Читать книгу The Handy Military History Answer Book - Samuel Willard Crompton - Страница 12
ОглавлениеWhy do we sometimes call the Normans the “supermen” of the eleventh and twelfth centuries?
It is because they seemed to be here, there, and everywhere. The Normans originated from a rather small population base in the peninsula of northern France, which later became famous due to the D-Day Invasion. Norman, in its original meaning, meant “North-man’s-land.” Some, though not all, of the early Normans had Viking blood in their veins, and they certainly acted the part, marauding far and wide. The great and important difference is that they did so with the blessing of the Roman Catholic Church.
In the middle of the eleventh century, the Normans began invading the Island of Sicily. They soon saw its great strategic potential, and within thirty years they had taken the island and established a Norman kingdom in the south. Their actions were just as important as those of William the Conqueror, though they are less known.
Who was William the Conqueror?
It helps to start with his original name, which was William the Bastard. This is because although his father was Duke Robert of Normandy, his mother was the daughter of a tanner in the market town of Rouen. As an illegitimate son, he was referred to as William the Bastard. Over time, as he defeated his legitimate brothers and became the leader of Normandy, he was known as William, Duke of Normandy. Only later did he become King William of England, and, of course, William the Conqueror (ruled 1066–1087).
Although William’s case is an extreme example, it is helpful to remember that most people of the eleventh and twelfth centuries only used first names. Other examples include “Joan of Paris,” “Robert of Avignon,” or “James of Berlin.” Only later, when there was a large population, did it become necessary to have a surname.
Why was William so keen to become king of England?
It made perfect sense because that kingdom (it is too early to call it a nation) lay just across the English Channel and because Normandy was better organized. Duke William had a more sovereign command over Normandy than the Anglo-Saxon monarchy possessed in England. It was one thing to desire the kingdom of England, another matter to have an actual reason, however.
In January 1066, King Edward the Confessor died. He had no living children and the Anglo-Saxon nobles gathered to elect Harold of Wessex, one of the leading men of the kingdom, as their new monarch. This satisfied many, though not all, people. Certainly it did not satisfy William of Normandy, who declared that Harold owed him the crown.
Why on earth would an English nobleman who had just become king owe his crown to a Norman?
It was the type of circumstance that could only happen in the Middle Ages. William, Duke of Normandy, had a blood relationship (albeit not a very close one) to the English monarchy, while Harold of Wessex did not. But beyond that, William of Normandy claimed that Harold of Wessex owed him the crown because he had saved his life a decade earlier. William’s claim—that he rescued Harold after a shipwreck—is best demonstrated in the Bayeux Tapestry, an embroidered cloth sewn many years after the events of 1066. As strange as all this sounds to us today, it made sense to William’s followers, and he soon had them at work building ships to prepare for an invasion of southern England.
Was there any way that the situation could become even more complicated?
There was! At about the same time that William of Normandy declared that England was his—by blood and by reason of his having saved Harald III from drowning—Harald of Norway (c.1015–1066) declared that England belonged to him. The way to keep these two men straight is to remember that Harold of England is spelled with an “o” and Harald of Norway is spelled with an “a.”
Does the Bayeux Tapestry still exist?
Yes. It is housed in a special museum in the town of Bayeux, where it wraps around the inner walls. The Tapestry (a small section is shown at left) is a marvelous, and curious, piece of history, and it is almost miraculous that it has survived for nearly a thousand years. It depicts the comet of 1066, the quarrel between William of Normandy and Harold of Wessex, and the Battle of Hastings.
Harald of Norway’s claim was much less impressive than Duke William’s, and few people took him seriously. Harold of England kept a close eye on the southern coast of his nation throughout the summer, and he was just about to send his militia home when he learned, to his dismay, that Harald of Norway had landed in northern England. Harald had brought perhaps 15,000 men, the largest Norwegian force ever sent overseas.
What did Harold of England—Harold with an “o”—do at this point?
He did something truly remarkable. Abandoning all his fortifications and preparations in the south, he marched his men over land, covering perhaps 400 miles in less than ten days. It was one of the great forced marches of the Middle Ages, and Harold and his men arrived at a time when the Norwegians were feasting.
Harald and his men got into battle array very quickly, and the two armies squared off. Tradition has it that there was one last parley before the Battle of Stamford Bridge began and that Harald’s messenger asked what his leader would be given. “Six feet of English soil” was the answer, and the battle was soon joined. Given the odds, and the temperament, of the two peoples, one would almost surely choose the Norwegians, but the Anglo-Saxons carved them to bits. Harald died on the field, and those of his men who survived got to their ships and never returned. This was the last time a Viking, or Scandinavian, force ever threatened England.
What had happened with Duke William and the Normans?
They embarked on September 12, 1066, and had a stormy passage through the English Channel, but most of the men—and their horses—landed the following day at Pevensey, on England’s southeast coast. The Normans were about 7,000 in number and had perhaps 1,000 horses, giving them far more equestrian power than the Anglo-Saxons. Duke William did not progress very far. He was satisfied with getting his men ashore and establishing a secure beachhead. He did not know what had happened in the north.
For his part, Harold of England got the bad news soon enough. Learning that William and the Normans had landed, Harold brought his men—by a much more restful trail—back to London. Upon arriving, Harold found that William and the Normans had remained pretty much where they had landed. To this point, Harold had performed extremely well, routing a force much larger than his own and persuading his men to undertake truly heroic endeavors. This was the moment when things went wrong, however.
Why did Harold not stay where he was, forcing William of Normandy to come closer?
This is the question that perplexes nearly all students of the campaign. Harold of England did almost everything “right” until about October 10, 1066, and from that day he did almost everything “wrong.” Common sense dictated that the time had come to rest on the defensive, but Harold decided that a quick, surgical strike had worked against the Norwegians and that he do the same against the Normans. On the morning of October 11, he departed London with about 7,000 men.
The relatively small size of both forces can be attributed to the difficulties involved with supply. Neither Harold nor William could keep a large force in the field for any length of time because they could not feed them. Therefore, one of the most decisive battles of the Middle Ages was fought between two forces that were—each—slightly larger than a Roman legion.
Does the Bayeux Tapestry depict the men of both armies on the march?
Because it was sewn by Normans two decades after the event, the Tapestry naturally gives more attention to the Normans, and we see them in all their battle array. The men wore short armor that covered the chest but not the legs, and the horses were magnificent creatures, clearly bred over several generations.
How did the Battle of Hastings progress?
The Anglo-Saxons held the high ground, on a sloping hill, and the Normans possessed the initiative, thanks to their greater number of horses. The Normans attacked all day and several times came within a hair’s breadth of breaking the line, but on each occasion the housecarls—or bodyguards—of King Harold made all the difference, driving the enemy back. The Anglo-Saxons made their own mistakes, however. When they came down the hill at around 2 P.M. to chase a retreating body of Normans, the Norman cavalry turned on them with a vengeance, wiping the Anglo-Saxons out almost entirely.
Late in the day, the battle still hung in the balance. If King Harold could fight the Normans to a draw, he would be able to gain reinforcements. Knowing this, the Normans made their supreme effort at around 4:30 P.M. Breaking sections of the line, the Normans were on the verge of victory, but it was not complete until Harold fell, with an arrow in his eye. Minutes later, the foremost Norman horsemen killed all three of Harold’s brothers. Seeing this, the Anglo-Saxons broke, and the Normans pursued them on horseback.
A thirteenth-century French chronicle illustration of William the Conqueror stabbing King Harold of England during the Battle of Hastings. History tells us, however, that Harold was killed by an Norman archer.
How decisive was the Battle of Hastings?
Hastings is generally rated as one of the most decisive battles of the past 1,000 years. First and foremost, it meant that William of Normandy became king of England. Second, he and his Norman knights established a new regime, one distinguished by its tough tax laws and rigid enforcement. Third, England and France became loosely joined for the next two centuries, with the English nobles speaking French and Latin rather than English.
