>"During the decade of the Lionheart's rule, fighting was almost endemic, but it was concentrated chiefly in the Seine valley against Philip Augustus and in rebellious regions on the southern fringes of Poitou, leaving the Loire valley on the sidelines of the main events. Because Anjou lay between these two trouble-spots, Richard passed through the region every year of his reign except during his crusade and captivity, 1191 through 1193. Only in the summer of 1194 did warfare draw Richard into Greater Anjou. Following his return from Germany and a visit to England, he marched into the Touraine to reassert his authority. On 6 July, he confronted Philip Augustus near Vendome, forced him to flee and captured the French baggage train. Returning from Aquitaine to Normandy later that summer, the English king stopped in Anjou to shore up his authority there. He summoned his magnates to an assembly at Le Mans and apparently sought to shame them into stronger support by a speech commending to them the deeper devotion displayed by his English subjects. Yet no serious revolt threatened the region again until Richard's death in 1199, when a disputed succession gave Angevin nobles an excuse to defy John. The Lionheart's government made so little impression on the Angevin annalists that they treat him 'as if he were a stranger to the land'. [Annales de Saint-Aubin in Halphen, Annales angevines et vendomoises, 19, notes without comment the death of Richard, 'most illustrious king of the English', while in recording Henry II's death, it describes him as 'famous and most powerful from sea to sea'.] Charter evidence strengthens this impression. Of his surviving acta, an overwhelming majority treat English and Norman matters, and only 27 (3 per cent) out of some 750 concern Anjou. Even when Richard was resident in Anjou, most of the charters issued there concerned either England or Normandy."

This is somewhat surprising to me as Richard is known to have identified himself through his patrimony as chiefly a descendant of Melusine and the House of Anjou. But Angevin peoples themselves seem to have seen him largely as an outsider, despite him being Henry's son. But Henry himself, despite exerting broadly similar policies to the Greater Anjou region as his son (and to John before he lost it), was regarded as much more a native and local, with Angevin annalists looking back very fondly on his reign and perhaps also that of Geoffrey his father. Perhaps it is largely because Henry was born there ("For he [Henry] had promised the inhabitants of that city [Le Mans] that he would not forsake them, giving it as his reason, that his father rested there, as also, the circumstance that he himself was born there, and loved that city more than all others") ?

But it's curious that there's such a generational break between Geoffrey and his son Henry on the one hand, compared to between Henry and his son Richard on the other.

Written by Francis of Assisi:

Most High, Almighty, good Lord: thine are the praises, the glory, the honour, and all blessings.

To thee alone, Most High, do they belong: and no man is worthy to pronounce thy name.

Praised art thou, my Lord, with all thy creatures: and especially our Brother Sun, who is the day, and through whom thou givest us light.

And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour: and beareth a likeness unto thee, Most High One.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through Sister Moon, and the stars: in heaven thou didst form them clear and precious and beautiful.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through Brother Wind, and through the air, cloudy and serene: and every kind of weather through which thou givest sustenance to thy creatures.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through Sister Water: she who is useful and humble, precious and chaste.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom thou lightest the night: and he is beautiful and playful, robust and strong.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through Mother Earth: who doth sustain us and govern us, and who produceth varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through they that giveth pardon for thy love: and bear infirmity and tribulation.

Blessed are those that endure in peace: for by thee, Most High, they shall be crowned.

Praised art thou, my Lord, through our Sister Death: from whom no living man can escape.

Woe to them that die in mortal sin, but blessed are they whom death will find in thy most holy will: for the second death shall do them no harm.

Praise and bless the Lord, and give him thanks: and serve him with great humility.

Amen.

The King's House stood close to the outskirts of the town of Oxford, which at this time was a prosperous market borough, with a reasonably-sized religious school, attracting scholars from all across England (most of whom would study at the University of Paris), and a few from abroad. As for the palace itself, it had been built back in the 1130s by King Henry Beauclerc, the grandfather of the current King Henry Curtmantle, who loved to hunt in the many forests and parks of Oxfordshire, and who possessed, at the nearby Palace of Woodstock, a small menagerie of various animals, including a group of monkeys.

On this occasion, the late summer of 1157, King Henry and Queen Eleanor had been traversing a circuit of their kingdom when Eleanor, heavily pregnant, gave birth to their fourth child overall, a baby boy. Both of them had children even before they met: Eleanor had two daughters from her previous marriage to the King of France, while Henry had an illegitimate son called Geoffrey. After they were married, their first son, christened William, was made heir to Poitiers and Aquitaine, but died in infancy. By this time, the year 1156, the two had returned to England, and Eleanor had given birth to another son, Henry, at London. The King and Queen stayed in London and saw the birth of a third child, a daughter, Matilda. The following year saw them pass through Oxford while King Henry was on his way north.

As it happened, that year had been an eventful one. King Henry had been searching far and wide for a suitable chancellor to manage the affairs of his kingdom, and, at the advice of Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury, had settled upon a suitable candidate: Thomas Becket, an archdeacon at Canterbury Cathedral. That year, Thomas was officially titled as Lord Chancellor and granted vast powers and revenues, becoming a close confidant of Henry's at his court. Meanwhile, at Chester, King Malcolm of Scotland had come south to meet with King Henry and to affirm the peace at the border between the two kingdoms. This was, as far as anyone could see, a strong start to the new king's reign (it had begun just over two years prior), after the troublesome reign of his predecessor, King Stephen.

As for this new child, officially christened as Richard, (in honour of Henry's three-times and four-times great-grandfathers, Dukes Richard the Good and Richard the Fearless of Normandy), he was a second surviving son, and, as such, not reasonably expected to inherit the English throne: it would likely pass to his elder brother. As such it was not known where the young prince might govern, or which titles he would be granted when he came of age. Eleanor might have been hopeful that he would be granted her own lands of Poitou or elsewhere in Aquitaine. In any case, she apparently had good cause to place hope in him: the famous prophecies of the celebrated wizard Merlin foretold that "the eagle of the broken covenant will rejoice in her third nesting". Those at court would attest that the Queen believed herself to be that eagle (the "broken covenant" being her dissolved former marriage), and Richard being her third child since the marriage to her new husband.

Consulting with a court astrologer, Eleanor found a suitable wet-nurse in Hodierna of St Albans, a woman whose child Alexander Neckham had been born that same day, and so baby Richard was given to her protection. He would see very little of his mother until he was able to walk; still less of his father, who was on the move throughout his kingdom and for several years over the Channel in his lands in France. As a child he would be nursed by Hodierna, then tutored by someone of his father's choosing in the arts of arms and riding, and in politics, history, music and religion. His childhood would be spent at the palaces of Woodstock, Windsor and Westminster, occasionally seeing his parents during the splendid courts of the festivals of Christmas, Easter and Whitsunday.

Richard would travel overseas for the first time with his mother and siblings when he was around eight years old. By this point he would have a younger brother, Geoffrey, and a sister, Eleanor. Another sister, Joan, was to be born at Anjou around the time that the court was on the move there, in the year 1165. Eleanor and her children would return to England by the spring of the next year, at which time her husband was in Wiltshire; while Eleanor headed north across the Channel, Henry was going south, to campaign in Normandy and Brittany, where he remained for the rest of the year. Eleanor remained in London, and by Christmas, another son was born: John.

The royal children continued seeing very little of their father, who was spending long periods attempting to secure control over Brittany, a rival province to Normandy and Anjou. Their mother, though, was by now a constant in the lives of the older children. The oldest, Henry, was under the tutelage of none other than Thomas Becket, the Lord Chancellor, himself - by now he was also chief ecclesiastical minister as Archbishop of Canterbury as well. The second, Matilda, was engaged to Henry, Duke of Saxony: that Christmas was to be her last in England, for in the autumn of the next year the eleven year old princess set off for Germany. For Geoffrey, the fortunes of Brittany were to be his own: his father overthrew Duke Conan and forced him to betroth his five-year old daughter (and heir) Constance to his son. By 1170, nine-year old Princess Eleanor was sent to Spain to marry Alphonse, King of Castile. The youngest two children, Joan and John, were given to the Church: they were raised at the Abbey of Fontevraud.

As expected, King Henry had named his son Henry as his heir, and upon his return to his kingdom, the junior king was crowned at his side at Westminster, in the summer of 1170. Eleanor and Richard departed England and went south together, to rule in Poitiers, where a fourteen-year old Richard was invested as an earl two years later.

Over time, as he grew, the young Prince Richard had seen less and less of his old governess Hodierna, and, in time, he was to say goodbye to both she and Alexander. From youth to early manhood, the princes began to play a much bigger part in European court politics. Richard, as Merlin foretold, was to become a great warrior, regarded as a paragon of knighthood and chivalry, and already called the Lionheart by the time he was sixteen. When he was thirty one, he would finally gain the English crown, his elder brother having predeceased him. His thirty second birthday would be celebrated in London or thereabouts only five days after his coronation. As King of England, he released his mother Eleanor from her confinement at the hands of his father at Salisbury Castle, and would grant to Hodierna a manor in Wiltshire along with its income.

The Duke then came to London; the archbishops, bishops, earls, and barons, and a vast multitude of knights, coming thither to meet him; by whose consent and advice he was consecrated and crowned King of England, at Westminster, in London, on the third day before the nones of September, being the Lord's Day and the feast of the ordination of Saint Gregory the Great [who sent Augustine to Kent as the first Archbishop of Canterbury, and thus is a patron of the English nation] ... a day which, from the ancient superstition of the Gentiles, is called an Evil Day, or Egyptian ... (and in truth it was unlucky, and very much so to the Jews of London who were killed that day, and likewise the Jews settled in other parts of England endured many hardships) ... by Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was assisted at the coronation by Walter, Archbishop of Rouen; John, Archbishop of Dublin; Formalis, Archbishop of Treves; Hugh, Bishop of Durham; Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln; Hugh, Bishop of Chester; William, Bishop of Hereford; William, Bishop of Worcester; John, Bishop of Exeter; Reginald, Bishop of Bath; John, Bishop of Norwich; Seffrid, Bishop of Chichester; Gilbert, Bishop of Rochester; Peter, Bishop of Saint Davids; with the Bishop of Saint Asaph, the Bishop of Bangor; Albinus, Bishop of Ferns; and Concord, Bishop of Aghadoe; while nearly all the abbots, priors, earls, and barons of England were present.

It caused many people to whisper and to marvel when a bat was seen flying through the abbey at midday, although the day was clear, circling about in an untimely way, especially about the King's throne.

First came the bishops, abbots, and large numbers of the clergy, wearing silken hoods, preceded by the cross, taper-bearers, censers, and holy water, as far as the door of the King's inner chamber [at Westminster Palace]; where they received the before-named duke, and escorted him to the church of Westminster, as far as the high altar, in solemn procession, with chants of praise, while all the way along which they went, from the door of the King's chamber to the altar, was covered with woollen cloth.

The order of the procession was as follows:

First came the clergy in their robes, carrying holy water, and the cross, tapers, and censers.

Next came the priors, then the abbots, and then the bishops, in the midst of whom walked four barons, bearing four candlesticks of gold; after whom came Godfrey Lucy, bearing the King's cap, and John Marshal by him, carrying two great and massive spurs of gold.

After these came William Marshal, Earl of Striguil, bearing the royal sceptre of gold, on the top of which was a cross of gold, and by him William FitzPatrick, Earl of Salisbury, bearing a rod of gold, having on its top a dove of gold.

After them came David, Earl of Huntingdon, brother of the King of Scotland, with John, Earl of Mortaigne, the Duke's brother, and Robert, Earl of Leicester, carrying three golden swords from the King's treasury, the scabbards of which were worked all over with gold; the Earl of Mortaigne walking in the middle.

Next came six earls and six barons, carrying on their shoulders a very large chequer, upon which were placed the royal arms and robes; and after them William Mandeville, Earl of Aumarle, carrying a great and massive crown of gold, decorated on every side with precious stones.

Next came Richard, Duke of Normandy, with Hugh, Bishop of Durham, walking at his right hand, and Reginald, Bishop of Bath, at his left; and four barons holding over them a canopy of silk on four lofty spears.

Then followed a great number of earls, barons, knights, and others, both clergy and laity, as far as the porch of the abbey, and dressed in their robes, entered with the Duke, and proceeded as far as the choir.

When the Duke had come to the altar, in presence of the archbishops, bishops, clergy, and people, kneeling before the altar, with the book of the Holy Evangelists placed before him, and many relics of the saints, according to custom, he swore that he would all the days of his life observe peace, honour, and reverence towards God, the Holy Church, and its ordinances. He also swore that he would exercise true justice and equity towards the people committed to his charge. He also swore that he would abrogate bad laws and unjust customs, if any such had been introduced into his kingdom, and would enact good laws, and observe the same without fraud or evil intent.

