegement, Saladin didn’t feel the need to lend a helping hand; after all, Acre’s garrison was twice Guy’s size, and it was only a matter of time before the crusaders grew restless and broke off their siege. But when Conrad was moved to provide military aide to Guy’s siege, Saladin—respecting Conrad as a formidable opponent—threw his own cards into play. Saladin struck Guy’s besieging forces on 15 September, but the crusaders repulsed them. Saladin’s forces meandered around Acre, and on 4 October Saladin launched an all-out attack on the besiegers. The Battle of Acre was an inconclusive bloodletting, as he was unable to shove the crusaders out from under the city’s gates. Though victorious, Guy’s army had been all but crippled, and his spirits lifted when he received word that Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, was en route to the Levant with a vast army that would put Saladin’s to shame. Saladin knew he would have to dislodge Guy before the imperial reinforcements marched in, so he bolstered his forces and laid siege to Guy’s besiegers. Guy found himself trapped between Muslims in the city and Muslims at his rear, and on the Mediterranean outside Acre, Muslim vessels wrestled with crusader ships to purchase primacy on the water. Whoever controlled the seas around the city controlled the supplies: when the crusaders held sway, Guy received reinforcements and victuals; but when the Muslims had the upper-hand, Acre received supplies. On 5 May 1190 Guy’s forces attacked the city walls but didn’t make any headway. Saladin responded to this attack by launching a massive eight-day assault on the crusaders two weeks later. As Acre had repulsed the crusaders, so the crusaders repulsed Saladin—and all through the summer more reinforcements arrived from Europe to bolster Guy’s army.

But more soldiers and supplies weren’t the only things moving through the crusader camp: disease made its rounds, too. Corpses—both animal and human—poisoned the camp’s water supply. Guy tragically lost his two daughters, and to make it worse he lost his wife, Queen Sibylla, to the sickness. Sibylla’s death was a double blow, as it meant that Guy had lost his claim to the throne of Jerusalem; the legal claim passed down to Sibylla’s younger half-sister Isabella, but Guy would refuse to honor her claim. Conrad didn’t favor Isabella, either, and a succession debate rippled through the crusader camp. The crusaders became divided as the soldiers had to choose one faction—Guy or Conrad?—over the other. Weakened by sickness and dissent, the crusaders suffered another blow under a harsh winter from 1190-1191: bad weather kept supplies and reinforcements arriving by sea. Guy could tell the situation was starting to fall apart (long sieges were delicate things apt to collapse from within), so he launched desperate assaults on Acre on both 31 December 1190 and 6 January 1191. Neither altered the situation. A further blow to the crusader spirit came on 13 February when Saladin attacked the beleaguered besiegers, pushing through their lines and managing to fight his way through to the city walls. Saladin’s troops managed to breach the city and replenish the city’s garrison with fresh and battle-hardened troops. The crusaders managed to seal the break in the wall, but by the time they accomplished this Acre’s bolstered garrison was celebrating their renewed strength. This was the lowest ebb of the crusaders’ siege, but the advent of spring and summer shifted their fortunes: better weather allowed crusader ships to deliver supplies, and the reinforcements from the Holy Roman Empire arrived—though they were far less than promised.

Richard victorious at Acre

The imperial forces were led not by Frederick Barbarossa, as expected, but by Duke Leopold V of Austria. The Emperor had drowned while leading his army across the Saleph River, and much of the imperial forces disintegrated after his death. Duke Leopold took the reigns of the crusading army in the wake of Barbarossa’s death, but the force he brought to bear on the Holy Land was far less than Guy had hoped for. Leopold countered Guy’s disappointment by informing him that more men under King Philip II Augustus of France and King Richard of England were en route, too, and could be expected soon. This news didn’t disappoint: Philip II arrived outside Acre on 20 April. At once the French king ordered the construction of siege engines for assaulting Acre’s walls (the French were preeminent when it came to siege artillery). King Richard arrived on 8 June 1191 with 8000 men. Richard took over Guy’s siege. The siege engines pounded away at Acre’s walls, and a desperate Saladin launched diversionary attacks that gave Acre’s garrison brief windows of time to repair the damage wrought by the artillery. On 3 July the crusaders breached Acre’s walls, but their follow-through attack was spit back out. The artillery kept up its unrelenting work, and seeing no way out, Acre’s garrison opted to surrender on 4 July—but Richard refused their overtures, as he didn’t like the terms. Saladin made one last ditch effort to push the crusaders from outside Acre’s walls on 11 July, but his attack failed. Acre again offered surrender, bringing new terms to Richard. These Richard accepted, and after nearly two long years with numerous battles and skirmishes, the crusaders victoriously entered the city. 