How important was Pope Urban II’s speech?
Without this speech, there would have been no First Crusade. In 1095, Pope Urban II (c.1042–1099) traveled to Clermont, in south-central France, to speak to a gathering of almost 10,000 men, most of them French and German knights. The Pope spoke outdoors, and, very likely, there were “relay” men who shouted his words to those in the far back. His message was that a “new accursed group” of infidels had taken over the Holy Land, preventing pilgrims from visiting to holy sites in Jerusalem. Using every rhetorical trick available, the Pope called on the knights to go east and recapture the Holy Land. Pope Urban had never been to the Holy Land, but he called it a land of “milk and honey,” suggesting that there would be economic as well as spiritual rewards. When he had finished, there was a moment or two of silence; then a slow-building chorus began as the knights chanted “Deus Volt! Deus Volt!” (“God wills it!”)
Did the knights realize the enormous task it would be to accomplish what the Pope asked?
They did. They, therefore, spent nearly the entire next year in preparation. Food was gathered, wagons were built, and the knights drafted horses. All this took time, and while the knights were engaged in these preparations, some of the lower-class Europeans decided to take matters into their own hands. Incredible as it seems, one preacher seems to have accomplished most of the work. His name was Peter the Hermit.
No one knew whether he was French or German or where he had spent his time as a hermit. He was not, to anyone’s knowledge, an ordained leader in the Roman Catholic Church; rather, he was a self-proclaimed holy man (there were quite a few of these at the time). Within just three months of preaching to crowds, Peter had gathered an army—or really a large group of armed men—and set off for the Holy Land. This is called the Peasants’ Crusade.
Did the average person really have time in his life for ventures such as this?
Generally speaking, he did not. Crops had to be planted, guarded, and then harvested. Shelters had to be built. Something about the Crusade movement, however, had the power to jolt people out of their mundane lives and persuade them to do something extraordinary. So it was with the roughly 30,000 men who joined the Peasants’ Crusade in 1095–1096.
Peter was acknowledged as the spiritual leader of the crusade; military matters were handled by a council of leaders. This democratic spirit enthused the men of the Peasants’ Crusade, but we cannot let some of their less admirable qualities pass by without comment. On their way to the Holy Land, the peasant crusaders attacked and even destroyed numerous houses and villages belonging to Jews. The rationale was that the Jews had killed Christ and that the crusaders, who were on their way to liberate the Holy Land, should take vengeance on the Jews. Of course, it did not hurt the cause that the Jews often had extra supplies of food, which were promptly confiscated.
What happened to the Peasant Crusaders?
The Peasant Crusaders had neither the organization nor the military skill for what awaited them. The Seljuk Turks ambushed them in the mountains of Turkey, killing perhaps a third. The others fled, some by way of Constantinople and others by way of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Peter the Hermit, rather miraculously, survived and became one of the midlevel tier of leaders of the Knights’ Crusade.
How long did it take the Knights’ Crusade to get moving?
Not until the summer of 1196 were the Knights ready, and it was somewhere along the way to Constantinople that they learned of the disaster which had befallen the Peasant Crusaders. Arriving at Constantinople, the Knights were impressed by the architecture and beauty of the place, and the Emperor Alexius was deeply frightened of what the Knights might do to his beloved city. Just how he managed it remains a mystery, but Alexius persuaded all the major leaders of the Knights’ Crusade to bend the knee and swear that all their land conquests in the Holy Land would be held in fief to him.
The Knights were ferried across the Bosporus and commenced the long, hard march through the mountains of Turkey. Plenty of ambushes and traps were set by the Turks, but the Knights either evaded these or triumphed over them, and in the early summer of 1097, the Knights’ Crusaders arrived in the city of Antioch, close to the border between modern-day Turkey and Syria. This was a natural stopping place, and the Knights were pleased, even delighted, to find it mostly empty. They were in Antioch for only a few days before a large army of Turks, comprised primarily of cavalry, arrived to block them in. Antioch was a strongly fortified city, but it looked as if it had the capacity to be the death of the Knights’ Crusade.
A statue of St. Peter the Hermit stands near the cathedral of Amiens, France.
Did they use modern-day nomenclature, calling each other Europeans and Turks?
No. Because the Turks encountered French knights most often, they generally labeled all Christian crusaders “Franks.” Equally, because there were so many ethnic and racial groups in the Middle East fighting under the banner of Islam, the Christian Crusaders called all of them “Saracens,” meaning descendants of the biblical Sara.
Is there any truth to the story of the “Holy Lance”?
The veneration, indeed worship, of relics was particularly strong during the Middle Ages, and many people on both sides of the conflict regarded them as inordinately valuable. While the Turks besieged the Knights in Antioch, a rumor spread that the “Holy Lance”—which had pierced Christ’s side while he was on the Cross—was somewhere in Antioch. A major search was launched, and eventually a wooden lance was brought forth. To say that this encouraged the Knights is to diminish the truth: they were ecstatic. A few days later, when they issued forth from Antioch, they beat the Turks in open battle, and as long as someone held the “Holy Lance,” the Christian crusaders would not be defeated.
Peter the Hermit played a major role in this episode, and he later claimed that he had found the “True Cross,” composed of fragments of wood from the cross on which Christ died at Calvary. Whether one gives any credence to these claims is not very important because the Crusaders did.
How long did it take the Crusaders to get from Antioch to the outskirts of Jerusalem?
It took nearly another whole year, and it was in June 1099 that the Crusaders arrived outside the Holy City. They were weary from their journey, but they also saw the need for haste because the Turks had poisoned many of the wells within a ten-mile radius. Once more, the holy men were asked for advice, and the leaders learned that it was necessary for the army to be purified in order to enter the Holy City. Three days were spent in fasting and prayer before the attack commenced on July 15, 1099.
The fighting was intense, with the heat making things worse. By the time the Knight Crusaders got inside the city—having burrowed under one of the gates—they were in a furious mood, and a wholesale massacre ensued. No one can say how many men, women, and perhaps children died that day, but some estimates run as high as 20,000. The heat of the battle led to the Crusaders making no social or ethnic distinctions: Christians, Jews, and of course Arabs and Turks perished that day.
Did this massacre throw a cloud over the whole crusading movement?
It should have, but it did not. The reports sent back to Europe sanitized the worst of what had happened, and most Christians learned only that the four-year-long crusade had ended in a glorious victory. Pope Urban lived just long enough to learn of Jerusalem’s capture: he died soon afterward.
If the city and its holy sites had been the only consideration, Jerusalem might have remained Christian for only a short time and then been transferred to Arab or Turkish rule. Commerce, however, became nearly as important as religion and many victorious Christian knights settled in Jerusalem, becoming merchants in spice, carpets, oil, and the like. As a result, the First Crusade—while tainted with the blood of many innocents—was viewed as a shining success in the eyes of the Christian West.
Does jihad, indeed, mean “Holy War”?
The meaning is close, but there are enough differences that we should not gloss over them. In its original use in the Koran, jihad is closer, in strict translation, to “struggle or conflict,” and it may reference an inner conflict as well as an external one. Therefore, although many Muslims use the word “jihad” in the context of “Holy War,” it is important for us to realize that this is not entirely accurate.
In 1185, Saladin (1138–1193), the emir of Cairo and the lord of Damascus, proclaimed a jihad against the Christians in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Saladin was worldly enough to recognize the differences that existed between the Christians of Antioch and those of Jerusalem, but his army—which was composed of Arabs, Turks, and Kurds—probably did not: the men quite likely thought that all Christians came from the devil and should be put to death. Much the same, however, can be said of the Christian Crusaders, some of whom were quite sophisticated while others were not.
Who was defending Jerusalem?
The Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller—who later became the Knights of Saint John—were more than sufficient to defend Jerusalem. Nearly a century of Middle Eastern warfare had revealed that the average mounted Christian knight could defeat his Arab or Turkish counterpart nine times out of ten (this was thanks to the size of his horse and the thickness of his armor). But in order for the knights to retain this advantage, they needed to remain on the defensive and allow Saladin to waste his resources attacking the city. Instead, they chose to go out and meet him.
Even so, the Christians could have won, had they attempted to maneuver. Instead, they went straight at Saladin’s host, which was arranged with the Sea of Galilee at its back. Saladin allowed the crusaders to come close, but he contained them at two old hillsides known as the Horns of Hattin. The hills appeared to offer the Christians a good position, but Saladin knew the land better, and he had arranged it so the Christians had no wells nearby. Over the next ten hours, the Arabs and Turks pelted the Christians with arrows, many of them flame-tipped. What little shrubbery existed was soon set aflame, and quite a few Christians choked to death in the smoke-filled area.
First of all, why do we hear so little about the Second Crusade?
Because so little was accomplished. In 1147, the Second Crusade was launched with the goal of retaking the Kingdom of Edessa from the Arabs and Turks. Many important European leaders, including King Louis VII of France and Queen Eleanor—better known as Eleanor of Aquitaine—went on the Second Crusade. They did not retake Edessa, however, and the entire crusade is better known for its parties and festivals than for any substantive accomplishments.
Who was the first European leader to take up the Crusader cross?
Immediately upon learning of the Battle of Hattin, Richard the Lion-Heart, Prince of England and Duke of Normandy, announced his intention to go to the Holy Land. Richard was the fiercest and most feared of Europe’s young leaders, but he was soon followed by two of the elder generation. His father, King Henry II of England, declared his intention to go on Crusade, as did Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, best known as Frederick Barbarossa (meaning “Frederick of the Red Beard”). King Philip Augustus of France, who was a bit younger than Richard, also announced that he would serve on the Crusade.
Troubles and disagreements between the major monarchs would haunt the Crusade, however. Richard and Philip had once been close friends; they now disliked each other. Frederick Barbarossa and King Henry II were battle-tested warriors, but it was unlikely that two so contentious personalities could work well together.
Who made the first move?
King Henry II (ruled 1154–1189) was in the midst of preparing to go to the Holy Land when he, rather suddenly, faced a rebellion by Richard and two of his brothers. Instead of traveling 2,000 miles to fight the Muslims, the Christians were at war with each other, even within family lines. Richard defeated his father in battle on July 4, 1189, and Henry II died just two days later. Tradition has it that his last words were: “shame, shame, on a conquered king.”
Why was Aquitaine so important?
Located on the southwest side of France, Aquitaine was the major wine-producing section of the country (Cognac, Burgundy, and Chardonet had not yet come into their own). Beyond that, Aquitaine was the most civilized, or courtly, section of the kingdom. Life in Aquitaine, for the upper class at least, was a good deal more pleasant and refined than elsewhere.
Richard became king of England immediately following his father’s death, but the actual coronation ceremony had to wait until September; by that time, Richard and his mother—the redoubtable Eleanor of Aquitaine—had taken possession of the kingdom as well as Henry II’s continental possessions. It would have made sense for Richard to remain in England and consolidate his position, but he was eager to be off on crusade, and within two months he was back in Aquitaine.
How old and powerful was Frederick Barbarossa (ruled 1155–1190)?
At sixty-nine, he was far older than the other monarchs, and he clearly looked down on the “boys,” as he considered Richard the Lion-Heart and Philip Augustus. Barbarossa was old enough to be their father, and he had been a young German noble on the Second Crusade, many years earlier. Barbarossa also fielded the largest force. Though records are scanty, he may have had 80,000 men in all—ranging from leading knights to launderers—and the German host was the scariest, so far as the Muslim foes were concerned.
Barbarossa sent threatening letters to Saladin, who returned them in kind, and the Muslims braced for the German onslaught. Barbarossa intentionally avoided Constantinople. His men crossed the Hellespont at Gallipoli and pushed into Turkey. They there encountered many of the difficulties which had beset earlier invasion forces: hunger, thirst, and the seemingly endless number of mountains to cross. By the summer of 1190, Barbarossa’s Germans had come out of Turkey, however, and were close to the city of Antioch. They had taken some losses from disease and desertion, but the army was still imposing. Disaster struck before they could reach the Holy Land, however.
How did Frederick Barbarossa die?
Even though there were several eyewitnesses, Barbarossa’s death remains one of the most interesting and disputed of questions. Did the bridge he used collapse, throwing him into the water below? Or did he and a handful of his knights jump in for a swim after a morning ride? In either case, there is no doubt, however, that Barbarossa drowned.
Kings, queens, and emperors often came to surprising ends, but drowning was not common. Barbarossa’s sudden death—probably caused by a sudden drop in blood pressure—panicked the Germans. Thousands of them took off right away, and many others deserted in the following days and weeks. By the time the Germans reached Antioch, they were reduced to about one-quarter of their original number. Led by Duke Henry of Swabia, these pushed on, vowing to bury Barbarossa’s bones in Jerusalem.
Meanwhile, where were Richard and Philip?
Richard and Philip rendezvoused in central France in the summer of 1190 and proceeded to the Mediterranean coast. Tensions between the French on one side and the English and Normans on the other surfaced almost at once, and the leaders did not do a great job of keeping the men together. It was small surprise, therefore, that the armies parted ways as they approached the Mediterranean. Philip and his Frenchmen embarked at Genoa, while Richard and his men worked their way slowly down the Italian coast. The two armies met again, at Messina, on the northeast corner of Sicily, and decided to winter there.
Some truly comic-opera events followed. Richard’s mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, arrived, bringing a Spanish princess whom Richard had promised to marry. Richard and Philip spent most of the winter quarreling, and their men did the same. Not until spring did the Franco-Norman-English forces depart, and even then they traveled in separate fleets. Richard took some time out from the crusade to attack—and conquer—the Island of Cyprus: it was there that he married Berengaria of Navarre. Not until June of 1191 did the entire army reach the Holy Land.
What was unique about the Siege of Acre?
Located on the coast of modern-day Israel, Acre was one of the last Christian cities to hold out against the Muslims. Saladin had placed it under siege, only to find that the arrival of Richard and Philip placed him in a state of near siege. Not only were the numbers of men the largest that had ever been seen in a siege, but the tools and weapons had grown in size and power. Richard and Philip had both brought mangonels with them: stone-throwers that could, over time, crush the battlements of most cities.
Saladin saw that the situation was hopeless, and he allowed the Muslim garrison to surrender. One of the provisions of the capitulation was that Saladin would provide food for the men who surrendered; when this was not done, Richard had 2,000 men summarily executed on the beaches near Acre. As this blood-curdling episode unfolded, Richard’s reputation—for power and cruelty—spread. When the Christian force moved down the coast, in the direction of modern-day Tel Aviv, the Muslims paralleled their movements, but did not attempt to stop Richard from advancing.
Artist Gustave Doré’s illustration of Saladin fighting King Richard at the Battle of Arsuf during the Third Crusade.
How did it so quickly become Richard’s crusade?
It was Richard and Philip’s crusade until the siege of Acre ended. Just days later, King Philip asked permission to return to France, pleasing illness. Richard required Philip to swear, in the presence of his knights, that he would neither harm nor distress Richard’s castles in Normandy and Aquitaine. The two kings then parted, leaving Richard the clear leader of the crusade.
How did the crusaders gain the upper hand on the Muslims?