After this they took off all his clothes from the waist upwards, except his shirt and breeches; his shirt having been previously separated over the shoulders; after which they shod him with sandals embroidered with gold. Then Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, pouring holy oil upon his head, anointed him King in three places: on his head, breast, and arms, which signifies glory, valour, and knowledge, with suitable prayers for the occasion; after which the said Archbishop placed a consecrated linen cloth on his head, and upon that the cap which Geoffrey Lucy had carried. They then clothed him in the royal robes: first a tunic, and then a dalmatic; after which the said Archbishop delivered to him the sword of rule, with which to crush evil-doers against the Church: this done, two earls placed the spurs upon his feet, which John Marshal had carried.

After this, being robed in a mantle, he was led to the altar, where the said Archbishop forbade him, in the name of Almighty God, to presume to take upon him this dignity, unless he had the full intention inviolably to observe the oaths and vows before-mentioned which he had made; to which he made answer that, with God's assistance, he would without reservation observe them all. After this, he himself took the crown from the altar and gave it to the Archbishop; on which, the Archbishop delivered it to him, and placed it upon his head, it being supported by two earls in consequence of its extreme weight. Following this, the Archbishop delivered to him the sceptre to hold in his right hand, while he held the rod of royalty in his left; and, having been thus crowned, the King was led back to his seat by the before-named bishops of Durham and Bath, preceded by the taper-bearers and the three swords before-mentioned.

And after this, the Mass of our Lord was commenced, and, when they came to the Offertory, the before-named bishops led him to the altar, where he offered one mark of the purest gold, such being the proper offering for the King at each coronation; after which, the bishops before-named led him back to his seat.

The Mass having been concluded, and all things solemnly performed, the two bishops before-named, one on the right hand the other on the left, led him back from the church to his chamber, crowned, and carrying a sceptre in his right hand and the rod of royalty in his left, the procession going in the same order as before. Then the procession returned to the choir, and our lord the King put off his royal crown and robes of royalty, and put on a crown and robes that were lighter; and, thus crowned, went to dine; on which the archbishops and bishops took their seats with him at the table, each according to his rank and dignity. The earls and barons also served in the King's palace, according to their several dignities; while the citizens of London served in the cellars, and the citizens of Winchester in the kitchen.

William Longchamp, who had been Chancellor to the Earl of the Poitevins before his coronation, now that the Earl was crowned King, felt that his office had been increased by as much as a kingdom is greater than a county.

A thing happened on that same coronation day at Westminster that could hardly be spoken of in a whisper then, for it was an omen of no little portent. At Compline, the last hour of the day, the bells happened to be rung for the first time that day, for no-one in the convent and even none of the ministers of the church had thought about it till afterwards, and the service of Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and two masses had been solemnly celebrated without any ringing of bells.

While the King was seated at table, the chief men of the Jews came to offer presents to him ... but it happened that, when he was sitting down with all the assembly of the nobility, the people, who were watching about the palace, began to crowd in. The Jews, who had mingled with the crowd, were thus driven within the doors of the palace. At this, a certain Christian was indignant; and remembering the royal proclamation against them, he endeavoured, as it is said, to drive away a Jew from the door, and struck him with his hand. Aroused at this example, many more began to beat the Jews back with contempt, and a tumult arose. The lawless and furious mob, thinking that the King had commanded it and supported them, as they thought, by his royal authority, rushed like the rest upon the multitude of Jews who stood watching at the door of the palace. At first they beat them unmercifully with their fists; but soon becoming more enraged, they took sticks and stones. The Jews then fled away; and in their flight, many were beaten, so that they died, and others were trampled under foot and perished. Along with the rest, two noble Jews of York had come thither, one named Joceus, and the other Benedict. Of these, the first escaped; but the other, following him, could not run so fast, while blows were laid upon him; so he was caught, and to avoid death was compelled to confess himself a Christian; and being conducted to a church, was there baptised.

Then the Jewish citizens, of whom a multitude reside in London, together with those who had come thither from all parts, retired to their own houses. From None until sunset, their dwellings were surrounded by the raging people and vigorously attacked. By reason of their strong construction, however, they could not be broken into, and the furious assailants had no engines. The roofs, therefore, were set on fire; and a horrible conflagration, destructive to the besieged Jews, afforded light to the Christians who were raging in their nocturnal work. Nor was the fire destructive to the Jews alone, though kindled especially against them; for knowing no distinction, it caught some of the nearest houses of the Christians also. Then you might have seen the most beautiful parts of the city miserably blazing in flames, caused by her own citizens as if they had been enemies. The Jews, however, were either burnt in their own houses, or, if they came out, were received on the point of the sword. Much blood was shed in a short time, but the rising desire for plunder induced the people to rest satisfied with the slaughter they had committed. Their avarice overcame their cruelty; for they ceased to slay, but their greedy fury led them to plunder houses and carry off their wealth. This, however, changed the aspect of affairs, and made Christians hostile to Christians; for some, envying others for what they had seized in their search for plunder arid wicked emulation in avarice, were led to spare neither friends nor companions.

These events were reported to the King as he was banqueting in festivity with all the assembly of nobles; and Ranulf Glanville, who was justiciary of the realm, a man both powerful and prudent, was thereupon sent from his presence, with other men of equal rank, that they might turn aside or restrain the audacity of the mob; but it was in vain, for in so great a tumult no one listened to his voice or showed respect to his presence; but some of the most riotous began to shout against him and his companions, and threatened them in a terrible manner if they did not quickly depart. They, therefore, wisely fled before such unbridled fury; and the plunderers, with equal freedom and audacity, continued to riot until Terce on the following day; and at that time satiety or weariness of rioting, rather than reason or reverence for the King, allayed the fury of the plunderers.

This hitherto unheard-of occurrence in the royal city distinguished the first day of the reign of that most illustrious King Richard ... who was of a lofty and fierce disposition, and was filled with indignation and grief that such events had occurred, almost in his presence, amidst the solemnities of his coronation and at the commencement of his reign; and he was irritated and anxious as to what he ought to do upon this occasion. To overlook so great and unexampled an affront to his royal dignity and to let it pass unpunished, seemed an action unworthy of a king, and also injurious to the realm; since his connivance at an atrocity so great would encourage the audacity of evil-doers to attempt similar acts of violence in the hope of impunity ... On the day after the coronation, the King sent his servants, and caused those offenders to be arrested who had set fire to the city; not for the sake of the Jews, but on account of the houses and property of the Christians which they had burnt and plundered, and he ordered some of them to be hanged.

On the same day, the King ordered the before-named William, who from a Jew had become a Christian, to be presented to him, on which he said to him, "What person are you?"

To which he made answer, "I am Benedict of York, one of the Jews."

On this the King turned to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the others who had told him that the said Benedict had become a Christian, and said to them, "Did you not tell me that he is a Christian?"

To which they made answer, "Yes, my lord."

That Benedict, however ... replied that he had been compelled by the Christians to be baptised,but in his heart he had always been a Jew; and he would rather die as such, since he could not possibly live now, for he was treading close upon death by reason of the blows he had received the day before.

Whereupon [King Richard] said to them, "What then are we to do with him?"

To which the Archbishop of Canterbury, less circumspectly than he might, in the spirit of his anger, made answer, "If he does not choose to be a Christian, let him be a man of the Devil."

Inasmuch as there was no person to offer any opposition thereto, the before-named William ... quitting the presence of the Sovereign, the Christian apostate was restored to the Jews ... The King, however, after the slaughter, established peace by proclamation; of which, nevertheless, they did not long enjoy the fruits.

On the second day after his coronation, Richard, King of England, received the oaths of homage and fealty from the bishops, abbots, earls, and barons of England ... King Richard gratified all, by distributing money, without count or number, to all according to their ranks, thus manifesting his liberality and his great excellence. His generosity, and his virtuous endowments, the Ruler of the world usually had given to the ancient times; for in this current period of the world, as it waxes old, such feelings rarely exhibit themselves, and when they do, they are subjects of wonder and astonishment. He had the valour of Hector, the magnanimity of Achilles, and was equal to Alexander, and not inferior to Roland in valour; nay, he outshone many illustrious characters of our own times. The liberality of a Titus was his, and, which is so rarely found in a soldier, he was gifted with the eloquence of Nestor and the prudence of Ulysses; and he shewed himself pre-eminent in the conclusion and transaction of business, as one whose knowledge was not without active good-will to aid it, nor his good-will wanting in knowledge.

He was tall of stature, graceful in figure; his hair between red and auburn; his limbs were straight and flexible; his arms rather long, and not to be matched for wielding the sword or for striking with it; and his long legs suited the rest of his frame; while his appearance was commanding, and his manners and habits suitable; and he gained the greatest celebrity, not more from his high birth than from the virtues that adorned him ... Happy, in truth, might he have been deemed had he been without rivals who envied his glorious actions, and whose only cause of enmity was his magnificence, and his being the searcher after virtue rather than the slave of vice.

>Ne'er in my life have I observed

>A court more courteously served.

>I saw rich vessels and rich plate

>Served in a mighty hall of state;

>And tables laden down so well

>’Twas more than any man can tell.

>But why relate at greater length;

>Ye all know well this might and strength

>And what great court he can maintain

>Who over England's realm doth reign.

>The King gave many a rich award,

>And to his barons he restored

>The fiefs due to their lineage,

>And he increased their heritage.

Now it is time for the slumbering Muses to awake and for eager pens to sing your praises. You exchanged the title of Duke for that of King, an honour bestowed upon you by your nobility and virtue. For you are a second Caesar; by renewing his triumphs, you compel an unruly people to love the yoke. Neither the countless multitudes of the land, nor treacherous seas, nor shores bearing dangerous rocks, nor the looming horror of winter deterred you from seeking the realms bequeathed to you by your forebears. The force of law and the will of the people favoured your cause, so all fear was banished from you; yet for a long time, storms and ceaseless rain prevented your fleets from crossing the straits, while you awaited favourable winds; the turbulent sea forced a retreat, and the East Wind churned the ocean waves.

Then you knew lamentation, and the hope of the voyage seemed lost; and so — willing or not — you finally left your own shores and turned your ships toward another coast. A harbour known since ancient times is called Wimac; the waters of the Somme encircle this port. The people there are skilled in war and steadfastly loyal, often offering hospitality to seafaring travellers. Above stands the fortress of Saint Valery; here you endured a long and arduous delay.

For then you spent five days in those regions, awaiting the aid of the supreme Judge. Devoutly frequenting the holy church, you offered up pure prayers again and again. You would watch the weather-vane atop the tower: if the South Wind blew, you returned joyful; if suddenly the North Wind turned aside and held back the South, you bathed your face in a flood of tears. You were desolate: cold and rain prevailed, and the sky was shrouded in clouds and showers. But the Almighty Father, in whom you placed your hope — he who made, tempers and rules the seasons; he who weighs heaven, earth and sea in the palm of his hand, and who is ever present in all places — granted Saint Peter a sea he could walk upon, taking pity on him; so likewise the merciful God took compassion on your desire at last, and granted the deed to match your vow; he drove the clouds from the sky and the winds from the sea, dispelled the cold, and cleared the heavens of rain. The earth grew warm, bathed in intense heat, and the sun shone forth more brightly than usual. The feast of Saint Michael was being celebrated throughout the world when God granted you everything according to your wish. Straight away all shared one mind and a common resolve to entrust themselves to the now-calm sea. Though diverse, they were united in joy; without delay, each hastened to his task. Some raised the masts, while others laboured to hoist the sails upon the upright masts. Many urged their horses to board the ships, while others hastened to stow their arms. Just as a flock of doves seeks its own shelter, so the throng swarmed aboard the fleet.

Oh, what a mighty clamour suddenly arose from that place!

The sailors reach for their oars, the horsemen for their weapons! From all sides, trumpets resound, sending forth a thousand varied blasts; the reed-pipe and the zither with its strings join in; drums fill the air with roars like the bellowing of bulls; cymbals ring out in alternating rhythms. The earth trembles, the heavens quake in awe; four-footed beasts flee, as do the fish and the birds alike. For a hundred thousand voices — ten times ten, and ten times five thousand — strike the stars of the firmament. Yet you make for the shrine of the saint mentioned before, and, having offered your gifts, you hasten to board your ship; sounding the trumpet, you command the others to leave the shore and seek the safer deeps of the sea. The ships, until now moored to the land, cast off, and the fleet enters the open water in orderly formation.

The day was waning, the sun already sinking low, when your leading ship forged the path ahead. When blind night claimed the sky with dark shadows, and the hidden moon denied you her light, you filled the waves with glowing torches — just as stars fill the heavens when the sun has set. For every ship, you scattered a light; lanterns hoisted on the masts guided the sails on a straight course across the sea. But fearing lest the dark night bring harm to your fleet, or adverse winds churn the waters, you ordered a halt, commanding the anchors to hold the ships fast. You created the semblance of a shore in the midst of the deep; you bade them furl their sails and await the morning, so that the weary company might find rest. But when glowing dawn shone upon the land, and Phoebus scattered his rays across the world, you gave the order to proceed and commit the sails to the wind, commanding the anchors to be raised.