Conrad ordered that the banners of the European rulers who fought so valiantly for the city be hung from the walls, and Acre’s walls were littered with the banners of Jerusalem, England, France, and Austria. Though the banners on the walls signified a coalition of united effort and purpose, inside the walls the European kings succumbed to the intrigues of politics of greed—and Richard was at the forefront of the mess. The European leaders fell out in disagreement over how to divide the spoils of Acre, and Richard ran afoul of the Duke of Austria when he tossed the duke’s banners from the city’s battlements. Enraged at Richard’s disrespect, the duke abandoned the crusade, leaving the French and English on their own. Philip II and Richard had inherited a general hostility between their two kingdoms, a hostility made worse by Richard’s rejection of Alys. The two found another bone of contention: “Who should be made King of Jerusalem?” Neither supported Isabella of Jerusalem, the actual claimant of the throne; as before, the choice came down to Guy de Lusignan or Conrad of Montferrat. The French king supported the latter while Richard supported Guy. To add salt to Philip’s wound, Richard was eclipsing him in the war effort, being hailed as the “Hero of Acre.” Infuriated and at his wits end, and knowing he could hurt Richard from back home, set sail for France on 3 August, leaving Richard as the only major European player in the Third Crusade. The re-conquest of Jerusalem, and the ousting of Saladin from the Holy Land, now rested squarely on Richard’s shoulders—and he took charge with ferocity. He and Saladin tried to negotiate the exchange of Acre’s prisoners, but when Richard became convinced Saladin was delaying the exchange, he ordered all his Muslim prisoners—2700 in all—to be slaughtered. Saladin responded in kind, massacring all his crusader captives. Richard’s slaughter of the prisoners would be a stain on his reputation, but he would more than make up for it in the months to come.

Richard's army nears Arsuf

On 22 August, two days after the execution of his prisoners, Richard departed Acre unencumbered, marching south along the coast to capture the Muslim-held port city of Jaffa. Once Jaffa was in his possession, he could use it as a supply depot for his strike on Jerusalem. Saladin shadowed Richard’s march, harassing his army. Saladin tried to lure the crusaders into an impulsive battle so that he could rip them apart as he had done with Guy at Hattin, but Richard took Guy’s lesson to heart and refused to let his forces respond to Saladin’s hit-and-run attacks. He marched only in the morning, when it was cooler, and pitched camp near water sources. His soldiers were kept in tight formation, and he placed the infantry on the landward side to protect the heavy cavalry and baggage train marching along the coast. On 30 August, near the biblical town of Caesarea, Saladin launched a vicious attack on the English rear. The crusaders became engaged, and they needed help extricating from their predicament. Saladin had hoped they would turn and fight, but seeing his plan spoil, he decided to make a stand near the town of Arsuf, just north of Jaffa. On 7 September 1191, he cemented his army in front of a two mile plain stretching to the coast; his left wing formed up on a line of hills to the south, and his right anchored against the Forest of Arsuf. He would thrust his mobile forces against Richard’s army as they neared Jaffa, striking hard enough to provoke them to counterattack. Once the English forces were engaged, Saladin would push the main body of his troops into the disarrayed crusaders, shoving them out to sea—where they would drown in the Mediterranean. The stage was set for the Battle of Arsuf.

The Knights Templar led Richard’s forces; a spattering of knights held up the center, and the Knights Hospitaller brought up the rear. From their overnight encampment to the plain in front of Saladin’s forces was a six mile stretch, and by 9 AM the two armies were in sight of each other. Saladin opened the first phase of his attack with clashing symbols and gongs, trumpets blasting and mixing with shrieking war-cries. Muslim horse archers darted forward, firing into the flanks of Richard’s army and retreating before the harried infantry. One chronicler reported, “In truth, our people, so few in number, were hemmed in by the multitudes of the Saracens, that they had no means of escape, if they tried; neither did they seem to have valour sufficient to withstand so many foes, nay, they were shut in, like a flock of sheep in the jaws of wolves, with nothing but the sky above, and the enemy all around them.” The horse archers were followed by Bedouin and Nubian missile infantry launching javelins and arrows into the English column before peeling away to give room for the horse archers to advance, loose their arrows, and wheel off to reload. Despite his losses Richard kept his army in tight formation; the town of Arsuf was directly ahead, and he hoped that by the time they reached the city, the Muslims would be worn out; Richard could build a defensive line before the city and lead a counterattack. 