In terms of sheer courage or willpower, there was little difference between the two armies, with plenty of heroism displayed on both sides. But the Europeans—or the Franks, as they were called—had an undeniable advantage in horses and horsemanship. The European horses were bred to be larger and heavier than the Arab steeds, and the European armor was considerably thicker and heavier. This, to be sure, was not always an advantage. In the heat of a Middle Eastern summer, the crusaders sometimes wished to have the light armor of their Arab and Turkish foes.
Richard, too, was a figure too large to be overlooked. Perhaps we exaggerate his importance on the battlefield, but he was a commanding presence and his mere appearance would lift the spirits of his men and depress those of his foes. This was evident at the Battle of Arstul, fought in September 1191.
Was there any attempt to resolve the situation through negotiation?
There were, in fact, a number of parleys, with Richard and Saladin each acting like the gallant knight: they sent each other fruit, delicacies, and even horses. But the most promising negotiation by far fell through when Richard declared he needed to seek the Pope’s permission before allowing his sister to marry a Muslim. One of Saladin’s emissaries proposed, perhaps in jest, that Richard’s sister Joan should marry Saladin’s brother Yusuf and that they should reign as king and queen of a multiethnic, multireligious Jerusalem. As unlikely as this seems, it was an appealing proposition.
Richard and Saladin conducted numerous parleys, all the while seeking to learn of the other’s troop dispositions. When the battles and skirmishes resumed, it became clear that the Europeans had the advantage, and they pressed the Arabs and Turks nearly all the way to Jerusalem. In July 1192, Richard and his men were a mere eight miles from the city, close enough that they could see the morning sunlight reflect off the Dome of the Rock. Inexplicably Richard chose this moment to hold back, saying that the army was not ready to capture the Holy City.
Why did Richard refuse to lead the attack on the Holy City?
No one ever accused Richard the Lion-Heart of cowardice; rather, it appears that he felt guilty about some conduct in his past and genuinely believed God would not allow him to capture Jerusalem. When his knights and advisors pressed the matter, Richard refused. He would resign his position and serve as a private in the army, he declared, but he would not lead it in an attack on Jerusalem.
In September 1192, Richard and Saladin came to an agreement. They signed a three-year truce under which fighting ceased, and the pilgrims of both faiths—Christian and Muslim—could visit the holy sites. Richard then turned and headed for home. The Third Crusade was an abject failure.
After refusing to invade Jerusalem, Richard the Lion-Heart came to an agreement with Saladin to allow pilgrims into the city. The English king then returned home, ending the Third Crusade.
What happened to Richard the Lion-Heart on his way home to England?
When we relate the story, it sounds unreal, but it is, in truth, fully factual. Richard and about fifty of his officers attempted to cross Eastern Europe incognito, riding through the countryside. They were detected, and arrested, in Vienna, where the duke of Austria held them prisoner for a brief time before handing them over to Henry VI, Holy Roman Emperor. Both the Austrians and the Germans resented Richard’s high-handed actions on the crusade, but this was by no means enough grounds on which to arrest and imprison a leader of that enterprise. The Germans held Richard for almost two years before his mother—Eleanor of Aquitaine—raised an enormous ransom and delivered it to the Holy Roman Emperor. Tradition has it that the price was 100,000 marks (or pieces) of silver. If so, this was probably at least three times the value of the annual budget of the Kingdom of England.
Was nothing accomplished by the Third Crusade?
The Third Crusade was one of the grandest of adventures (so long as one survived), but it accomplished virtually nothing.
Why did Richard not lead the Fourth Crusade?
Oh, how he wanted to! As soon as he returned to England, following his captivity in Germany, Richard set about raising men and money, intending to return to the Holy Land. Both his English and his Norman subjects were more suspicious, however, because they knew he had come so close (within eight miles) and turned back in 1192.
Richard died in battle against the French in 1199, and the throne passed to his younger brother, John. Leadership of the Fourth Crusade, which commenced in 1202, went not to any of the monarchs, but to a group of top nobles. And when they looked for the best way to reach the Holy Land, these men decided to sail from Venice.
What were the two wealthiest and most competitive merchant cities?
Venice and Genoa, located on opposite sides of the Italian peninsula, became wealthy in the years following the success of the First Crusade. By 1202, these cities had become the richest in the Mediterranean. Venetian shipmasters were pleased to take the men of the Fourth Crusade aboard—for a handsome price—but not long after embarkation, they began to speak of how much easier, and more profitable, it would be to capture Constantinople.
The city on the Bosporus was in a weak condition in 1204. The Byzantines had fought among themselves for years, and the willpower of the Byzantine leaders was at an all-time low. Even so, when the men of the Fourth Crusade came ashore to commence a siege, the Byzantines resisted fiercely. The western Europeans defeated their eastern cousins, capturing the city in August 1204. A puppet state was created, with Venice ruling the affairs of Constantinople for the next fifty years. Today’s tourist who admires sculptures in downtown Venice often does not realize that some of the finest of these came from Constantinople after the siege of 1204.
We know so much about Richard.Why do we hear so little of Philip II of France?
When one looks at the two kings side by side, Richard was far more impressive. He was bigger, more intimidating, and more of a presence, all-around, than Philip II. Had Richard lived another decade, the two kings would have continued to fight, and the chances are good that Richard would have been victorious. But he died from a crossbow shot in 1199, while Philip lived another twenty years. And during that score of years, Philip was able to accomplish much of what had previously been denied him.
Who was King John?
John (ruled 1199–1216) was the youngest son of King Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, and no one—except perhaps his father—ever suspected he would become king. John had three elder brothers, but two of them died and the third was a high churchman: the throne, therefore, went to John after Richard’s death.
Was it confusing to the people at the time that England and France seemed to have been joined at the hip?
To them it made sense. A peasant owed allegiance to the local strongman, who owed his allegiance to the local lord. If that lord declared his allegiance to England, for example, then so did all of the people in the village, even the county. True nationalism had not yet developed, and local, provincial loyalties were far stronger than they are today.
John has a bad press—almost everyone agrees on this—but he does seem to have been something of a coward. Perhaps it was the overwhelming presence of his brother Richard that made this so; in any case, John cut a poor figure, both on the battlefield and off. Philip II, meanwhile, had had plenty of time to develop his strategy, which was to dispossess the English king of his domains in present-day France.
How badly did King John stumble?
He stumbled to the point that Pope Innocent III placed all England under interdict, declaring that none of the seven sacraments of the Roman Catholic faith could be performed in that country. This was enough to bring King John to heel, and in 1206 he signed a remarkable document—which still exists—declaring that he was a vassal of the Pope and owed him political, as well as spiritual, allegiance.
John recovered from this disaster, only to stumble into military action against the French. John believed he would prevail because he had enlisted the aid of many German knights and nobles, but when Philip won the Battle of Bouvines in 1214, the poverty of John’s cause became extreme. He evacuated his men from nearly all their posts in France and practically signed away both Normandy and Aquitaine. His final humiliation was yet to come, however.
How important was the Magna Carta (“Great Charter”)?
The Middle Ages was an era practically teeming with charters. Towns chartered their independence from local lords, and villages established charters—written agree ments—with their local knights. Many of these charters still survive and can be seen in major institutions such as the British Library and British Museum, but the most famous of all, beyond doubt, was the Great Charter of 1215.
Under its provisions, King John agreed that certain rights and privileges were beyond his royal power to remove. He could not, for example, seize a nobleman or distress him without the agreement of a council of the barons, and he could not have a man locked up in prison without allowing some sort of trial. To be sure, there were social gradients built into the Great Charter. Peasants had lesser rights; serfs had almost none. But the principle, the very idea that some people had specific rights which could not be removed, was little short of revolutionary. By forcing King John to sign this document, the barons, in 1215, asserted a powerful new trend, one that eventually led in the direction of greater personal liberties.
The first page of the Magna Carta. Signed by King John, this 1215 charter is one of the most important documents in the history of legal rights. It acknowledged that citizens have certain rights that cannot be taken away, even by a king.