The third hour of the day rises high above the earth; leaving the sea behind, you reach safe shores. A comet, shining from the heavens with a streaming tail, announces the fated destruction of the English. The land that is your due — stripped of its terrified inhabitants — joyfully welcomes you and your men into its peaceful embrace. For the wicked King Harold, at the ends of the earth, prepares treacherous weapons for his brother's destruction. Having seized no small part of the kingdom, the brother was consigning homes to the flames and the people to the sword. Rushing against the enemy in hostile combat, Harold did not fear to deliver his brother's limbs to death. They waged a war against each other — more than merely civil — but the victor, alas, was he himself. Like envious Cain, he severs his brother's head with a sword, and thus buries both head and body in the earth.

He who subdued the kingdom that was rightfully yours foresaw that you would come as the avenger of this heinous crime. Guarding the shores and fearing the loss of your ships, you fortify the walls and pitch your camp there; you restore the castles that had long been ruined, and station guards to defend them. Before long, your people — now enjoying peace — invade the land, laying it waste and burning it with fire. Nor is this a wonder: since the foolish populace rejected you as its king, they justly perish and come to nothing. One of the English, hiding beneath a seaside cliff, beholds the countless ranks pouring forth, and sees the fields gleaming with radiant armour, sees Vulcan's flames ravaging the homes and the treacherous nation perishing by the raging sword, and — amidst the tears children shed for their slaughtered fathers — he mounts his horse and hastens to tell the King.

The King returns from war, bearing the spoils of victory. A messenger meets him and reveals his tidings in this order:

"King, I bring you dire news for certain. The Duke of the Normans, with Gauls and Bretons, invades the land; he ravages and burns it with fire. If you ask for the number of his troops, no one can tell you; as the sea bears fish, so many horsemen has he; and just as you could not count the stars of heaven, so too you cannot count his battle lines. He leads away captive boys and captive girls, and widows too, and all the livestock besides." The peasant reported this.

The King hissed back at him; though he feared these tidings, he feigned a bold resolve. He summoned his dukes, counts, and the powerful men of the realm and addressed them, it is said, with these words:

"The flower of my army, sprung from the nobility, for whom it would be a disgrace to conquer in war alone — you, through whom we shall overcome the Bastard's host, and through whom we struck down our namesake — you are my safeguard, my wall, and my aid. You have heard that the Norman race has entered our kingdom, plundering, impoverishing, and despoiling it. William is the one doing this, seeking to bring you under his yoke; he bears a great name, yet his heart is cowardly. He is cunning, greedy, and exceedingly arrogant, knowing neither peace nor how to keep faith. He plots to snatch away our realm with ease! But God Almighty will not suffer this to happen. How great the blow, how great the grief and immense shame, how great the ruin of the kingdom, how dark the day, if he gains what he seeks, if he holds the royal sceptre! Let all who wish to live flee this fate."

Having spoken thus, he sought the response of his men; they pondered in silence what they might say. Suddenly a shout arose that struck the very stars, and one voice was shared by all: "We desire war rather than to bow our necks beneath the yoke or rather die at the hands of another king."

The foolish king, exulting, gave them thanks; furthermore, he offered this single proposal:

"First, it is fitting that we send envoys to him: men who may tell him to return, if he pleases. If he wishes to enter into a peaceful treaty with us, acting on your counsel, I shall not reject it. But otherwise, he shall not leave my shores of his own accord. Let him cease what he is doing; let him seek a kingdom across the seas."

By the joint counsel of elders and juniors alike, a prudent monk, eloquent of speech, is chosen; let him reconnoitre the leader's camp and bring back the words entrusted to him by the King's command. He hastens on his journey, mounted on horseback, bearing solemn words beneath his black habit.

The Duke was in the camp. Entering, the monk said:

"It is vital for the good of our homeland that you heed this. The King and the nobles — those who uphold the laws of the realm — command you to return with all speed. They marvel at the reports fame brings concerning you, how you are leading the kingdom to ruin. You must return the captives and whatever you seized by force: he will forgive the other losses, if you are willing; he spares your youth and the frivolity of your ways — he who was once sparing of friendship. If you refuse, or if you delay in making restitution, he declares war upon you; therefore, you had best beware. He can scarcely restrain his own soldiery and people: it is a race that knows no bounds. For — I call the Lord to witness — he has twelve times a hundred thousand fighting men who thirst for battle."

At these words, the lion-like image changed. A man of great worth and an intrepid soldier, the Duke — setting at naught whatever the empty-headed monk in his habit had brought — deemed the threats to be mere foolishness:

"The words of your king," he said, "are not those of a wise man. Let him understand this: nothing can remain hidden for long. I have outgrown boyhood; I did not lightly seek the inheritance rightfully owed to me upon my fathers' deaths. He has unjustly broken the bond of our friendship, while wrongfully holding what is mine by right. His urging that I return is madness — sheer insanity, for time forbids it, and the journey is not easy. Though he threatens war without cause, my people, trusting in their lord, do not shrink from it. He forgets the treacherous perjury he committed against me, nor does he fully recall that he was once my vassal. If his perjured hand, though not yet condemned, strikes out, it stands already guilty in the divine judgement. If he seeks peace, if he wishes to confess his offences, I shall be ready to show mercy and forgive the fault: I will restore to him the land his father once held, and he shall be my vassal again, if he chooses to be."

The monk hastens his return; the duke prepares for war: he knew the herald's mind and his deceit. He exhorts and fires the spirits of his men, strengthening their hearts:

"Sons of France, renowned for nobility — warriors free from malice, a glorious youth, chosen by God and favoured by him, whose fame flies across the four quarters of the world; an unconquered name in arms; the Bretons, whose glory shines in battle — men for whom there is no flight save fleeing the very earth; the illustrious men of Maine, whose glory is revealed in war through their valour; the men of Apulia, Calabria, and Sicily, whose javelins fly hot; the Normans, ready for noble deeds — against us, a false and infamous man, a perjured king and adulterer, plots and lays his snares. For it is his way to conquer not by force, but by fraud. With a pledge of loyalty, he offers a fatal trap. Therefore, we must be on guard lest he deceive us, lest we become a laughing stock and a mockery among the people. We therefore entrust the defence of the camp to you, so that the wicked bandit may not break into our lines. But if it seems fitting and proper to you tomorrow, let us send an envoy — one who feels no fear — to return word for word to him who sent us such empty messages. We have a monk — none more temperate than he, and second to none in the art of rhetoric, a distinguished standard-bearer (were the holy rule not a bar). If it pleases you, let him convey my words."

He spoke, and it was done; the deed matched the word: the monk is summoned; without delay, he sets out.

Meanwhile, that heir and seat of dark deceit, under the cover of night, skilled in the thief's craft, orders the King to arm his troops and commands them to attack the Duke's ranks, if they can. He hopes to strike down the unwary foe by treachery: but while seeking to deceive, he is deceived and falls. The Duke, ever vigilant against the direct envoy, is well aware of the King's cunning and his treacherous ways. The Envoy, turning aside through unfrequented paths, unknowingly approaches the very spot where the King is plotting his treachery.

"King," he said, "hear the truth regarding the leader whom you unjustly force into this conflict: for many bear witness — and the people concur — that King Edward, by the counsel of his nobles, agreed and ordained that he should succeed as heir; and with your own approval, the ring and the sword were granted to him as tokens, which you know were sent to him by your own hand. Therefore, the sworn pledge must be kept, bound by sacred oaths and the clasp of the right hand. Therefore, take care lest perjury undo you; keep to your sworn oaths, that you may remain safe."

The herald, twisting his neck and contorting his face, said to the Envoy: "Begone, fool! Tomorrow, with the Lord as judge, the rightful share of the kingdom shall be revealed: the sacred hand of the Lord shall divide it equally." Turning back and retracing his steps through byways, he carries the curses back to the one who had sent him.

The Duke — the realm's imperial glory, peace, and pride — marches ahead, rallying his battle lines; he sternly orders his warriors to move out and commands his troops to close ranks with ready spears. The envoy's face, drained of its natural flush, betrays by its pallor that war is imminent. The Duke asks: "Where is the King?"

"Not far off," the monk replies. He whispers in his ear: "You can see the signs; I bear many words that I deem best left unsaid, yet I shall speak those things which it would be harmful to withhold. He hopes to catch you off guard; he is preparing great battles by land and by sea. He is said to have sent five hundred ships to sea, to block our path of return. Wherever he marches, he brings the forest down to the plains, and dries up the rivers he crosses. Perhaps you fear their numbers? Yet a vast host, lacking true strength, often retreats, repulsed by a mere handful. His soldiers have hair combed and oiled — youths of feminine nature, sluggish in the art of Mars; for every one of them, one might as well count a sheep — like foxes terrified by the crash of thunder. Remember your noble forebears, great Duke, and do as your grandfather and father did: your great-grandfather conquered the Normans, and your grandfather the Bretons; your father forced the English to bow their necks in submission. And what will you do, unless by preparing for greater things you succeed them through the power of virtue?"

He paused a moment, checking his advance, and marshalled his armed ranks with a command: He sent the infantry ahead to join battle with arrows, and stationed the slingers in the centre, so that they might drive flying missiles into faces, and, by inflicting wounds, force the enemy to turn back. Behind the infantry, he hoped to steady the Roman citizens; but the clash of war did not allow it: for he saw the hostile wedges close at hand, and the woods gleaming, bristling with spears.

Mars, O God of war, who wields the sceptre of the sword, to whom the blood-stained bodies of young men bring pleasure, and the gore spilled from the vast slaughter of heroes — what was your spirit then, what was your lust for havoc, when you commanded the savage battle-lines to clash in the midst of the fray! No destruction delights you more than this — since the time Caesar overcame Pompey in arms, and wrested the walls of Rome for himself, and drove him in fear to cross the Nile, I believe no slaughter was ever so pleasing to you. Neither youthful grace, nor revered old age, nor the lowly and pitiable band of foot-soldiers, nor the nobility of ancestry could sway you, or stop you from doing whatever your grim mind desired. You drive the blinded wretches into gleaming weapons, and force them to meet death as if it were a game. Why do I linger on words, when the frenzy of arms is already unleashed? Fulfil your will, Mars; go, do the work of death.

Suddenly the forest poured forth its cohorts, and the troops sprang out from the cover of the woods. A mountain stood near the forest, and a valley nearby, and a field, uncultivated and rugged. Advancing in close formation, as is the English custom, they take up their positions for the work of war. A people unversed in warfare, they scorn the aid of horses, trusting in their own strength and fighting on foot, and deeming it the highest honour to die in arms rather than let their land pass under another's yoke. The King ascends the mountain to do battle with the foe, guarding both flanks with noble men; he plants his standard at the mountain's peak, and orders the other banners to be set beside it. All dismount and leave their horses behind, standing firm on the ground, while trumpets sound the call to war.

The Duke, humble and God-fearing, guides his ranks with restraint and boldly approaches the steep ascent; he runs along the lines: "Infantry, let fly your arrows: shields are useless against square-headed shafts."

The helmeted men hasten to lock their bucklers together: with spears raised high, both sides rage in the fray. Just as a boar, wearied by hounds, stands at bay and defends itself with its tusks, foaming at the mouth and warding off blows, fearing neither the enemy nor weapons that threaten death; so the English host fights on, undaunted. Meanwhile, as the battle hangs in the balance, and the bitter plague of deadly missiles rains down, a minstrel — emboldened by a daring heart — strides out ahead of the countless ranks, taunting the English and spurring on the Frankish, while performing feats of skill and brandishing his sword. When one of the English — among so many thousands — spies the man far off, playing with his sword, stirred by a noble martial fervour, he sets aside all thought of life and rushes forth to meet death. The jester —known by the nickname "Iron-Cutter" — spurs his horse forward; he pierces an English shield with a sharp lance, and, felling the body, he severs the head with his sword. Raising the standard, he brings this joy to his allies, revealing the start of the war and his own presence. All rejoice and worship the Lord alike; they exult that he stands at their vanguard; both a tremor and a fervour run through manly hearts, and the men hasten to lock their shields together.

First, the ranks of quiver-bearing infantry attack, piercing bodies from afar with javelins, and — like a hailstorm — shattering shields with countless blows. But the Gauls aim for the left flank, the Bretons for the right; the Duke fights with the Normans in the centre. The dense mass of the English stands firm on the ground, meeting spear with spear and sword with sword. Lifeless corpses cannot be beaten down, nor do the bodies yield to the living soldiers: for every corpse, though drained of life, stands as if unharmed and holds its ground; nor can they penetrate the thick grove of the English unless cunning lends strength to strength.

The Franks, skilled in the arts of war, feign flight as if defeated. The rustic folk rejoice, thinking they have won; they pursue with naked swords. Leaving the sound behind, the torn ranks break apart, and the once-dense forest thins out. Seeing the left flank draw back as if trapped, and a wide path opening to enter the right, both sides strive to destroy the scattered enemy with varied slaughter; then those feigning flight wheel around upon their pursuers, forcing the trapped men to turn their backs to death. A great part perishes there, while a dense mass stands firm; for ten thousand met their death there — just as gentle sheep perish when a lion runs wild. Thus driven to their doom, the accursed host rushes on.

The greater part that remains presses the attack more fiercely, counting their losses as nothing. The English people, superior in numbers, beat back the enemy, forcing them to turn tail; what began as a feigned flight now becomes a rout compelled by valour. The Normans flee, shielding their backs with their shields.