an impulsive counterattack

Around 11 AM Saladin broke off the harassment of Richard’s flanks and focused on the Hospitallers in the rear. Crusader crossbowmen, protected by spearmen, traded volleys with the horse archers and Muslim javelin throwers. The Hospitallers kept up a return fire on their harassers while continuing the steady march towards Arsuf. By mid-afternoon the Hospitallers were dispirited and enraged at their losses, and so many horses had been slain that a number of knights joined the infantry on foot. The weakened rear guard began to lose its formation, and Saladin ordered an all-out attack on their disarrayed lines. The Hospitaller leader, Nablus, requested freedom to lead his knights against the juiced-up attack. Richard refused, but Nablus, hard-pressed and fearing his men would be torn apart before they reached the safety of Arsuf’s walls, mustered his forces and called for a counterattack with six blasts from a trumpet. He and another knight, Baldwin de Carron, lunged forward through the disorganized infantry, screaming “St. George!” and throwing themselves into the Muslim host. Their example inspired the beleaguered Hospitallers, and in one fell swoop the Muslims found themselves in the crosshairs of the knights. Had the horse archers, convinced that the knights wouldn’t attack, not have been dismounted to better aim their arrows, perhaps they could’ve withstood the onslaught; but Nablus’ timing was perfect, and they overran the dismounted horse archers and began driving back the Muslim right. 

Richard was furious that Nablus had blatantly disregarded his orders, but he knew he had to support the attack or risk losing the Hospitallers. Upon entering Arsuf and ordering a defensive position to be made, Richard ordered the Knights Templars, with the support of Breton and Angevin knights, to attack the Muslim left to keep them from reinforcing their right. The Templars were able to pushback Saladin’s left wing; Saladin ordered a counterattack and led it with his guard, but they were repulsed. The Muslim right and left were reeling back, and Richard led his remaining knights against Saladin’s center, shattering the Muslim line and forcing Saladin to retreat. The crusaders gave chase, but Richard called them back after a mere mile; he knew that zealous pursuits would play into Saladin’s hands. The English and Norman knights, who weren’t as tired as the Hospitallers and Templars who had engaged the Muslim right and left respectively, formed a defensive position upon which the wearied crusaders retired. Those who were too eager to refuse chase were soon isolated in small groups, easy prey for Saladin’s horse archers. With his forces regrouped, Richard led a second charge into the frazzled Muslim lines. The Itinerarium gives us a picture of King Richard in action:

“There the king, the fierce, the extraordinary king, cut down the Turks in every direction, and none could escape the force of his arm, for wherever he turned, brandishing his sword, he carved a wide path for himself; and as he advanced and gave repeated strokes with his sword, cutting them down like a reaper with his sickle, the rest, warned by the sight of the dying, gave him more ample space, for the corpses of the dead Turks which lay on the face of the earth extended over half a mile.”

The Muslims were pushed back for a second time, and again Richard refused to give chase. Saladin’s wearied forces began to come back together, but before they could form up Richard launched his third and final attack. This attack was the death-blow to Saladin’s army, and they scattered into the hills in all directions. Saladin gritted his teeth and retreated, outdone by the English king. Contemporary estimates of the forces involved the titanic Battle of Arsuf give both forces around 20,000 men. It’s estimated that the crusaders lost around 1000 men whereas Saladin suffered losses closer to 7000. 