What is the difference between a baron, a knight, and a lord?
In the High Middle Ages, there were many knights and rather few barons (who might also be called “lord”). The barons usually came from longer lineages and could claim descent from the first knights of a given area. In 1215, the leading barons of England declared war on King John. They never aimed to overthrow him or to take him prisoner, but they asserted their right to defend their baronial privileges, which included near-absolute sovereignty over their lands. King John did not fight the barons—he knew that he would lose—but he came to an agreement with them in June 1215.
When did the military revolution take place?
Between about 1150 and 1300, a quiet and subtle economic revolution took place, which consequently gave birth to a military one. In that century and a half, the lower-income folk of medieval society began an economic rise that established not what we would call a middle class but rather what we would label a significant, effective working class. Men who previously worked as day laborers now had regular employment, and numerous guilds were established to protect the rights of artisans. As a result, many truly lower-class people moved up to become wealthier and more respectable. It was these people, engaged in a social and economic revolution, who brought about a military one.
Not surprisingly, the countries that enjoyed the most success during this period, roughly 1300–1425, were those that emphasized upward mobility. Little Switzerland exerted a power beyond its borders, thanks to its mercenary soldiers, and medium-sized Scotland, which had so long been bullied by its large southern neighbor, won its independence. Then, too, the Flemings of present-day Belgium gained quasi-independence from both the Holy Roman Empire and the French monarchy. And most of this was accomplished by spears, rather than swords, and by common soldiers in the ranks rather than glittering knights on horseback.
What was the first battle that indicated the success of the new techniques?
The Flemings revolted against French rule at the beginning of the fourteenth century, and a major army of French knights rode north to punish the rebels. At the Battle of Courtrai in 1302, the Flemings met the French with infantry massed in blocks, carrying pikes. Some of the pikes were metal, but far more were of wood, spliced and then hacked from trees. The French made a typical, medieval attack, expecting to rout the rebels, and instead were routed themselves, both by the speed and ferocity of the Flemish infantry. Had the French possessed archers, they might have succeeded; instead, they sustained a bloody defeat. France did make an adjustment, having some of its men train with the Genoese crossbow, but even this weapon was “heavy” and slow: it released perhaps one round every two minutes. What they really needed was something “lighter” and faster, and they did not find it for a long time to come.
Where was the second place the military revolution showed itself?
The people of that time, of course, did not call it a revolution. They were interested in survival and in fending off the attacks of their foes. And the Scots, who had a long history of military failure, were among the first to seize on the new opportunities.
Scotland was a kingdom, but it had been subject to England for almost half a century. English suzerainty had been established by winning over many of the Scottish nobles, men who owned land on both sides of the border. England’s King Edward I (ruled 1272–1307)—sometimes known as “Longshanks”—was the architect of the English policy, which resulted in Scotland being a vassal country. Edward I pressed his gains so strongly, however, that a backlash resulted, leading to the Anglo-Scottish Wars.
Who was William Wallace? Was he as important as he is portrayed in the movie Braveheart?
Released to the cinema in 1995, Braveheart was an outstanding film in terms of dramatic tension; it also contains some of the best scenes of medieval warfare ever filmed. William Wallace was indeed real, but his origins were not as humble as those shown in the film. He was a “hedge knight,” meaning he possessed little land, and he was outraged over the brutal means England used to subdue Scotland. Wallace, therefore, started the rebellion that escalated in the middle part of the last decade of the thirteenth century.
What Braveheart shows very well is the discrepancy between the English and Scottish military forces. England had a powerful combination of heavy cavalry, solid infantry, and mobile archers, all of which had gained in strength and knowledge during the English wars with Wales. Scotland, by contrast, had a sprinkling of nobles—whose horses lacked armor—atop a ragged combination of individual fighters. Everything suggested England would win, and that was how the wars began, with solid English victories. Motivation and morale—which are not precisely the same—always play roles in military actions, however, and the Scots found their inspiration in William Wallace.
Was there ever a scene quite as amazing—and terrifying—as the one shown in Braveheart, where the Scots used wooden pikes to impale the enemy’s horses?
The element of surprise that day was not nearly as dramatic as is shown in the film, but yes, the Scots—lacking heavy cavalry of their own—formed solid groups of men known as shiltrons. Resembling the ancient Greek phalanx, the shiltron was a blocklike group of pikemen that could repel its foes.
William Wallace was the Scottish hero par excellance, but it was Robert the Bruce who won the final battle for Scottish independence. In 1314, Robert and his Scots won the Battle of Bannockburn over King Edward II, ensuring that Scotland would be free.
Did William Wallace end up “dead,” as he was warned in the film Braveheart?
Yes. Wallace won an outstanding victory at the Battle of Falkirk in 1296, but he was bested the next year at Falkirk. Resigning his post as defender of Scotland, Wallace played a hit-and-run, hide-and-seek war against the English for several years before being captured. He was brought to London, given a show trial, and then executed in the most gruesome method imaginable. His head was stuck atop London Bridge as a warning to other traitors. The movement that began with Wallace continued, however, under the leadership of Robert the Bruce.
Was Robert the Bruce as conflicted, and sometimes as cowardly, a figure as depicted in Braveheart?
Some of the scenes in Braveheart have seldom been surpassed in their depiction of medieval warcraft. One of these takes place when William Wallace, badly defeated at Falkirk, pursues King Edward I’s party from the battlefield. One knight turns back to fight Wallace, and in the ensuing scrape, Wallace prevails and eventually pulls off the other man’s helmet to find that he is a Scot in disguise, none other than Robert the Bruce. The epic treachery of Robert the Bruce should be rewarded with a swift death—this is what nearly all the viewers declare—but Wallace spares his life and staggers away from the battlefield, marveling that Scots could fight and betray each other in this manner.
Robert the Bruce was a slippery character. He did fight with King Edward I at Falkirk and only later was he converted completely to the idea of full Scottish independence. Several years later, the Bruce was involved in an assassination, and he struck the final, deadly blow. There is little to love in the man who later came to stand for Scottish freedom. But there was strength in the man, as well, as he showed a real capacity for growth. Crowned by the Scottish nobles, he fought the English long after both William Wallace and Edward I were dead.
”The Trial of William Wallace” as depicted in the 1909 edition of Cassell’s History of England. The trial was just for show; there was no way the rebellious Scotsman was going to escape his execution.
How did the final struggle come about?
King Edward II—son of the one called “Longshanks”—was not a military man in the tradition of his father, but he was a wily, even cunning, opponent. In the spring of 1314, Edward II summoned all the English lords to provide a muster for the king’s advance into Scotland; this was to be the single largest of all the border invasions.
Robert the Bruce knew that the English were coming, and by mid-June, he had about 7,000 men in position on the north side of the River Forth, hidden and protected by a rugged section of land called the Bannock, sometimes referred to as the Bannockburn. The Bruce knew he was outnumbered by more than two to one; even worse was the fact that the English had perhaps 2,500 heavy horses. The Scots had perhaps 500 horsemen, but almost none of them possessed the equipage—or even the sheer weight—of their cavalry opponents. In archers, too, the English had a marked superiority. The Bruce had to rely, therefore, on native skill and a measure of luck.
What was the most dramatic moment of the Battle of Bannockburn?
On June 23, 1314, the Bruce was directing and assembling a group of his pikemen when an English noble, just 500 yards away, began to charge. Sir Henry de Bohun espied the crown atop the Bruce’s helmet and hoping to score a great coup, he charged alone on horseback. Even though the Bruce could have fled to a cover of trees, to do so would be to lose face in front of hundreds of his men. Therefore, though he was mounted on a pony rather than a real war horse, the Bruce waited.