When the Duke saw his men retreating in defeat, he rode to meet them, bearing his standard aloft; he rebuked them, struck them, held them back, and rallied them with his spear; in his anger, he even bared his head, removing his helmet; he turned his face to the Normans and spoke imploring words to the French:

"Where are you fleeing? What profit is there in rushing to your deaths? Why do you, who were once victors, allow yourselves to appear defeated — you, Gaul, noblest of earthly kingdoms? You are fleeing not men, but sheep; your fear is in vain. What you are doing is a deep disgrace: the sea lies behind you — a sea whose passage is now denied by wind and time; the return to your homeland is arduous, the journey long. Here, no escape remains for you. Strive only to conquer, if you wish to live."

He spoke, and instantly shame spread across their faces. They turned about and faced the enemy once more. The Duke, true leader that he was, struck the first blow. Behind him, the others rallied and struck at the foe; casting off fear, they gathered their strength.

Just as straw perishes in the flames when the wind blows, so, O English host, you crumbled before the French.

Before the Duke's advance, the terrified ranks gave way, melting like soft wax before the fire. With drawn sword he hews down helmets and shields, and his steed tramples many bodies — Harold's brother, undaunted by the lion's visage, named Gyrth, born of the King's own lineage, poising his weapon with a swift, swinging arm, he hurls the point from afar, wounding the horse's body and forcing the leader to fight on foot; yet, now afoot, he fights all the better. Like a snarling lion, he pursued the youth; as he tore him limb from limb, he spoke these words: "Take the crown you have earned at my hands: if your steed has perished, I repay you now on foot." He spoke and turned at once to the fray, resisting with the strength of a Hercules. He hewed some down, maimed others, devoured them with his sword, and sent a multitude of souls into darkness.

Amidst the carnage, he saw a horseman approaching — a man of the Cenomani, his brain and blood mingling from a wound — and beckoned him to come and bring aid. But the other, fearing the slaughter, refused to help; he trembled at death like a hare before a hound. The Duke, mindful of the soldier, turned suddenly toward him, seized him swiftly by the nose-guard of his helmet, and spun him around — face to the earth, feet to the stars — so he could mount the horse thus yielded to him.

O Ruler of heaven, merciful and compassionate toward us, who governs all that exists by thy divine will! What disasters the surviving English host endures! Here goodness perishes, and wickedness reigns. Life is lost; cruel death rages, and the sword runs wild: no one shows mercy where Mars holds sway.

Once mounted, the leader soon struck the enemy more fiercely, assaulting, blasting, and pursuing them. While he strove for victory, staining the field with blood, the son of Helloc — a swift and agile warrior — lay in ambush, seeking to bring the leader down; but he cast a javelin and struck the horse instead. He collapsed to the ground; a leader on foot, and full of rage. He ponders what course to take or what action to pursue. For he marvels that, though a private knight, he is mounted on a pair of steeds; He ponders what course to take or what action to pursue. For he marvels that, though a private knight, he is mounted on a pair of steeds; he pauses briefly at this thought, but deems it of no consequence; for he believes that Fortune will favour him through his own valour, and will grant his prayers honestly. He swears that the death of his horse — if his right hand holds true — shall not go unavenged. Without delay, spotting the perpetrator of the crime hiding amidst the throng, he rushes to destroy him. With a mighty thrust of his blade and a heavy blow, he slices open the man's flank and spills his entrails upon the ground.

Then Count Eustace, of noble lineage, hemmed in by a dense wedge of warriors, hastens to be the first to aid the leader, dismounting so that the Duke might ride away on horseback.

There was a soldier, a retainer raised by the Count: just as he had acted for his lord, so now he acted for him. Under such auspices, the Count and the Duke joined forces; with flashing weapons, they returned to the fray together. Under their swords, the ranks of the English thinned; their numbers dwindled, wavered, and were crushed. Just as a forest falls beneath the woodsman's axe, so the English host was hewn down to nothingness. Already the victors held sway over the field, and a jubilant France was claiming the spoils of war, when the Duke espied the King — high upon the mountain — fiercely pressing the attack and slaughtering his men. He called to Eustace; leaving the fray to the Franks, he brought powerful aid to the beleaguered troops. Like a son of Hector, Hugh — noble heir of Ponthieu — accompanied them, swift to do his duty; and with him came Giffard — bearing his father's name: four warriors bore arms against the King's life. Yet there were many others; though these men excelled them all. If any doubt this, their deeds prove the truth.

Amidst the carnage, the laws of war now claiming him, Harold is forced to tread the path of the flesh. The first, piercing his chest with a spear-point through his shield, soaks the ground with a pouring rain of blood. The second severs his head with a sword beneath his helmet, and the third drenches the earth with his entrails, struck by a weapon; the fourth hacks off his thigh and casts the severed limb afar.

Thus the earth receives the slain corpse. Winged rumour spread the news through the battle: "Harold is dead." Fear instantly subdues proud hearts; the English renounce the war and, defeated, beg for mercy: despairing of life, they turn their backs to slaughter. There the Duke sent two thousand souls to hell, not counting countless other thousands. It was evening; the turning day was already yielding to shadows, when God declared the Duke the victor. Only night and flight availed the vanquished English, fleeing through the darkness and the cover of the woods.

The victor spent the night resting among the dead, awaiting the return of the morning star. Ever-watchful, the son of Hector pursues the fugitives, wielding the weapons of Mars, while death rages as his ally; he waged the fight through the changing night, succumbing neither to sleep nor to dreams. When Phoebus' brilliant lamp had risen, cleansing the world of murky darkness, he surveyed the field, gathering the bodies of his own men and laying them to rest in the earth's embrace. He left the bodies of the English, strewn upon the ground, to be devoured by worms, wolves, birds, and dogs. He gathered Harold's mangled corpse, wrapped the remains in a purple shroud, and bore them back to his seaside camp, to perform the customary funeral rites.

Harold's mother, gripped by overwhelming grief, sent a plea to the Duke — a wretched woman, bereft of three sons and widowed — asking that, in exchange for the three, the bones of one be returned to her, or, if he pleased, that the body be weighed against pure gold; but the Duke, in anger, flatly refused both requests, swearing instead that he would entrust the man to the shores of the harbour beneath a mound of stones; and so, as he had vowed, he ordered the body to be enclosed atop a high cliff.

At once, a man of mixed Norman and English blood, moved to pity for Harold, willingly carried out the command: he quickly took up the King's body and buried it, laying a stone over it and inscribing this epitaph: "By the Duke's command, here, King Harold, you rest, that you may remain guardian of shore and sea."

The Duke, with his people, mourned over the buried bones and distributed gifts to Christ's poor. Having laid aside the title of Duke and established himself as King, he departed, having assumed the royal name. He remained encamped at the port of Hastings for five days, then turned his course toward Dover.

He had not yet completed half the journey when the terrified populace came out to meet him in submission, offering the keys to the castle and throwing open the gates, professing a desire to serve under his rule. There stands a high hill, a narrow strait, and a shadowed shore; from here, enemies might swiftly invade the English realm, but the castle of Dover, perched atop the hill, repels invaders and secures the coast.

Having received the keys and entered the castle walls, the King ordered the English inhabitants to vacate the town; he brought in the men who had helped him conquer the kingdom and assigned each one to his own lodging.

Instantly, terror spread through the vicinity of the castle, filling the cities, boroughs, and towns alike. The city named Canterbury, more renowned than the rest, Having sent envoys, he exacted the first tributes. Afterwards, many others, fearing greatly for their own rights, brought welcome gifts to the King of their own accord; and just as flies, goaded by the sting of hunger, swarm thickly upon wounds filled with blood, so the English ran from all sides to serve the King.

He proceeded, his hand never empty of gifts; all brought offerings and bowed their necks beneath the yoke; with bended knees, they kissed his feet. He stayed there with his people for the space of a month, then moved on to pitch his camp elsewhere. He sent to Winchester, commanding the city's leaders to bring him tribute, just as others had done. The Queen held this city as part of the dowry of her former husband, Edward; thus, he deemed it a disgrace to seize a seat granted to her in such a way; he demanded only tax and allegiance. The Queen's leaders consulted together, and, yielding, she ordered the requested tribute to be paid; thus both parties complied with the King's command, for they brought gifts for the lady and for him alike.

The King, thus appeased, struck his tents, and turned his course toward populous London. It is a vast city, filled with perverse inhabitants, and richer in wealth than the rest of the kingdom. Protected by walls on the left and the river on the right, it feared neither enemies nor capture by siege-craft. A rebellious people, having conquered it in war, sought it out, hoping to live there in freedom for a long time. But because overwhelming terror had gripped them all, there was wailing on every side, and uncontrollable grief.

A boy was chosen by them to be their king, but the protection he offered brought only ruin. Rumour flew abroad that London had a king, and the surviving English people rejoiced. Meanwhile, he who sought to possess the whole kingdom — he whose wish the Almighty favoured — claimed by right of rule what neither hostile sword nor fire had ravaged. When he realised the folly of the people's ill-advised action, he ordered his forces to approach the city walls. At once — swifter than the rushing wind — the warlike host obeyed and pitched its camp. Closing in, they encircled the walls from the left, forcing the enemy to stand guard against the impending war. Half a league from the city stood a royal palace — a truly magnificent hall — known to the ancients as "Guest", but later named after the church of Saint Peter. The prudent king chose this site for his own, and rightly so, for — as the deeds of forefathers attest — it was the custom for kings to receive the crown there. He erected great structures and fashioned iron rams to bring about the city's destruction. From there he thundered threats, promising punishment and war, swearing that, given time, he would dismantle the walls, level the towers to the dust, and raze the lofty citadel to the ground.

Hearing this, the citizens were seized by terror — a fear that gripped, agitated, tormented, and wracked them.

A man of sound judgement was sent to the King; he recounted the matter in due order, adorning his speech with wit. He, returning laden with gleaming gold, reported these words to those who had sent him:

"The King sends you peace and offers his greetings; he obeys your commands without deceit; yet I call to witness the Lord, whom the created world serves, that since King David, he knows no equal: he is fairer than the sun, wiser than Solomon; more ready for action than the Great One, more generous than Charles. He displays and affirms the gift of the kingdom which Edward bestowed upon him, and reports that you have approved it. Therefore, this remains: if you wish to live on, you must render him his due rights with your own hands."

The common folk assented, the Senate approved it as just, and both orders rejected the boy-king. With eyes cast down, they proceeded to the King's court in orderly ranks, accompanied by the boy; they sought to surrender the city by handing over the keys and to appease his wrath with the offering of gifts. Upon learning of their arrival, the King went out to meet them; he bestowed a welcoming kiss upon the boy and the others; he forgave their offences, gratefully accepted the gifts, and treated those he had received with honour. Under the guise of good faith, he secured his own honour, and bound their treacherous hearts with oaths.

The Nativity of Christ — our one hope of salvation, the day celebrated by the world — was drawing near; the day on which he was deemed worthy to receive the crown and, casting aside the title of duke, to become a king. He commanded a craftsman to fashion a noble diadem of gold and gems, worthy of his station. Arabia sent gold, the Nile gems from its waters, and Greece dispatched a master craftsman — scarcely inferior to Solomon himself — who fashioned a wondrous and fitting diadem worthy of Solomon. A carbuncle adorns the centre of the brow; next follows the radiant hyacinth; a topaz gleams third in the golden setting; a sapphire enriches the fourth place with honour; a sardonyx occupies the fifth, near the royal ears, joined in the sixth position by a chalcedony; the seventh is jasper, which drives the enemy far away; a fiery sardius glows eighth; the light of a chrysotile is set in the ninth cell; and you, beryl, illuminate the tenth place; the green emerald fills the eleventh spot; the chrysophyte lends its aid as the twelfth; at the very peak stands the supreme pearl, which floods the stones beneath it with light; and on its right and left sides is set the light of the amethyst, a gem of dual hue. Just as the heavenly vault, with clouds dispelled, glows, studded with fiery stars, so the golden crown, set with light-radiating gems, shines forth on every side with brilliant light. After the diadem, he prepares the sceptre and the rod, symbols that signify benefits for the realm: for the reins of the kingdom are governed by the sceptre, while the rod gathers and recalls the scattered people.

At the appointed time for the King's consecration, the magnates of the land and the teeming multitudes, the episcopal retinue and the venerable Senate gather from all sides for the King's ceremony. From their ranks, one most renowned prelate is chosen — distinguished in character and famed for his integrity — to consecrate the King and, in the act of consecration, to crown him, and to grace the royal head with the diadem. At his command, following the custom of their forebears, two groups set out to glorify God: the hooded orders and the clergy, together with the episcopal dignity, make their way to the blessed church of Peter. A procession of clergy leads the way, bearing crosses; behind the clergy walks the episcopal retinue. The King, surrounded by a vast throng of counts and dukes, brings up the rear amidst the clamour of the people. The Metropolitan supports his right hand, while another of equal rank walks at his left. Thus, singing praises, the King approaches the abbey and is led to the royal throne.