Richard’s victory boosted crusader morale and extinguished Saladin’s reputation of invincibility. Richard would soon press on for the port of Jaffa, and after reforming his scattered forces, Saladin renewed his harassing attacks. Richard, ever intent on port city, refused to give battle, and upon sacking Jaffa, he spent the first half of the winter turning it into a supply depot for his march on Jerusalem. Leaving a garrison in Jaffa, Richard marched on Jerusalem, but by the time he reached the Holy City’s foothills on 3 January 1192, his army was exhausted, lacking supplies, and sickness was beginning to make its rounds through his ranks. Richard’s heart sank when he realized he couldn’t possibly take Jerusalem: his forces were not only weakened by disease and fighting at Acre and Arsuf, but he lacked support—both in manpower and material—from Austria and France, who had absolved themselves of the crusade. Determining that God had ordained that he shouldn’t be the one to retake Jerusalem, Richard refused to even lay eyes on it as he led his forces back towards the coast. He settled his winded forces in the coastal city of Ascalon and set about refortifying its walls. Even after all his efforts, the Kingdom of Jerusalem remained confined to a narrow strip of the Mediterranean coast from Acre to Jaffa, and Jerusalem remained in Muslim hands. Most of the European monarchs who had pledged their support to the crusade had backed out, and thus from a certain point of view, the Third Crusade had so far been a failure. At this point Richard and Saladin entered negotiations. Richard proposed that his widowed sister Joanna marry Saladin’s nephew, and that Saladin’s nephew take ownership of the Holy Land, this infusing Plantagenet blood into a new dynasty. Saladin readily accepted, but Joanna refused to marry outside the Christian faith. The negotiations thus went nowhere. In April 1192 Richard did an about-face and supported Conrad of Montferrat for the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, naming Guy de Lusignon as overseer of Cyprus. Before Conrad’s coronation, however, he was assassinated in Tyre by two Muslim assassins. Rumors flew that Richard had a hand in the assassination, an accusation bolstered by the coincidence that Conrad’s replacement was Richard’s nephew Henry of Champagne. 

While Richard faced accusations of intrigue in the East, his brother John was unashamedly intriguing in the West. Richard had named Mandeville as co-justiciar of England in his absence, but when Mandeville died his place was taken by a man named Longchamp. Longchamp didn’t get along with the other co-justiciar, Puiset, and eventually Longchamp outright refused to cooperate, becoming unpopular with the English nobility and clergy. John exploited the rift, presenting himself as an alternative ruler. He even went as far as creating his own separate royal court with his own justiciar and chancellor, and he wasn’t shy about spreading propaganda about his place as the next English monarch. It wasn’t long before Longchamp and John came to blows, and by October 1191 Longchamp was enchained in the Tower of London and John had control over the city. He appeased the Londoners by promising them special benefits in return for their support of him as Richard’s heir presumptive, despite Arthur of Brittany having already been declared heir. When Richard received news of John’s scheming, he sent word for the Archbishop of Rouen—who was well respected in England—to cross the Channel from France to put John in his place. The archbishop was only a stopgap measure: Richard knew he would have to deal with John face-to-face. Richard decided to make one more march on Jerusalem, but when he realized he was still too weak to take it, he decided to prepare his return home to prevent John from turning England inside out. Saladin’s spies told him that Richard was preparing his departure, and Saladin decided it was time to act: he made a move on Jaffa.

Richard fights outside Jaffa

Saladin launched his attack on 25 July 1192, and his forces pushed their way into Jaffa despite the garrison’s stiff resistance. Once the Muslims were rushing through the city streets like sand through a sieve, most of the Christian garrison surrendered; the more hardhearted steeled themselves in Jaffa’s citadel. The Muslim troops scoured the city, slaughtering all the swine and hurling the crusader corpses into pits with the pigs. Word reached Richard of the city’s predicament, and he loaded 55 knights, several hundred men-at-arms, and 2000 mercenary crossbowmen onto seven ships and sailed for Jaffa. He reached the city’s port on August 1st and saw Muslim banners hanging from Jaffa’s walls. Saladin’s troops filled the shoreline outside the walls, daring Richard to face them. A courageous priest leapt from the citadel, plunged into the water, and swam to Richard’s flagship to inform him that not all had been lost: there were still holdouts. This was all Richard needed to hear, and he jumped into the surf with his shield over his shoulder and battle-axe in hand. The outnumbered crusaders, encouraged by Richard’s defiance of the Muslim troops onshore, followed his lead. Richard led the way to the city’s gates, the crusaders hacking their way up to the city. The Muslim troops panicked at the onslaught, and the crusaders who had surrendered to the Muslims now rose against their captors, seized weapons, and helped Richard through the gate. The Muslims abandoned the city, fleeing five miles from the walls before stopping to catch their breaths. Richard ordered the dead Muslims to be thrown among the slaughtered pigs, and he had the crusader corpses given Christian burials. 