As Sir Henry de Bohun came close, he leveled his lance and charged straight for the Scottish king, but the Bruce was a master at guerrilla tactics; he evaded the lance and, allowing the Englishman’s horse to continue its charge, he came from behind and split de Bohun’s head with his axe. Though the Scots chastised their king for exposing himself to such danger, they quietly applauded his bravery. The battle itself, however, did not take place until the following morning.
What were the results of Bannockburn?
Six thousand English troops were killed and wounded, and the list of men taken prisoner was enough to give any loyal Englishman pains. One earl, forty-two barons and bannerets, and scores of knights were taken prisoner.
King Edward II (ruled 1307–1327) was almost captured, but he escaped to fight another day. His ambitions remained strong, but the English attempt to take over Scotland had ground to a halt. Further battles would be fought, and the English would win their share of them, but it would never again be close to annexing Scotland. Between them, William Wallace and Robert the Bruce had accomplished what seemed impossible: winning complete political independence.
How did Switzerland win its independence from Austria?
The Battle of Morgarten, fought in November 1315, was one of the decisive battles toward the end of Swiss independence. Several thousand Austrians invaded Shwyz, one of the federations of the Swiss republic, and found perhaps 5,000 men of Schwyz opposing them. In the battle, fought near the mountain pass of Morgarten, the Swiss proved their superiority in mountain fighting. Using spears made of wood, the Swiss killed nearly 1,500 Austrians (many others drowned in Lake Ageri). As the Austrians retreated, it became plain that Switzerland was on its way to political independence.
Did the Dutch, too, fight for their independence?
They did not need to. Holland and the other Dutch provinces had won their independence from the Holy Roman Empire without any battles, and by the early fourteenth century those provinces were on the way to establishing themselves as solid political units. The major reason no one—such as England or France—claimed Holland is that there seemed to be nothing much of value there. No incentive existed for any of the great powers to invade Holland, and the area slowly evolved in a direction that involved fishing, farming, and a growing maritime presence.
What happened to the crusading movement?
It died in the half century following the year 1204. Three more crusades were formed, but very little was accomplished. Something had gone out of the soul of the crusading movement, and it could not be regained.
Christian Europeans had never been shy about fighting each other, but the number of conflicts and wars began to increase as the crusades wound down. One of the most persistent of conflicts was the series of border wars between England and Scotland. The cause of these border wars was the desire of England—its noble class especially—to add Scotland to the Kingdom of England.
Where else were “border wars” being fought?
They took place throughout much of Europe during the fourteenth century. It almost seems as if the common people realized that the mounted knights were vulnerable for the first time in almost two centuries. Border skirmishes and battles took place in Belgium, in Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Lithuania. A common theme was that foot soldiers employed new methods to bring down mounted knights and that they often succeeded.
Can any people, or set of peoples, really sustain the motivation to fight each other for a century?
No. There have to be breaks in the action and time for people to forget—or at least put from their minds—the mayhem and destruction of the last set of episodes. But England and France, which had long experienced uneasy relations, did go to war in 1334, and the conflict lasted—off and on—for more than one hundred years.
What was the proximate cause of the Hundred Years’ War?
King Edward III of England (ruled 1327–1377) claimed the throne of France because of the Salic Law, which declared that only male descendants and relatives could sit on the throne of Charlemagne. King Philip IV of France, best known as Philip the Fair, naturally disagreed, and the two kingdoms went to war in 1334. Neither side expected anything like what happened after that.
When the war began, France had a large advantage in population—about three to one—and resources. England, by contrast, had the better fleet and could therefore control the English Channel, deciding when and where to strike. The biggest surprises were in the area of military technology, however.
When did gunpowder first arrive in Christian Europe?
The precise date is unknown, but by the early fourteenth century some Europeans had experimented with gunpowder, and by about 1430, the first cannon were being forged. These were clumsy, heavy things, with almost no capacity for mobility; the sheer noise they created, however, could frighten a foe half to death. King Edward III of England brought a handful of ugly looking cannon to the Siege of Calais in 1336, but they did not succeed in battering down the walls. Cannon would have to wait nearly another century before becoming the “destroyers of castles.” The longbow, on the other hand, was primed and ready.
The Welsh pioneered the longbow, and the English adapted this new technology during the reign of King Edward I. As long as the archer was tall, the longbow was made of yew, an especially supple wood. Through long practice, a long bowman could release six arrows per minute, and the best of these marksmen were able to pierce the separation points between a knight’s armor. The longbow was costly to make and the practice sessions time consuming, but the weapon itself was extraordinarily light, and its ease of transportation made it the best weapon of the Hundred Years’ War.
When was the longbow first used?
It had been in use in the British Isles for many years, but the longbow first appeared in a European battlefield at Crecy in 1346. King Edward III invaded France and was set upon by a French force that outnumbered his own. In the Battle of Crecy, the English knights beat the French ones by a narrow margin, but it was the English commoners, using the longbow, who really won the day. Raining down arrows on their opponents, the longbow men then charged, and often caught, French knights either flat-footed or on their backs (because their horses had thrown them off). Captured knights were held for ransom, meaning that the English won a victory that was both tactical and monetary.
Edward III continued to the coast of what is now Belgium and besieged the city of Calais. He captured the city after a long siege and then returned to England. As far as Edward was concerned, the war was won. He did not realize that things were just beginning to warm up.
Why did the French fail to change their own tactics?
It is easy to poke fun at the French, who continued to believe that the armored knights would, eventually, simply ride over the peasants carrying longbows. It is important to remember that people are—in general—resistant to change and continue to believe that the method which worked in the past will do so again. The French, therefore, kept making excuses to themselves, blaming the rain on the day before the Battle of Crecy and the difficult terrain as reasons for their defeat. They simply could not fathom the painful fact that military technology had changed and that he who possessed the lighter weapon—the bow—would now prevail over heavier means of transport: the horse.
Illustration of Edward III defeating the French atCalais from Jean Froissart’s Chroniques, c. 1410.
There must have been more to this war than dynastic struggle, or else people would never have stayed with the conflict. Is that correct?
Yes. The dynastic conflict between the English and French was the initial reason for the Hundred Years’ War, but to sustain the bad feeling and desire for blood, there had to be more. By about 1350, England and France were locked in a struggle that was economic, social, and dynastic.
How severe did the Hundred Years’ War become?
The major armies were bad enough, but the mercenary forces that attended them were even worse. On both sides, the monarchs employed thousands of mercenary soldiers who preyed on the civilians. France suffered much the worst of this, as so much of the fighting was on its side of the English Channel.
By the 1370s, both England and France were on the verge of bankruptcy, and social disturbances began in earnest. In France, a rebellion known as the Jaquerie nearly toppled King Charles V; in England, the major disturbance came in the form of Wat Tyler’s Revolt. In both instances, the established order eventually prevailed, albeit at an enormous cost in money, arms, and men.
Did anyone see that the time had come to end this fratricidal conflict?
Various Popes mentioned the fact, and numerous churchmen waxed indignant about how the two nations should combine to fight the Ottoman Turks. England and France were locked in a life-or-death struggle, however, and things only became worse when Burgundy exerted all of its power on behalf of the former.
The dukes of Burgundy had long been uneasy subjects of the French crown. Many of their subjects identified with Germany, or the Holy Roman Empire. By the 1420s, Burgundy was firmly in the English camp, with disastrous results for France. The single worst day of the Hundred Years’ War had already come and gone, however.
Why did King Henry V (ruled 1413–1422) invade France in 1415?
He did so for all the usual reasons: to compel the French to come to terms and to extort treasure from the French nobles. Something about Henry V appealed to his men, however, and he was depicted as a hero in Shakespeare’s play of that name. Henry V was young and a risk taker. He came to France with fewer than 8,000 men, and after the Siege of Harfleur, his force was reduced to fewer than 5,000 troops. Rather than be evacuated by ships, however, Henry chose to march over land, across Northern France, to one of the Channel Ports.