When the praises have ended and the singing crowd falls silent, the cantor proclaims peace and calls for silence. The clergy fall quiet, the nobles hush their voices; not a sound is heard from any lip. A certain Norman prelate soon ascends the pulpit and addresses the renowned among the Franks with these words: "If the king presented to you meets with your approval, declare it to us; for it is fitting that this be done by your decision." The people give their assent; the clergy and nobility show their favour; what they cannot express in words, they signal with their hands. After him, the Metropolitan concludes the address; the English tongue utters these same sentiments. Hands are raised in acclaim, offering praise and a pledge of service, signifying with all their hearts their submission to him. Turning toward the holy altar, the high prelate stands with the King before him; he gathers around himself all the summoned bishops, and together they prostrate themselves upon the ground. Standing upright, the cantor begins the Kyrie Eleison, and likewise the prayers of the saints. Once the litany is concluded, the high prelate rises in his pontifical dignity, leaving the King still prostrate on the ground.

The cantor falls silent, and the whole assembly is hushed; the Archbishop bids the people to pray; he immediately begins the proper rite; he recites the collect; he raises the King from the dust; he pours out the chrism and anoints the King's head, consecrating him as king in the royal manner.

From a powerful imperium in the 1150s to a shell of its former self by the 1210s. Is there anything that could have strengthened it and prevented its collapse? Or was it simply unsustainable in the long run?

Personally, I don't think it would have survived for very long as a single entity. Henry's original plan to split it made the most sense, even if the way he went about it didn't.

The early English royal court hosted two future kings. Louis was the son of Athelstan's sister Edgiva and her husband Charles the Simple; Hakon was the son of Harold Fairhair, sent by his father to Britain that he might be raised out of harm's way during his conflicts with various kings. Louis learned the English customs and the stories of St. Edmund's martyrdom at the hands of the Danes; Hakon was introduced for the first time to the Christian religion, provided by his uncle with ships and funds to claim his throne.

Louis was accepted by the Franks as their new king and was recalled back to France by envoys of their leader, Duke Hugh. Flodoard of Reims describes it as follows:

>Duke Hugh sent across the sea to summon Louis, son of Charles, to be received as king, and King Athelstan, his uncle, first taking oaths from the legates of the Franks, sent him to the Frankish kingdom with some of his bishops, and other followers. Hugh and the other nobles of the Franks went to meet him and committed themselves to him; immediately he disembarked on the sands of Boulogne, as had been agreed on both sides. From there he was conducted by them to Laon, and, endowed with the royal benediction, he was anointed and crowned by the Lord Archbishop Artald, in the presence of the chief men of his kingdom, with twenty bishops.

Hakon heard news of his father's death and returned to take the throne of Norway from his half-brother King Eric. In an ironic twist of fate, Eric himself would flee to England. Snorri, the Icelandic writer, writes about it:

>Hakon, Athelstan's foster-son, was in England at the time he heard of his father King Harold's death, and he immediately made himself ready to depart. King Athelstan gave him men, and a choice of good ships, and fitted him out for his journey most excellently. In harvest time he came to Norway, where he heard of the death of his brothers, and that King Eric was then in Viken. Then Hakon sailed northwards to Trondheim, where he went to Sigurd, Earl of Hlader, who was the ablest man in Norway. He gave Hakon a good reception; and they made a league with each other, by which Hakon promised great power to Sigurd if he was made king. They assembled then a Thing, and Sigurd the Earl recommended Hakon's cause to the Thing, and proposed him to the landowners as king. Then Hakon himself stood up and spoke; and the people said to each other, two and two, as they heard him, "Harold Fairhair is come again, grown and young."

1st Slide:

- Alfred the Great (871-899): Harold Fairhair (right, reigned 872-930), first King of Norway, of around the same age as Alfred, who was unifying the various Norwegian kingdoms at the time when Alfred was doing so with the English.

- Edward the Elder (899-924) and Athelstan (924-939): Rolf the Walker (right, reigned 911-928), called Rollo to the Franks, and baptised as Robert upon conversion, first Lord of Rouen and ancestor to the Dukes of Normandy. Rolf was a Norwegian or Danish raider who sailed to England and then to France, being granted the areas around Rouen as a feudal fief.

- Edred (946-955) and Edwy the All-Fair (955-959): Saint Olga of Kyiv (right, reigned 945-957), baptised as Elena, first leader of the Kyivan Rus to become a Christian, she was the grandmother of Vladimir the Great. Olga is famous for her attack upon the Drevlians, who had killed her husband, to avenge his death.

- Edgar the Peaceful (959-975): Harold Bluetooth (right, reigned 958-986), first King of Denmark to receive Christian baptism, and famous unifier of Danish territories, as well as brief conquest of Norway. Father to Sweyn Forkbeard and grandfather of Canute the Great.

2nd Slide:

- Edward the Martyr (975-978) and Ethelred the Unready (978-1013, 1014-1016): Eric the Victorious (top left, reigned 970-995), usually considered as the first King of Sweden, involved in several Scandinavian wars. Brian Boru (middle left, reigned 978-1014), King of Munster who became High King of Ireland after many successful wars against Leinster and subsequently the invading Norse. Probably the most famous Irish king in history. Vladimir the Great (bottom left, reigned 978-1015), grandson of Saint Olga and Grand Prince of Kyiv. He made Christianity the official religion of the Rus. Ferdowsi (top right, lived 940-1025), Persian poet famous as the author of the Shahnameh, an account of ancient and legendary Iranian kings and heroes. Eric the Red (middle right, lived 950-1003), Norwegian explorer who founded the Norse settlement on Greenland. Leif Ericson (bottom right, lived 970-1020), son of Eric the Red who was the founder of a Norse settlement in Vinland, North America.

- Canute the Great (1016-1035): Saint Olaf (top right, reigned 1015-1028), King of Norway, considered as Norway's patron saint. Olaf brought bishops to his kingdom and founded churches; in later folklore he is a slayer of trolls, giants and thurses. Avicenna (bottom right, lived 980-1037), Persian physician and natural philosophy famous for his seminal work, the Canon of Medicine, which was translated into various languages.

- Edward the Confessor (1042-1066): Macbeth the Red (right, reigned 1040-1057), King of Scotland, who ascended the throne upon slaying his rival King Duncan; he later faced Edward and the Earl of Northumbria in battle, and was defeated by Malcolm, a future king.

- William the Conqueror (1066-1087): Saint Margaret (right, reigned 1070-1093), Queen of Scotland as wife of King Malcolm. Margaret was a devout and pious woman famed for her generosity and charity. She was born an English princess as a granddaughter of Edmund Ironside and became ancestor to all future Scottish (from Edgar the Valiant) and English (from Henry Curtmantle) monarchs.

3rd Slide:

- William Rufus (1087-1100): El Cid (upper right, reigned 1094-1099), named Roderick the Champion, a Spanish knight and Prince of Valencia; he was admired by even his enemies, both Christian and Muslim. Godfrey of Bouillon (bottom right, reigned 1099-1100), Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre, he came from the Low Countries and led the first wars to the Holy Land, capturing Jerusalem and founding a dynasty; considered one of the Nine Worthies, or heroic champions. (His father, incidentally, was once married to Edward the Confessor's sister, although she was not Godfrey's mother).

- Henry I (1100-1035): Sigurd the Crusader (upper right, reigned 1103-1130), King of Norway famed for taking the cross and fighting in the Holy Land, being the first European monarch to do so. Peter Abelard (bottom right, lived 1079-1142) and Heloise (bottom right, lived 1101-1163), French philosophers and writers, infamous for their illicit love affair and marriage, which ended in Abelard being attacked and castrated by his enemies.

- Stephen (1135-1154): Anna Comnena (upper right, lived 1083-1153), Greek princess from Byzantium who authored the Alexiad, an history of her father, Emperor Alexius. Bernard of Clairvaux (bottom right, lived 1090-1153), prominent mystic, an abbot and co-founder of the Templars. His preaching for the liberation of Edessa from Zengi helped inspire Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband Louis of France to take the cross.

- Henry II (1154-1189): Saint Eric (top of first column, reigned 1156-1160), King of Sweden and royal martyr, considered one of Sweden's patron saints. Hildegard of Bingen (bottom of first column, lived 1098-1179), German mystic, abbess, author and musician; called the 'Sibyl of the Rhine', she was sought from far and wide for her wisdom, including by Henry himself and by his wife Eleanor. Frederick Barbarossa (top of second column, reigned 1155-1190), Holy Roman Emperor, a charismatic leader who famously took the cross alongside Henry following the capture of Jerusalem by the Saracens, though died en route. Christian of Troyes (bottom of second column, lived 1140s-1191), renowned French minstrel and poet, famous for his romances, including those of Sir Lancelot at the court of King Arthur (he is the author of the story of the quest for the Grail).

4th Slide:

- Richard I (1189-1199): Philip Augustus (upper right, reigned 1180-1223), a French king who took the cross alongside Richard, Philip was actually a great king in his own right. He is generally considered as Richard's greatest rival on the battlefield and conquered Normandy and much of France from his brother and successor John. Saladin (bottom left, reigned 1174-1193), Egyptian sultan who conquered Jerusalem, prompting Richard and others to take the cross against him. Maimonides (bottom right, lived 1135-1204), a Jewish philosopher from Spain who served in Egypt as Saladin's personal physician. A rabbi, he codified many Jewish ethics in a form which is still recognised today.

- John (1199-1216): Francis of Assisi (bottom first column, lived 1181-1226), a friar famed for his saintly life and kindness to animals, who founded the Franciscan Order. Saint Dominic (top second column, lived 1170-1221), Spanish founder of the Dominican friars, who popularised the rosary as a means of prayer. Anthony of Padua (bottom second column, lived 1195-1231), disciple of Saint Francis and member of his order. Llywelyn the Great (top third column, reigned 1199-1240), King of Gwynedd and Prince of Wales. His reign saw Gwynedd extend its dominions over the Welsh kingdoms and consolidate its power. Considered possibly Wales' greatest ruler. Was married to John's illegitimate daughter Joan. Genghis Khan (bottom third column, reigned 1206-1227), Mongol khan and notorious conqueror of Mongolia and China, and founder of an empire that persisted long after his death.

- Henry III (1216-1272): Snorri Sturlason (top first column, lived 1179-1241), Icelandic lawspeaker and historian, who collected the old oral folktales and histories of his people and recorded them in written form, in his works Edda and Heimskringla. These stories trace the origins of Norse peoples from ancient Troy, through great heroes like Odin and Thor and subsequently through the lines of kings and princes of Norway. Rumi (middle first column, lived 1207-1273), Persian mystic and founder of the Mevlevi Order of whirling dervishes. Elizabeth of Hungary (bottom first column, lived 1207-1231), Hungarian princess considered a saint for her charitable acts. Roger Bacon (top second column, lived 1220-1292), English friar and author famed for his works on optics, natural sciences, alchemy, linguistics, music, and other topics. Baybars (middle second column, reigned 1260-1277), Egyptian sultan known for his conquests into Nubia and Syria, fighting against the French armies of Saint Louis, the Mongols and the princes of Antioch, which he successfully conquered. Alexander Nevsky (bottom second column, reigned 1249-1263), Grand Prince of Kyiv who won a great victory against the Germans at Lake Peipus. Frederick II (top third column, reigned 1220-1250), controversial Holy Roman Emperor, considered a patron of art and literature, and a reformer of law; controversial with the papacy and excommunicated four times. He was the grandson of Barbarossa, Frederick I. Saint Louis (middle third column, reigned 1226-1270), King of France, numbered as Louis IX. He led several expeditions to Egypt and the Holy Land against Baybars. Regarded as one of France's patron saints and the premier royal saint, as Edward the Confessor is for the English. Thomas Aquinas (bottom third column, lived 1225-1274), an Italian friar widely considered as one of the Latin Church's greatest theologians alongside Saint Augustine. Aquinas wrote on the Trinity, the sacraments, faith and reason, the philosophy of Aristotle, ethics and nature of Jesus.

- Edward I (1272-1307): William Wallace (top right, lived 1270-1305), a Scottish knight and leader who engaged Edward's forces in guerilla warfare and open battle, inflicting a defeat near Stirling which saw him promoted as Guardian of Scotland to the kingdom's de facto ruler in the absence and exile of its king. Eventually captured and handed over to Edward, after which he was executed. John Duns 'Scotus' (middle right, 1266-1308), whose name means John of Duns the Scot; he was a friar and influential philosopher of the scholastic tradition. He differed from Thomas Aquinas in that he leaned more toward Plato than Aristotle. Marco Polo (bottom right, lived 1254-1324), Italian merchant and explorer who recorded his travels eastward on the Silk Road through Persia and India to China.

5th Slide:

- Edward II (1307-1327): Dante Alighieri (upper right, lived 1265-1321), Italian author of the Divine Comedy, a fictional account of the poet's journey through hell, purgatory and heaven, and who he sees there. Mansa Musa (lower left, reigned 1312-1337), ruler of the Mali Empire and regarded in his time as one of the richest men in the world. William of Occam (lower right, lived 1287-1347), an English scholastic philosopher famed for the principle of the 'razor', in which the simplest possible solution is likely, in the absence of any contrary evidence, to be the correct one.