Richard's counterattack against Saladin at Jaffa

Saladin couldn’t believe his ears when he heard the news, and he mustered a force of 20,000 light and heavy cavalry and approached Jaffa on 5 August. Richard sallied forth to meet him on the field of battle, placing his knights and men-at-arms in a single line, each man kneeling on one knee and thrusting the butt of his spear into the sand, thus presenting to the Muslims a “hedge of steel.” Between and behind the kneeling soldiers were crossbowmen working in pairs, one to fire and the other to reload, so as to achieve a high and unrelenting rate of fire. Saladin launched his cavalry against Richard’s hedge of steel, and before the horses could reach the spears many were slain by the crossbowmen. Those who made it to the spears were pushed back; horses, as a general rule, veer away from sharp points. Saladin launched wave after wave against the entrenched crusaders, but eventually his troops became so demoralized that they refused to attack. Now Richard countercharged with a mere fifteen mounted knights, and twice he personally rescued knights who found themselves overwhelmed. Richard’s horse was killed, so he continued fighting on foot. When Saladin saw Richard unhorsed, he declared that such a king shouldn’t fight without a mount, and he sent Richard two splendid horses to replace the one he’d lost. A pause in the fighting ensued, during which a number of Muslim soldiers slipped back into the city. Jaffa’s fresh crusader garrison retreated to their ships, and Richard was forced to ride back into the city and cut his way through the enemy until he reached the frightened men on the ships. He shamed them for fleeing and inspired them to join the fight, and they expelled the Muslims from the city and joined Richard’s hedge of steel just in time for a fresh wave of attacks. Richard led a spirited charge into the Muslim cavalry, penetrating so deeply into their ranks that the front line of dismounted men-at-arms couldn’t see him. A heavily-armed Muslim champion challenged Richard to fight one-on-one, and both sides stopped their fighting to watch. Richard cleaved his opponent through the neck and downward so that the head and right shoulder were tossed into the air as the Muslim champion’s blood-spurting body rode on. This so demoralized the Muslim attackers that they retreated. Saladin had no choice but to withdraw with them, leaving 700 dead soldiers and 1500 slain soldiers on the battlefield. Legend has it that Richard only lost two men in the Battle of Jaffa, but this is unlikely. 

Richard and Saladin met again at the bargaining table, at which they negotiated a three-year truce that retained Richard’s conquests and gave Christian pilgrims access to Jerusalem; in return Richard had the walls of Ascalon torn down. Having secured the so-called Treaty of Jaffa, Richard bid his farewell to the Holy Land and began his journey home in October 1192—and thus he began the next adventure in his life. Stormy weather forced him to seek shelter near Venice, and there he came face-to-face with an old nemesis: Duke Leopold V. The Austrian duke hadn’t forgotten his rough treatment at Acre, how Richard had disrespectfully hurled his banners off the city’s walls despite his assistance in the siege. Leopold wasn’t about to let bygones be bygones, and he captured Richard and imprisoned him in his castle at Durnstein. It was a comfortable imprisonment, but an imprisonment nonetheless. The duke sold him off to the new Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI, and the emperor placed him in Trifels Castle and began negotiating his ransom with England. John’s popularity on the island had entered a decline thanks to the work of the Archbishop of Rouen, and John had turned to another of his brother’s enemies for help: Philip II of France. By allying with the French king, John hoped to receive titles to Richard’s land in France, including Normandy and Anjou. Eleanor of Aquitaine convinced him not to seek a formal alliance with Philip II, but when Richard didn’t return from the crusade, the English speculated about his absence. Before news of the king’s imprisonment reached the island, John began claiming that Richard had died or been permanently lost. Hoping that Richard was truly out of the picture, John went against his mother’s advice and forged an alliance with Philip II, agreeing to set aside his current wife Isabel and to marry Philip’s sister Alys. When news of Richard’s imprisonment reached England, Eleanor opened negotiations with Henry VI—and so did John and the French king. The latter offered to pay 80,000 marks for the emperor to keep Richard in chains so that John and Philip could ransack Normandy; but Eleanor agreed to pay a loftier sum of 150,000 marks, and in early 1194 Richard was granted his freedom. 