The French knew all about their previous failures at Crecy, Poitiers, and elsewhere. What they never believed, however, was that the humble English longbow man could have caused all this destruction. In each case, the French argued that something else was the reason for their failure. Therefore, on hearing that Henry V was marching with a small army, King Charles VI (ruled 1380–1422) summoned all the noblemen of France and commanded them to strike the English while they were en route to Calais.
How did France lose the Battle of Agincourt?
Saint Crispin’s Day—October 25—dawned muggy and overcast, with rain showers threatening. This would have been the perfect time for the French to wait and slowly starve out the English. The French knights were impatient—to say the least—and their leader, the Constable of France, ordered an attack at around 9 A.M. Just then the skies opened up, making for terrible visibility and lots of mud.
The French attack progressed along a narrow front, too narrow, as it turned out. The English longbow men did not have to see special targets; they simply poured one volley after another into the mass of French knights. By the time a handful of knights got close to the English lines, their foes were ready for them: these were either killed or captured on the spot. The French made one last attempt, circling around to get at the English supply wagons, but this, too, was foiled. By noon, the French had pulled back, and the English were able to assess their victory, which, in every term imaginable, was simply stunning.
Couldn’t the French have tried again, on another day, to defeat the English?
Not really. When an army is pummeled to that extent—roughly 10,000 men killed, wounded, and missing out of a total of 25,000—the fighting spirit shrivels. Besides, if the English had contrived some special magic on Saint Crispin’s Day—as many believed—doubtless they would do so again. The French army returned home, and King Henry V headed for the safety of English-held Calais.
To say that Agincourt was a French disaster is to minimize its importance: both sides remembered the battle for centuries. Equally important, Henry V now held the whip hand in any negotiations with the French. Two years later, under the Treaty of Troyes, he married the French king’s daughter and when their son—the future Henry VI—was born in 1421, it seemed likely that there would, indeed, be one solid realm of England and France combined.
Was the Hundred Years’ War finally over after the Battle of Agincourt?
It should have been. We would, therefore, have called it the Ninety Years’ War. But the tide still had one or two cycles to go through.
In 1429, the English pressed their campaign relentlessly. King Henry V was now dead—from natural causes—and the English nobles fought on behalf of his nine-yearold son, King Henry VI. The English had an overwhelming sense of moral superiority by this point: one had to look a long way back to find, or see, any battle they had lost. The French, at this point, had no king; King Charles VI had died a few years earlier. They had a crown prince—the dauphin—who was in residence at the fortified town of Chinon on the Loire. The English, meanwhile, had invested the city of Orleans on the Loire. It was perhaps the third most important town in France, and if it fell, it was easy to see the English taking the heartland of the Loire River valley. But in the very days and weeks when it seemed that Orleans would fall, the French gained new, sudden inspiration from a most unlikely source: a seventeen-year-old girl.
Who was Joan, before she became famous?
Born around 1411, Joan was called Joan of Arc because of her family. She was from the little village of Domremy, in the province of Lorraine, close to the border of the Holy Roman Empire. Her father was a successful innkeeper, and it is a mistake to call her a peasant; rather, she belonged to the rather small middle class of that time. Even so, she was young and female, both of which argued against her becoming a factor in the Hundred Years’ War.
Joan was an exceptionally religious girl, even by the standards of that time, and at the age of fourteen she began to have visions of the Catholic saints Michael, Margaret, and Catherine. These visions—or apparitions—told her to be a good girl, to stay close to God, and to be ready when she was called upon. During the winter of 1428–1429, Joan’s visions increased in number and intensity. Joan was told that it was her task to rescue Charles, the dauphin, and to bring him to the cathedral city of Rheims to be crowned and anointed with holy oil.
How on earth was a seventeen-yearold supposed to accomplish this?
We must say—right at the outset—that Joan had an enormous amount of faith. Without telling her parents, she went to the local fortress commander—Robert de Baudricourt—and asked him to give her a cavalry escort to take her to the dauphin. De Baudricourt thought her crazy and bothersome, but when she came back for the third time, he did just as she asked. Tradition has it that she spoke some secret to him, something which neither she nor anyone else would have known. All we know for certain is that he gave her an escort of six men and that they headed off for Chinon, arriving there ten days later (they traveled at night to avoid the English).
This romanticized painting of Joan of Arc at the Battle of Orleans erroneously shows her wearing plate mail (Siege de Orléans by Jules Lenepveu, c. 1890).
The Dauphin Charles learned of Joan well before she came, and he set a trap so he might ensnare her (he feared she was a sorceress). When Joan entered the audience chamber at the castle of Chinon, she found dozens of men standing around a throne and a middle-aged man sitting there. She looked at that man, shook her head, went around the room slowly, and when she came to the dauphin—who wore clothing much like all the others—she sank to her knees and told him that it was her task to have him crowned and to liberate France from the English.
It sounds as if she was rather like a witch. Did Charles continue to fear this?
Charles had her examined by a group of priests and nuns for the next ten days. At the end of their investigation, they pronounced her of sound—if overenthusiastic—mind and testified that she was a virgin. The concern was that she might have lain with the Devil to gain satanic powers. Charles and his leading commanders continued to have their doubts—can anyone blame them?—but he chose to give her leadership of a section of his army. Joan was to be watched day and night, however, and the male commanders were to remove her if things went ill. Then again, one can ask whether things could get any worse than they already were?
Knowing that Orleans was the key to the Loire River countryside and that its fall would be devastating to French morale, Joan brought 4,000 men to relieve that town. By the time her counter of the English siege had begun, some of the men were already devoted to her. Wearing male attire and armor and carrying an immense white flag with the name of Jesus embroidered upon it, Joan was a striking sight.
How did Joan of Arc succeed where so many others failed?
That was, and remains, one of the great questions associated with Joan of Arc. Immediately upon arriving outside of Orleans, she sent letters to the English commander, imploring him, in the name of heaven—these were her words—to depart. When he scoffed, Joan started her own set of attacks.
Difficulties and dangers were everywhere during the siege, and Joan was wounded in the breast on the second day of battle. She had the wound dressed and appeared on the third day, much to the disgust and anger of the English. Her tactics were nothing unusual, but her adolescent excitement inspired the French, who broke into the strongly built fortress that was the key to the English siege. After a week of battle, the English lifted the siege and withdrew to the north.
Could anyone else have accomplished this?
Historians generally think not. Joan was the essential change element, the factor that allowed for the French victory at Orleans. When Charles the Dauphin arrived, he got off his horse and walked over to Joan and publicly embraced her (this was, sadly, the only occasion on which he fully expressed his gratitude). She told him that it was wonderful, but that God’s plan was not yet complete. She was to take him to Rheims for his coronation.
Charles’ military advisers spoke against this, saying it was better to consolidate what had already been accomplished. By now, Joan had a wave of confidence behind her, however, and many of the soldiers would not do their duty unless she led the army. Charles, therefore, went with Joan and within six weeks they reached Rheims, where he was crowned on July 17, 1429.
Was she real, this amazing girl called Joan?
She was the real thing, a person of great piety and devotion who turned her religious inspiration into military accomplishment. But her story, which is fabulous, quickly begins to go downhill. Once he was King Charles VII, duly anointed and crowned, the monarch showed less interest in Joan. In fact, he practically asked her to go home. In gratitude, he made her town of Domremy free from all royal taxes (it remained that way until 1789). But Joan had other ideas. The king did not have her services for long, she said, and he should make use of her now. She wanted to attack and capture Paris.
Charles VII held back from this. He wanted to negotiate, to win over the Burgundians who had caused so much havoc in the war, and then to eject the English slowly. It must be said that Charles VII’s idea was strategically sound, while Joan’s was tactically superior. Charles VII withheld support, and when Joan finally did attack Paris, she was defeated. Months later, she was captured by the Burgundians, who sold her to the English.