- Edward III (1327-1377): Bridget of Sweden (top right, lived 1304-1373), a Swedish nun and mystic who founded her own religious order and wrote many books about her visions of Jesus. Catherine of Siena (middle right, lived 1347-1380), Italian mystic known for her spiritual treatises, who was so highly valued for her wisdom that she served as the Pope's diplomat and negotiator. John Wycliffe (lower right, 1328-1384), an English priest and religious reformer who led a movement which became known as the Lollards. This movement, and their beliefs, would go on to influence John Huss, and thereafter Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli. Wycliffe and his followers produced their own translation of the Bible in the English language.

- Richard II (1377-1399): Geoffrey Chaucer (upper right, lived 1343-1400), one of England's most celebrated writers, a court poet who produced many works such as Troilus and Cressida and the Canterbury Tales. Julian of Norwich (lower right, lived 1343-1416), who wrote the Revelations of Divine Love, an account of her visions of the passion of Christ, which are the earliest surviving works in the English language known to have been written by a woman. She was widely sought after for her spiritual advice in her own time.

- Henry IV (1399-1413): Owen Glyndwr (upper right, lived 1359-1416), a Welsh nobleman who rebelled against English rule, styling himself as an independent Prince of Wales, and joining with Edmund Mortimer and Harry Hotspur in open war against Henry IV. He was never captured or killed, and so his whereabouts were unknown, but his own struggle was perhaps the most well-known of all the claimant Welsh princes. Christina Pizan (lower left, lived 1364-1430), a writer of the French court, author of the City of Ladies, which describes the lives and qualities of famous women from history - such as Mary Magdalene, Zenobia, Sappho, Artemisia, Semiramis, Judith, Lucretia and Isabella of Valois. Margaret I (lower middle, reigned 1387-1412), Queen of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, called the 'Semiramis of the North'. Eric VII, III & XIII (lower right, reigned 1396-1439), King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, firstly as co-ruler alongside his great-aunt Queen Margaret I, and then after her death as sole monarch. The reign of Margaret and Eric saw the beginnings of the Kalmar Union in Scandinavia, and marriage alliances were also proposed with England. John Huss (middle right, lived 1369-1415), a Bohemian religious reformer, inspired by Wycliffe and the Lollards, whose works were so controversial that he was executed for heresy and his followers persecuted. Their ideas would inspire the Protestant Reformation a century later.

6th Slide:

- Henry V (1413-1422): Richard 'Dick' Whittington (right, lived 1354-1423), politician and Lord Mayor of London, most famous today for the fable about his cat.

- Henry VI (1422-1461, 1470-1471): Joan Darc (upper right, lived 1412-1431), a French mystic whose visions inspired her to lead a revolt against Henry's government in favour of restoring Charles VII to the French throne. She was captured and executed, but was soon after considered as a martyr and today is one of the patron saints of France. John Gutenberg (lower right, lived 1400-1468), a German craftsman most well known as the inventor of the first printing press, a technology that allowed for mass production of books on a scale not before seen in Europe. By the time that William Caxton introduced it to England, publishers were able to sell copies of texts both ancient and modern to an increasingly literate middle-class in towns and cities. Constantine IX (lower left, reigned 1449-1453), the last Emperor of Rome in the east; the fall of Constantinople and Byzantium to the Turks marked the end of an empire which had lasted for over a thousand years.

- Edward IV (1461-1470, 1471-1483): Thomas Malory (upper right, lived 1393-1471), a knight and politician, author of the Death of Arthur, which tells the definitive English-language version of the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Vlad the Impaler (lower right, reigned 1448, 1456-1462, 1475-1477), a ruler of Wallachia known for his fight against the Ottomans.

- Henry VII (1485-1509): Blind Harry (top first column, lived 1440-1492), or Henry the Minstrel, a bard and musician at the Scottish royal court, known for his work the Acts and Deeds of Sir William Wallace, which is an historical romance about Wallace and his wars. Ferdinand and Isabella (bottom first column, reigned 1474-1516), the first King and Queen of Spain, uniting the houses of Castile and Aragon; they were the parents of Catherine of Aragon. Leonardo DaVinci (top second column, lived 1452-1519), a renowned Italian polymath, famous for his paintings and scientific inventions. Christopher Columbus (bottom second column, lived 1451-1506), an Italian explorer funded by Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain to sail into the west, with the intention of finding an easier route to India; instead of reaching the Indies as planned, he accidentally landed in the Americas.

>Two years had he usurp'd

>The throne, when, meeting these, he lost his life

>And ill-gain'd crown, upon the battle-field.

>The year one thousand, hundreds four, and five

>To eighty added, when of August came

>The twice eleventh day, the Boar's tusks quail'd;

>And, to avenge the White, the Red Rose bloom'd.

The King's [Richard III's] opponents, as already stated, having landed at Milford in Wales, made their way through rugged and indirect tracts in the northern part of that province; where William Stanley, the brother of the said Lord Seneschal [Thomas Stanley], as Lord Chamberlain of North Wales, was holding the sole command.

Upon this, the King sent word to the said Lord Stanley, requesting him, without the least delay, to present himself before him at Nottingham. For the King was afraid lest that, as it really turned out, the mother of the said Earl of Richmond [Henry Tudor], whom the Lord Stanley had married, might induce her husband to go over to the party of her son. On this, he made an excuse that he was suffering from an attack of the sweating sickness, and could not possibly come. His son, however, who had secretly prepared to desert from the King, was detected by stratagem and taken prisoner; upon which, he discovered a conspiracy which had been entered into by himself and his uncle, Sir William Stanley before-mentioned, and Sir John Savage, to go over to the side of the Earl of Richmond; while at the same time, he implored the King's mercy, and promised that his father would with all speed arrive to the King's assistance. In addition to this, he sent word to his father by letter, of the danger to which he was exposed, and, at the same time, expressed his own wish that he would give the assistance before-mentioned.

In the meantime the said two knights being publicly proclaimed at Coventry and elsewhere traitors against the King, and the enemy hastening on and directing his steps night and day to meet the King, it became necessary to move the army, though its numbers were not yet fully made up, from Nottingham, and to come to Leicester. Here was found a number of warriors ready to fight on the King's side, greater than had ever been seen before in England collected together in behalf of one person. On the Lord's Day before the feast of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle, the King proceeded on his way, amid the greatest pomp, and wearing the crown on his head; being attended by John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and other mighty lords, knights, and esquires, together with a countless multitude of the common people. On departing from the town of Leicester, he was informed by scouts where the enemy most probably intended to remain the following night; upon which, he encamped near the abbey of Mirival, at a distance of about eight miles from that town.

The chief men of the opposing array were the following: in the first place, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, whom they called their king, Henry VII; John Vere, Earl of Oxford; John, Lord Wells, of Wells, uncle to King Henry VII; Thomas, Lord Stanley, and William his brother; Edward Woodville, brother of Queen Elizabeth, a most valiant knight; John Cheyne, John Savage, Robert Willoughby, William Berkeley, James Blunt, Thomas Arundel, Richard Edgcombe, Edward Poynings, Richard Guilford, and many others of knightly rank, who had been distinguished before these troubles, as well as at the commencement of the present war. Of the ecclesiastical orders, there were present, for the purpose of giving their advice, the following persons, who had similarly suffered banishment: the venerable father, Peter, Bishop of Exeter, the flower of the knighthood of his country; Master Robert Morton, clerk of the Rolls of Chancery; Christopher Urswick and Richard Fox, of whom the one was afterwards appointed to the office of Almoner, and the other to that of Secretary, together with many others.

At day-break on the Monday following there were no chaplains present to perform divine service on behalf of King Richard, nor any breakfast prepared to refresh the flagging spirits of the king; besides which, as it is generally stated, in the morning he declared that during the night he had seen dreadful visions, and had imagined himself surrounded by a multitude of demons. He consequently presented a countenance which, always attenuated, was on this occasion more livid and ghastly than usual, and asserted that the issue of this day's battle, to whichever side the victory might be granted, would prove the utter destruction of the Kingdom of England. He also declared that it was his intention, if he should prove the conqueror, to crush all the supporters of the opposite faction; while, at the same time, he predicted that his adversary would do the same towards the well-wishers to his own party, in case the victory should fall to his lot.

At length, the prince and knights on the opposite side now advancing at a moderate pace against the royal army, the King gave orders that the Lord Strange before-mentioned [George, son of Thomas Stanley, sent as hostage to Richard III] should be instantly beheaded. The persons, however, to whom this duty was entrusted, seeing that the issue was doubtful in the extreme, and that matters of more importance than the destruction of one individual were about to be decided, delayed the performance of this cruel order of the King, and, leaving the man to his own disposal, returned to the thickest of the fight.

A battle of the greatest severity now ensuing between the two sides, the Earl of Richmond, together with his knights, made straight for King Richard: while the Earl of Oxford, who was next in rank to him in the whole army, and a most valiant soldier, drew up his forces, consisting of a large body of French and English troops, opposite the wing in which the Duke of Norfolk had taken up his position. In the part where the Earl of Northumberland was posted, with a large and well-provided body of troops, there was no opposition made, as not a blow was given or received during the battle.

At length a glorious victory was granted by Heaven to the said Earl of Richmond, now sole king, together with the crown, of exceeding value, which King Richard had previously worn on his head. For while fighting, and not in the act of flight, the said King Richard was pierced with numerous deadly wounds, and fell in the field like a brave and most valiant prince; upon which, Sir Richard Radcliffe; Sir Robert Brackenbury, Keeper of the Tower of London; John Kendall, Secretary; Sir Robert Percy, controller of the King's household; and Walter Devereux, Lord Ferrers, as well as many others, chiefly from the North, in whom King Richard put the greatest confidence, took to flight without engaging; and there was left no part of the opposing army of sufficient importance or ability for the glorious conqueror Henry VII to engage, and so add to his experience in battle.

Through this battle peace was obtained for the entire kingdom, and the body of the said King Richard being found among the dead, many insults were also heaped upon it, and, not exactly in accordance with the laws of humanity, a halter being thrown round the neck, it was carried to Leicester; while the new king also proceeded to that place, graced with the crown which he had so gloriously won. While these events were taking place, many nobles and others were taken prisoners; and in especial, Henry, Earl of Northumberland, and Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, the eldest son of the before-named Duke of Norfolk. There was also taken prisoner William Catesby, who occupied a distinguished place among all the advisers of the late King, and whose head was cut off at Leicester, as a last reward for his excellent offices. Two gentlemen, also, of the western parts of the kingdom, father and son, known by the name of Brecher, who, after the battle, had fallen into the hands of the conquerors, were hanged. As it was never heard, nor yet stated in writing or by word of mouth, that any other persons, after the termination of the warfare, were visited with similar punishments, but that, on the contrary, the new prince had shewn clemency to all, he began to receive the praises of all, as though he had been an angel sent down from heaven, through whom God had deigned to visit his people, and to deliver it from the evils with which it had hitherto, beyond measure, been afflicted.

These events thus taking place, it appears from the chronicles that a similar death of a King of England, slain in a pitched battle in his own kingdom, has never been heard of since the time of King Harold; who was an usurper, and was conquered in battle by William the Conqueror, who came over from Normandy, and from whom these men are descended.

The two-year siege at the city of Acre, in which Christian armies were surrounded by the forces of Saladin while besieging a city with an Egyptian garrison, ended in summer of the year 1191, with the arrival first of the French forces under Philip Augustus, and then the arrival of the English forces under Richard the Lionheart. The two kings, with their fresh troops, swiftly brought the siege to an end. Acre surrendered in July, the leaders of the garrison offering themselves as hostages upon realisation that Saladin was unable to relieve the city. The Christians entered the city triumphant and jubilant, celebrating masses in the ancient churches, and lodging themselves in the many great palaces of Acre, called Ptolemais by the Greeks.

Negotiations were opened and terms were agreed between the two sides: Saladin would release all prisoners captured in the aftermath of the Battle of Hattin some years earlier, as well the pieces of Jesus' cross which he had taken from the defeated Christian forces to Damascus. In exchange for the release of the high-ranking Christian knights, the high-ranking Muslims captured at Acre would be exchanged. The hostages in the meanwhile would be held until their ransoms were paid: Richard and Philip demanded a ransom of 200,000 dinars in exchange for the release of Saladin's soldiers. Overall, Saladin held 1,600 Christian hostages, and Richard and Philip 3,000 Muslim hostages, with a deadline set for August. So far, all seemed well. To avenge the defeat of King Guy by Saladin at Hattin was part of the motivations of the kings of Europe in setting out for Outremer in the first place, as well as to recover the relic of the cross that the Saracens had captured. Now, it seemed, Saladin would be forced to release many knights, and restore the cross to them; in addition to this, the kings would make a hefty profit from the Acre garrison's ransom - such things were commonplace for a victorious army in the aftermath of battle.