News of his release sent shockwaves through Europe, and John wisely broke his alliance with the French king and hurried his forces out of Normandy. Philip, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to seize Normandy for himself, retreated as well. When Richard returned to England, John’s supporters surrendered and pledged fealty to the king. John sought exile across the Channel in Normandy, but Richard hunted him down a year later. John, face-to-face with the king whom he had tried to usurp, no doubt feared the worst; but Richard did the unthinkable: not only did he forgive John for his schemes and machinations, he even went as far as to make him his heir rather than Arthur of Brittany (his nephew had been captured by Philip II). Richard said that his brother (at 27 years old) was merely “a child who has had evil counselors.” Though pardoned, John wasn’t totally off the hook: he lost all his lands with the exception of Ireland, which had been won by their father Henry II. Having, in the end, been granted promise of that which he craved—the throne of England—John would be loyal to his brother for the duration of his reign, and he would support Richard’s campaigns in France against Philip. 

the Chateau Gaillard in the early 13th century

With order restored in England, the warmongering Richard turned his attention to the French king who had used his imprisonment as a pretext for invading his lands. Richard crossed the Channel and landed in Normandy to wage war against France, and once he stepped onto his transport, his foot leaving English soil, he would never return. The last five years of his reign would be spent quarreling with Philip: the French king had laid his eyes on Richard’s flourishing Angevin Empire, yearning to regain these lands for France, and for that Richard vowed he would pay. The contested lands of the Vexin and Berry became shock-points in their struggle as Richard launched a campaign to regain, piece-by-piece, all those castles he had lost to Philip during his crusading years and subsequent imprisonment. Richard allied with the leaders of Flanders and Boulogne, and he even forged an agreement with his former captor, the Holy Roman Emperor, who applied pressure to France’s northern boundaries. Richard’s father-in-law, Sancho VI of Navarre, even entered the fray, launching raids on southern France. Richard won a number of great victories—the Battle of Freteval in 1194, the seizure of Evreux Castle in 1195, and the Battle of Gisors in 1198 (during which he adopted the motto, Dieu et mon Droit, “God and my Right,” which is still used by British monarchs today)—but his greatest achievement wasn’t a battlefield victory but the construction of one of the most impregnable castles of the medieval world: the Chateau Gaillard. Richard called it his “saucy castle” and positioned it on a high rock at Les Andelys. The site was expertly chosen, on a hundred-meter-high peninsula formed by a switchback curve of the River Seine. Construction was fast-paced, taking just a little over a year. Philip boasted that he would take Chateau Gaillard “if its walls were made of steel,” to which Richard replied that he would hold it “even if its walls were made of butter.” Richard’s steady campaign, met with successes all along the way, would come to a grinding halt on 26 March 1199, all thanks to an archer on the battlements of a run-of-the-mill castle at Chalus-Chabrol. 

King Richard struck by a crossbow bolt

In the spring of 1199 a peasant plowing a field in Chalus, near Limoges, discovered a horde of Roman treasure. The treasure was delivered to the lord of Chalus. Richard claimed the treasure to be his as overlord and demanded that it be delivered to him. When the treasure never came, he and his mercenary captain, Mercadier, besieged the lord’s castle at Chalus-Chabrol. On the evening of 26 March, while Richard was circling the castle and directing the siege, an archer using a frying pan as a shield fired a crossbow bolt from the battlements. Richard saw it coming but ducked too late, and the bolt struck him in his left shoulder. He attempted to remove the bolt, but the shaft broke, leaving the bolt embedded in his shoulder. A surgeon, working only by torchlight, fumbled in its extraction, making the wound far worse. Gangrene set in and Richard became deathly sick. The castle fell shortly afterwards, and the archer was rounded up and brought before the sickened king. Richard, knowing he would soon meet God face-to-face, forgave the archer, saying, “Live on, and by my bounty behold the light of day.” He issued orders that the archer should not only be set free but also given a hundred shillings. Richard’s mother Eleanor, now 77 years old, came to his son’s side, and Richard died in her arms on 6 April 1199. His wife Berengaria wasn’t even summoned. Despite Richard’s deathbed wishes, Mercadier had the archer arrested and sent to Richard’s sister Joanna, who promptly flayed him alive (a lengthy and torturous process) before having him pulled apart limb-from-limb by a team of horses. Richard was buried at Fontevraud, at the feet of his father, and his entrails were sent to Poitou and his heart entombed at Rouen in Normandy.