What happened to Joan?
After a two-month trial, at which she testified with great fervor and strength, Joan was found guilty of being a witch. The English burned her in the market town of Rouen on May 31, 1431. She was only about nineteen years old.
Joan of Arc’s story is one of the most remarkable, and sad, of all connected with military history. That she was a fine, inspiring leader is beyond doubt, and that she accomplished unusual, even great, things cannot be argued. Most observers comment that she was ill-served by her monarch, who, very likely, could have done much more to save her after she fell into the hands of the English. Charles VII continued on his slow way, negotiating here, fighting there, and by the beginning of the year 1453, he and his Frenchmen were on the verge of expelling the English from their soil. The final battle was at Castillon on July 17, 1453.
Who won the final battle of the Hundred Years’War after more than a century of war?
The English performed quite well at the battle’s beginning, and there were moments when it seemed that this might turn into another Agincourt or Crecy. The French had nearly 300 pieces of artillery, however, and they used these to turn the tide. By late afternoon, the English were routed, and France had the final victory it needed to claim that the province of Gascony was free of the English. Just a few months later, the war finally ended, with the English holding the city of Calais on the French side of the Channel, but nothing else.
How large was the Byzantine Empire in the fifteenth century?
One can almost ask how small it had become. The empire had once encompassed all of Turkey and much of the Balkans, as well as sections of the African coast. In 1453, it was reduced to a tiny strip of land—perhaps 200 square miles—centered around the city of Constantinople.
One century earlier—almost to the month—the Ottoman Turks had crossed the Dardanelles to establish a presence in mainland Europe; since then, they had slowly strangled what remained of the Byzantine Empire. No scorn was shown, however, because the Ottoman Turks, most of whom had never been within the walls of Constantinople, revered the city nearly as much as their opponents. The Turks referred to the center of downtown Constantinople as the “big red apple.”
How many times had Constantinople been besieged?
Perhaps twenty-two times in all, and on only one occasion had the city fallen. That was in 1204, when it succumbed to the Fourth Crusade. For perhaps fifty years thereafter, Constantinople had been under Venetian rule, but the Byzantines had ejected the Venetians by 1260. Now, in 1453, Constantinople faced its final test.
In April 1453, as the Turks approached, a feeling of fate and doom fell over the Byzantine capital. Constantinople had once housed 750,000 inhabitants; the number was now around 100,000, and of these only 7,000 had agreed to defend the walls. The Turks, by contrast, had well over 100,000 men, and their horses and oxen were dragging dozens of immensely heavy cannon. The largest artillery piece cast a bullet that weighed 750 pounds, and the gun itself required over 50 oxen to move.
When did the siege commence?
In mid-April, the sultan Mehmet—known as “The Conqueror”—invaded Constantinople. Many, if not most, of his predecessors had broken their forces helplessly against the walls of this city, but Mehmet had already determined that cannon and ships would do most of the work. Within days, his enormous siege guns were bringing down sections of the walls—some of which were over 1,000 years old—and his fleet had broken the iron chain that had, for centuries, defied each set of ships entrance to the Golden Horn.
The walls of Constantinople were no match for Mehmet the Conqueror’s siege guns. He took the city for the Turks in 1453. (L’Entrée du sultan Mehmet II à Constantinople le vingt-neuf mai 1453 by Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant, 1876)
The scene was something out of a movie, in that there were no trees or physical obstacles: one could see the entire panorama. Centuries of tradition endured within the walls, while centuries of aggression were arrayed against them. And on May 28, 1453, the Turks succeeded not only in breaching the walls but pouring into the city.
What happened to the emperor?
Constantine XI (ruled 1449–1453), the last Byzantine emperor, died that day, but whether he was killed on the steps of the great cathedral or in front of one of the broken set of walls is unknown. Thousands of civilians were killed as the Turks came into the city. The ceremony of victory, however, was reserved for the following day.
On May 29, 1453, Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror rode slowly through the ruined walls, passed through dozens of streets, and arrived at the building the Byzantines called Hagia Sophia, meaning church of divine wisdom. It had been built during the reign of the Emperor Justinian, roughly 920 years earlier. The sultan rode his horse up the steps and into the cathedral. Seeing beautiful Christian paintings on its inner walls, he decreed that these be covered over. He then declared that the building was now a mosque and that its name was Aiya Sophia, meaning “pride of the sultans.”
What was so important about the year 1453?
It is easier to reverse the question, to ask what was not important about that year. France finally expelled England from Gascony, ending the Hundred Years’ War. The Ottoman Turks finally captured Constantinople—“the big red apple”—which had been their goal for centuries. And, in a medium-sized German city, Johannes Gutenberg put the finishing touches on what would soon be known as the printing press, a technology that would change the lives of millions of people.
When did the Renaissance begin?
No one can put a true date for the precise beginning because the Renaissance was a social and artistic movement, rather than a primarily political one. If one poses this question to a group of scholars, however, chances are good that a majority would nod at the year 1453. In that calendar year, the Hundred Years’ War ended and Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks. Then, too, Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press began running off some of its first bibles around that time.
Is there any way to know, and to say, that one has passed the medieval type of warfare and entered the Renaissance?
Many of the weapons were quite similar. The crossbow, longbow, and lance were all still in use, but the early cannon and early muskets—known as harqubeses—had appeared. Also, when examining paintings of Renaissance warfare, one is struck by the greater amount of color. Italian artists, especially, put many shades of red and blue into their paintings, and the deep grimness—and perhaps griminess—of the Hundred Years’ War seems to dissipate.
To be sure, this does not mean that Renaissance warfare was less deadly; rather, it implies that the men involved had more of a sense of humor—and indeed of color—in their lives. The Italian mercenary bands, and the Swiss mercenary soldiers, especially, seem to have taken their warfare very seriously and their humor very lightly.
Which nation was furthest along the road to creating a modern-style army?
Spain had come the farthest distance in pursuit of that goal. The kingdoms of Aragon and Castile were united in the persons of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella in 1469. Spain, too, had been at war with the Muslim population in its southern half for centuries, leading to the creation of a warrior culture. By 1485, only one Muslim enclave survived, the tiny Kingdom of Granada. Ferdinand and Isabella set their sights on Granada, knowing that a victory in Spain would do much to lift the spirits of men and women throughout Christendom.
Their Majesties attacked Granada in 1489 and following a three-year siege, the city capitulated. The siege went on so long that the Spanish forces built what amounted to another city—of the same size—in which they housed their troops and maintained their stores. To Ferdinand and Isabella the fall of Granada was the culmination of centuries of Christian Spain fighting against the Muslims, but to an Italian adventurer—from Genoa—it also represented a great opportunity. He was Christopher Columbus, and he staked nearly everything on persuading the Spanish king and queen to back his venture.
Which nation was furthest along the in the creation of a modern-style navy?
England. The English had long been among the world’s best fishermen because of their long, indented coastline and because the hinterland did not support enough wheat for everyone. Starting in the High Middle Ages, however, and accelerating as they reached the Renaissance, the English pioneered the establishment of a real navy.
When did the term Christendom come into use?
We cannot date the precise year, but the expression was widely used throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Rather than refer to Europe or to Western Europe, as we do today, the Europeans of that time spoke of Christendom, meaning all the peoples and nations who lived under the law of Christianity. It was a beautiful concept, and a far more appealing word than simply Europe, but it did not long survive once the Reformation took hold.
During the reign of King Henry VII (1485–1509), the English Navy became a professional organization with a table of ranks and schedules (still no pensions as yet). The English, too, decided to militarize several towns along their southern and southeastern coast. Naming these the Cinque Ports, the English monarchy established special laws for governance of these towns, and it is worth noting that hardly any of them ever fell to a foreign foe.