But by mid-August, something had gone tragically wrong. To start with, King Philip had made his return to France, leaving behind some of his forces as well as his own hostages, with the expectation of the ransom payment being sent back home to him. But what was worse was the fact that Saladin did not seem to be honouring his end of the bargain: the wood from the cross had yet to appear, as had the ransom money. The Sultan, despite being the defeated party, had extended the deadline by a few days and was making demands that hostages must be released first, with the ransom being provided afterward. He was also apparently offering lower-ranking prisoners, despite Richard's demands for the knights to be released first.

What is clear is that by 20th August, 2,700 hostages of the Acre garrison, who had spent two years defending the city, were brought out of the city and executed. The enraged Saracens, upon seeing so many of their men martyred, attempted to bravely charge the Latin lines, but were held back by the knights at the foot of the hill. By the end of the day, all hostages save the most high-ranking commanders had been killed. Saladin retaliated by executing hostages held on his own side, and permitted his soldiers in the weeks following to kill any captured Christian knights they could get their hands on, in order that their great desire for vengeance might be fulfilled.

Leaving behind the few remaining hostages, Richard and the Latins continued on in the direction of Jaffa and Ascalon.

What had gone wrong?

Richard

As a commander, King Richard was already acutely familiar with the conditions of warfare. He was already famed back in England as the Lionheart, having proved himself in youth upon the battlefields of Aquitaine. He was well aware that in the aftermath of battle, those enemies who yielded as hostages were to be exchanged with the opposing side for ransom money. From his perspective, Saladin had failed to uphold his own end of the bargain.

The English envoys had already been shown the pieces of the cross in the Sultan's possession, falling down to the ground "till their faces were covered in dust". They likewise knew of Saladin's victory at Hattin, of the captive knights, and eagerly awaited their release. But the days had gone by, and it increasingly appeared as though Saladin was stalling. As September approached, the weather would change, and the return of the autumn rains would make campaign risky.

According to Roger of Howden, a Yorkshire priest who accompanied the King to the Holy Land:

>On the same day [15th], Saladin sent to the King of England costly presents, and requested him to put off the day on which he had proposed to cut off the heads of the pagans; but the King declined to put off the day any longer, or to accept the presents of Saladin.

While the Sultan was flattering him with gifts, the King of England increasingly noticed that he was still neglecting to pay the ransom money. Was this a deliberate ploy by Saladin in order to delay the King at Acre, forcing him to winter there and allowing time for new armies to be raised and supplied in Egypt or Syria in time for spring? If so, then said Saracen army could return and hold the Latins under siege at the war-wearied city. Indeed, Saladin could well be banking upon the code of honour between commanders in hopes that Richard was unable to actually carry out any executions.

Christian sources accuse Saladin of stalling and state that the forces present in Acre wept when they saw how brazenly the Sultan had deceived them all, hanging false promises of restoring the Holy Cross in front of their eyes while his actual intentions were anything but.

Worse still, rumours had reached their ears that Saladin had already executed his own hostages:

>On Saladin seeing and hearing this, he caused the heads of all the Christians, whom he had in his hands, to be cut off; which was accordingly done on the eighteenth day of the month of August, being the Lord's Day.

This news must have deeply disturbed Richard, who until this point seems to have really believed that his rival was going to honour his word.

Still, he waited two days until the 20th before he ordered the execution.

Richard explained his circumstances in a letter to the Abbot of Clairvaux:

>The noble city of Acre was surrendered to our lord the King of the Franks and ourselves, the lives being saved of the Saracens who had been sent for the purpose of defending and protecting it, and an agreement being fully confirmed on the part of Saladin that he would give up to us the Holy Cross, and one thousand five hundred captives alive, a day being appointed for the due performance of the said covenants. However, the time having expired, and the stipulation which he had agreed to being utterly disregarded, we put to death about two thousand six hundred of the Saracens whom we held in our hands, as we were bound to do; retaining, however, a few of the more noble ones, in return for whom we trusted to recover the Holy Cross and certain of the Christian captives.

The Christian sources, English or French, very rarely condemn Richard for his own part. They put the blame firmly on Saladin, calling him a liar and a deceiver; William of Newburgh, for instance claims that he "deluded our people with vain expectations," and so, in consequence, "the King of England, fired with just zeal, as the covenant was not observed on the part of Saladin, ordered about two thousand six hundred of the captives to be beheaded, who, on the capture of the city, were detained under the terms of the agreement". Leaving a garrison of several thousand soldiers behind in a city, they agree, would play into the hand of Saladin; several of them even claim it as "revenge" for those among the Latins who had been killed by their arrows during the course of the siege. It is also worth noting that some sources claim that he didn't even act alone: Roger of Howden, who was present in Outremer and so likely privy to these events, claims that the Duke of Burgundy, who commanded the remaining French troops, acted in concordance with the King of England. William the Breton, a biographer of Philip Augustus, even (inaccurately) claims that Philip himself was present and acted alongside Richard!

And so, from the perspective of Richard and the other Latins, it was Saladin who violated the terms of the agreement first. He had refused to give them the pieces of the cross, was purposefully stalling negotiations in order to buy himself more time to regroup his forces, and had already executed many of his own hostages in secret. On future occasions, Saracen garrisons would simply flee rather than defend their citadels, not trusting in their leader to come to their rescue and fearful of the English king. If this had been Saladin's plan from the start, then it had backfired spectacularly.

The question remains, were the Christian sources actually correct? Was Saladin negotiating in bad faith?

Saladin

The Sultan of Egypt, ruler of a vast empire encompassing various peoples, lands, tongues and faiths, was, like his enemy, absolutely no stranger to warfare; he was a man who had fought both Christian and Muslim to secure the power of his dynasty. In Europe, he was known largely as the victor of Hattin and the conqueror of Jerusalem. In his time, most of the holy cities - Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jerusalem - were in his control. At Hattin he had treated King Guy most nobly, as a fellow king, despite being a rival; the bulk of his anger was taken out against the defeated Templars, whom he ordered executed, "smiling as he watched his order being carried out". Now, the alleged relic guarded by the Christians was in his possession, and most of the famed Latin knights were his prisoners. From a negotiating perspective, Saladin initially had the upper hand.

All that was to change by 1188, in which the Pope's call for the liberation of the holy cities saw the kings and emperors of far-off England, France and Germany pledge to take the cross; and the eventual arrival, in 1191, of Philip and Richard, completely turning the tide of battle. It was without his consent that the exhausted defenders of the city, Mestoc and Karrakos, surrendered to the two kings, offering themselves and the 3,000 or so soldiers from the garrison as hostages in exchange for the ransom money and the exchange of Saladin's own.

Muslim sources offer a contrasting picture to those Christian sources cited above, even while agreeing with the general course of events. A different picture of Saladin and his motives begins to emerge.

In the accounts of his own biographers, the Sultan was acting in fully good faith and was genuinely concerned with the safety of his own men, beginning to raise the ransom money: indeed, he had already offered to send some small payments before the deadline in exchange for the release of some of them, but Richard turned him down on the grounds that he had yet to release his own high-ranking hostages.

A big issue for Saladin was amassing the money so quickly: he hadn't agreed to the ransom price, as might be expected for a representative of the defeated party, but a problem for him was that he might not have agreed with the amount. Izzadin, an Arab writer from Mosul who accompanied Saladin on his expeditions, states that the Sultan was not prepared to accept the release of the relatively lower-ranking hostages until he had seen his captive emirs first set free:

>People understood then that they [the Latins] meant treachery: that they would only release the army pages, the poor, the Kurds and those of no account, while detaining the emirs and the wealthy to demand ransoms from them. The Sultan did not accept this.

In other words, many Muslims believed that Richard only intended to release those troops of lesser rank while continuing to hold the emirs in order that he might extort the Sultan for an even greater amount than the 100,000 already agreed. (It is worth noting that, ironically enough, something similar would occur later in Richard's own life, in which the Holy Roman Emperor holding him captive would continue to extend the deadline for his release in exchange for extorting an even greater amount of ransom money). Saladin barely even knew Richard by this point, given that he'd only just arrived a month earlier, and had very little knowledge of England or Europe where he ruled. For all he knew the English king was just lying when he said he'd honour his word.

Another potential clash in communications was a difference in cultures. In particular, the Saracens practised the enslavement of those war captives they could not ransom, while the Latins did not. And so, Saladin might reasonably expect that Richard would simply sell the members of the garrison to a slave market before leaving Acre, opening the possibility that he might subsequently order them freed or even buy them back. Richard, however, did not understand this custom: in his own lands, back in England or France, it was understood that war captives unable to be ransomed would probably be executed.

None of the Muslim sources really gives any indication that Saladin was acting in bad faith. The supposed secret massacre of the Latin hostages which allegedly occurred on 18th August is not mentioned in any Arabic source - which leads one to conclude that it was a false rumour that spread throughout the Latins' camp. The alleged delaying tactics likewise finds very little support among Saladin's biographers. So why had he extended the deadline, and why had he not given back the cross, or released the captive knights?

The Arab writers make it plain that Saladin, who had never met Richard, did not trust the English king. They emphasise that he had no guarantee that Richard was a man of his word. Saladin expected the possibility that he might be deceived: that Richard might pocket the ransom money and then execute the Acre hostages anyway. Bahadin, another of Saladin's followers, makes note of this:

>The Sultan knew that if he were to give them the money, the cross, and the prisoners whilst our men were still detained by the Franks, there would be no guarantee whatever against an act of treachery on the part of the enemy, which would strike a great blow at Islam.

It would be a great insult to Saladin, and cause him to lose face, if he were to be taken for a fool by his enemies. Instead, he chose to offer the ransoms in instalments, while exchanging the hostages over time. Richard, however, knew that time was running out, that he couldn't delay for long, and wondered if Saladin might instead be intending to keep the high-ranking Christian hostages and the relics of the cross behind for his own purposes. Neither side trusted the other. And so the negotiations continued to drag on, until the day of the 20th arrived and neither side had budged.

Bahadin then states:

>The King broke the solemn promises he had made them, openly showed the intentions he had hitherto concealed, and carried out what he had purposed to do as soon as he had received the money and the Frank prisoners.

He believed that Richard had no intention of ever releasing the hostages. Part of the reason for this is that the memory of Saladin's execution of the Templars at Hattin was still fresh in the Christians' minds - and, in any case, the siege of Acre itself had been long and gruelling, with a great many casualties. Bahadin wondered if the Christians might have been motivated principally by revenge, i.e that they wanted the money and their comrades and the relic released, but would also choose to avenge the slaying of the Templars by executing the Muslim soldiers, in a brutal act of 'eye-for-an-eye' justice. Bahadin himself judges that none of the Muslims really understood King Richard's motives, and concludes that only God really knows:

>Various motives have been assigned for this massacre. According to some, the captives were killed to avenge the deaths of those slain previously by the Muslims; others say that the King of England, having made up his mind to try and take Ascalon, did not think it prudent to leave so many imprisoned behind in Acre. God knows what his reason really was.

Richard's own words, in his epistle to the Abbot (which, of course, Bahadin was completely unaware of), indicate that he was desperate to move on to Ascalon before the summer ended, and believed that Saladin was deliberately delaying him; they do not indicate that he was planning on killing them anyway, or that the massacre at Hattin was a motivation in that of Ayyadieh. But Saladin could never have known.

Conclusion

The negotiations in the aftermath of the siege of Acre were standard military procedure: hostages exchanged, terms of ransom agreed, a deadline set. But the issue for both sides was that neither really trusted the other: Richard likely saw Saladin (at least initially) as a faithless pagan and an antichrist; Saladin, in turn, probably thought of Richard as a western barbarian whose word was worthless. They had never met, nor really exchanged greetings, and this was their first major encounter together in war. Saladin seems to have believed that Richard was deceiving him: robbing him of money under pretext of a ransom and then ruthlessly killing the hostages in cold blood to avenge the deaths of his fellow Christians in Saladin's prior conquests. He was angry with the money demanded him, and was afraid of losing face and being played for a fool. Richard seems to have thought that Saladin was a liar who had tricked him, promising him money and then deliberately stalling negotiations so that he might keep him trapped in Acre, while he in turn gathered a new army.

The truth of the matter seems to be that neither side was right. Christian sources give no indication that Richard was secretly plotting a massacre, and Muslim ones don't imply that Saladin was bluffing. If the ransom had been paid by the deadline, the knights freed and the cross returned, all evidence indicates that the Acre garrison would be released, and both sides would return satisfied. But it was not to be: both sides fell on deaf ears, the relic was never returned, and both commanders executed all hostages except for a few of the higher-ranking ones.

Despite the temporary breakdown in negotiations, cordial relations between both parties were eventually restored. Messages and gifts were exchanged, future ransoms paid, and, of course, the war ended by a peace treaty which both Richard and Saladin found to their advantage (and obviously trusted to uphold). Richard later met with Mestoc in person, one of the Acre commanders spared execution on account of being a feudal lord, and gaining his eventual freedom. The initial hostility seems to have cooled.

By the time of the peace terms in autumn 1192, the Christians were confident that they were able to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem, which remained under Saladin's control. Hubert Walter, a future Archbishop of Canterbury, was offered by the Sultan the opportunity to celebrate masses at the sites of Christ's nativity and resurrection. In turn, Saladin appears confident enough to have public proclamations throughout his domains that the pilgrimage routes for Muslims were reopened, safe from Latin raids and attacks, and he conceded to the King of England that the Latins be allowed to keep the coastal cities.

The massacres of 1191 were to be the most controversial highlight of Richard's military career: while he engaged in numerous conflicts afterwards, he would never again engage with an execution on that scale before his death in battle in 1199. Saladin, meanwhile, never again attained to such heights of worldwide fame and infamy as he had in the 1180s: plagued by illness, he died only a few months after Richard sailed for home.

I didn't include Edward III as I suppose he wins. Edward did have a ferocious temper and was feared by all his enemies (something which sometimes gets overlooked in depictions of him) but he's also famous as a magnanimous ruler who created his own Knights of the Round Table and when he held feasts and tournaments he had knights from across Scotland, France, etc. flocking to them.

But of the other three who would you rather serve under? I don't mean which do you think was the best king or the best warrior, but which you'd personally rather live in close contact with. Who would be the most likeable as a person? Would you love them or fear them more, or both?

The fate of our three Richards in their deaths

Was much alike ; though otherwise their lot

Was most dissimilar. Each of these kings

Died without issue, cut off by a death

Sudden and cruel. But the First acquir'd

The greatest glory. In the Holy Land

He fought ; and thence returning safe, he fell,

Pierc'd by an arrow in a foreign clime.

Reft of his throne, and many a month immur'd

Within a dungeon's walls, the Second chose

Rather to die than forfeit his fair name.

Edward's vast hoards of wealth consum'd, the Third

Was not content therewith, but must destroy

His brother's progeny, and then proscribe

Their partisans. Two years had he usurp'd

The throne, when, meeting these, he lost his life

And ill-gain'd crown, upon the battle-field.

The year one thousand, hundreds four, and five

To eighty added, when of August came

The twice eleventh day, the Boar's tusks quail'd;

And, to avenge the White, the Red Rose bloom'd.

>"The age of gold returns,

>The world's reform draws nigh,

>The rich man now cast down,

>The pauper raised on high"

Following the death of their father at Chinon, the designated king-elect and his brother crossed the Channel from Normandy and arrived in England on the Sunday prior to the Feast of the Virgin, with Richard docking at Portsmouth to widespread cheer and celebration as the people gathered to see their new king (John meanwhile crossed over on a different ship - possibly in order to avoid arousing his envy).

Crossing with them were Baldwin the Archbishop, the bishops of Rochester and Chester, and the saintly Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln. They were greeted on their arrival by those Normans that Richard had already sent ahead - the Archbishop of Rouen and the bishops of Bayeux and Evreux - as well as the loyal knight Sir William Marshal and the royal princes' mother Eleanor, who had been newly-released from her confinement at Salisbury Castle.

>And although some, though but very few, were hurt at the death of the old king, still it was some consolation that, as the poet says, "Wonders I sing, the sun has set, no night ensued"; for truly no night did ensue after the setting of the sun. For a ray of the sun, occupying the throne of the sun, spreads its own lustre more brilliantly, and to a greater distance than its own original sun. For when the sun has set below the earth from his throne, his ray, still remaining, and subject to neither eclipse or setting, being suddenly cut off from the body of the sun, and wholly reflected back upon itself, as though a sun itself, it becomes much greater and much more brilliant than the sun, of which it was a ray, by reason of no clouds intervening and no impediment obstructing its course. But, in order that no difficulties may harass the mind of the reader, the meaning of this may be more fully ascertained on reading the following pentameter:

>"The father was the sun, his son his ray."

>And thus, the son becoming greater and greater, enlarged the good works of his father, while the bad ones he cut short.

>For those whom the father disinherited, the son restored to their former rights; those whom the father had banished, the son recalled; those whom the father kept confined in irons, the son allowed to depart unhurt; those upon whom the father, in the cause of justice, inflicted punishment, the son, in the cause of humanity, forgave.

Richard first sent his mother around his kingdom with an order that all imprisoned by the justiciars for violating forest laws were to be granted royal pardons - something which Eleanor, knowing all too well the pains of captivity, was eager to do. Then word was sent that every freeman throughout the kingdom should pledge allegiance to Richard as their overlord and soon-to-be king.

After this, Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, and other nobles whom his father had deprived of their estates were restored to their former glory. Those who had served the late King Henry faithfully were rewarded for their loyalty - including William Marshal, who was married to the Countess of Pembroke, Isabella. Various other heiresses were married off to his retainers, including his Poitevin cousin, Andrew Chauvigny, the wedding being celebrated at Salisbury.

His brother John, in the meanwhile, was gifted Cornwall, Dorset, Somerset, Nottingham, Derby, Lancaster, the castles of Marlborough and Luggershall with their forests, the honours of Wallingford, Tickhill and Haye, as well as the Peak and Bolsover. John was also granted the hand of Isabella, Countess of Gloucester. Several castles in these counties, however, were retained by Richard. His elder half-brother Geoffrey was made Archbishop of York.

Richard's arrival at the royal stronghold of Winchester was greeted with crowds of his new subjects, gathering to glimpse the man on horseback who was already renowned for his courage, being nicknamed the Lionheart. Entering the castle, he first looked over the treasury and had its contents weighed - his father had raised around £100,000 for the liberation of Jerusalem: money which Richard was keen to put to good use. For the coming expedition to Outremer he had those who had already pledged to take the cross reaffirm their oaths, with those who now wished to opt out being able to do so in exchange for a sum of money or military aid; and those who had fallen out of his favour were given the chance to redeem themselves by making their own pledges.

>After this, he sent his servants and bailiffs throughout all the sea-ports of England, Normandy, Poitou, and others of his lands, and caused the largest and best of all the ships to be selected for himself, which were able to carry large freights, and then distributed some of them among those of his friends who had assumed the cross for the purpose of setting out for Jerusalem, while the others were reserved for his own use.

For much of the rest of that summer he spent time at Winchester and the surrounding environs, ensuing the loyalty of his barons and seeing those vacant offices of state filled. His father's most hated justiciar, Ranulf Glanville, was removed from power on charges of corruption, to widespread cheer and applause. Another, the Seneschal of Anjou, was brought through the streets under arrest. In return, new justices were raised to posts, fines were paid, and Glanville took the cross. The Saladin Tithe, though viewed as for a worthy cause, had been the source of much unrest in England that past year, for which many of Henry's justiciars (including Glanville) had made themselves quite unpopular. Richard's first acts upon the succession focused on appeasing and hearing the complaints of his subjects, as well as raising money through the buying and selling of offices, as well as taking the customary fee in lieu of military service from those - both clergy and laity - who were to remain behind in England during his absence. With the great offices of state filled, his mother freed, and his brothers rewarded with lands, he could now focus his attentions on the upcoming coronation.

William of Canterbury was a monk and clerk who served under Thomas Becket, the martyred archbishop, and wrote his biography after his death. He records an antiphon sung in Norfolk, said to have been taught to Reginald, a priest of Wretham, in a dream or vision. As Becket was not yet formally canonised, no Latin antiphon existed in the liturgy: this one was revealed to Reginald in English, and taught to the local clergy.

>Holy Thomas of heaven's kingdom,

>Equal to the apostles,

>The martyrs lift up thee

>Daily by their hands;

>Our Lord, he did a wondrous thing

>When he turned water into wine;

>Thou art our help in England,

>Our voices lifted up;

>Thou art comfort among mankind,

>Aid us now against our sins.

>[Hali Thomas of hevenriche,

>Alle postles evenliche,

>Dhe martyrs dhe understande

>Deyhuamliche on here hande;

>Selcuth ded ure Drichtin

>Dhat he dhi wetter wente to wyn;

>Dhu ert help in Engelande,

>Ure stefne understande;

>Thu hert froure imang mankynne,

>Help us nu of ure senne.]

Thomas Becket was rapidly becoming a major saint: his anthems are very much in the tradition of those of other English saints, such as Dunstan, Aidan, Cuthbert, Augustine, Edmund or Edward. As they had been for centuries, he was likewise being praised in poetry written in the vernacular English as early as the 1100s. An Order of St. Thomas was founded at Acre by the end of that century, which was a chapter of the Hospitallers established for English knights and pilgrims.

>FROM THE mid twelfth century to the end of the thirteenth century the five reigning queens of England were Eleanor of Aquitaine, Berengaria of Navarre, Isabella of Angouleme, Eleanor of Provence and Eleanor of Castile. Simply to list these names is to suggest that their husbands had important political and diplomatic interests in south-western Europe. On the other hand to read what historians have written about the kings of England in this period is to gain the impression that this was not the case. Historians have tended to concentrate almost exclusively on the lands on either side of the English Channel, on the area of the old Anglo-Norman realm. It is easy enough to understand why they have chosen to confine their history within these narrow geographical limits. The northern Plantagenet lands and, above all, England are relatively rich in the kind of documentation to which historians of politics have grown accustomed: narrative sources and the records of central government. By contrast, there is relatively little of this type of evidence to be found in the lands which comprised the southern part of the Plantagenet empire. Although this difference may, in practice cause historians to neglect the south, we should not assume that the Plantagenets themselves shared this attitude. The paucity of familiar kinds of evidence may imply that politically and culturally, the south was a very different sort of society from the north; but it does not mean that the Plantagenets were northerners who believed that the south did not matter.

>The well-known facts about the marriage are few and can be quickly summarised. Berengaria of Navarre was brought to Richard's court, then at Messina in Sicily, in March 1191. She accompanied the crusader-king on his journey east and they were married in Cyprus, at Limassol, on 12th May 1191. After the crusade they saw little of each other and there were no children. These facts can be fitted quite easily into the conventional portrait of Richard as an irresponsible crusader, indifferent to serious matters of politics like the succession to the throne, sacrificing his kingdom's future for the sake of present pleasures. As a result no historian has bothered to give them much thought.

>In fact, they are extraordinary and remarkable. Plantagenet kings did not ordinarily get married in Cyprus. It is true, of course, that Richard was going on crusade, but if he was anxious to get married, why had he not married in the twelve months which elapsed between the death of his father in July 1189 and the start of the crusade in July 1190? On the other hand, if he was reluctant to get married, why not use the crusade as an excuse to postpone the wedding? The hypothesis which will be advanced here is that marrying Berengaria of Navarre while on his way to Jerusalem was an ingenious diplomatic device deliberately adopted by Richard in order to cut his way through a thicket of political problems, and that this in itself given some indication of the importance which he attached to the alliance with Navarre.

>Few historians have given any thought to the preliminaries to Richard's marriage, but those who have are unanimous in stating that Sancho was persuaded by Eleanor of Aquitaine. She, it was said, "went in person to Spain to conduct the negotiations and to escort Berengaria to Sicily". For Edmond-Rene Labande it was Eleanor who saw that Richard's marriage was a political necessity and took action in order to bring it about. Elizabeth Brown, the most recent and by far the most level-headed historian of Eleanor, takes the same view. She writes that "in an even grander display of her power in matters domestic and political, she [Eleanor] then arranged, and perhaps personally negotiated, the marriage of Richard and Berengaria, daughter of the king of Navarre. Thus she set aside his long-standing engagement to Alice ... If Henry II had, as the gossips said, actually dallied with Alice, Eleanor may have been motivated by disgust and spite."

>But there is, in fact, not a shred of evidence to show that it was Eleanor who had conducted the negotiations. Historians have taken it for granted that she did, partly because she escorted Berengaria to Sicily and partly because of their belief that Richard was uninterested in such matters. They have assumed - without evidence - that the negotiations filled a gap in Eleanor's itinerary, between 6th April 1190 when she was with Richard at Argentan in Normandy and 20th January 1191 when she and Berengaria arrived at Lodi [Sicily]. The effect of this assumption was to make it seem likely that the major part of the negotiations had taken place during the second half of the year 1190 i.e. after Richard had already set out on the first stage of his journey to Outremer. But this interpretation makes Sancho as rash as it makes Richard negligent, and it is fundamentally implausible. Before allowing his daughter to leave home in such ambiguous and difficult circumstances, Sancho must have demanded far-reaching assurances and, with the best will in the world, the negotiations which preceded Berengaria's departure from Navarre must have been complex and prolonged.

>There is a further point to be borne in mind: Berengaria's dowry. Clearly this was a profoundly important question which cannot have been decided on the spur of the moment either in Cyprus or in Sicily. It involved not only Richard, Berengaria and the Gascons. It was also bound up with diplomatic relations between Gascony, Navarre and Castile. An assembly attended by the magnates of Gascony would he the proper occasion for some formal announcement, if not discussion, of a matter of this kind. Twenty years earlier a very similar court had assembled at Bordeaux to witness the formal marriage settlement between Eleanor [Richard's sister] and Alfonso VIII of Castile in the summer of 1170. And that questions of foreign policy were indeed being discussed [in Richard's council] at La Reole in February 1190 is suggested by the presence of one man who, in the witness lists, stands out in striking contrast to all those Gascons: Henry, son of the duke of Saxony, i.e. Henry of Brunswick, son of Henry the Lion [Richard's brother-in-law]. I suggest, therefore, that the question of Richard's marriage was among the important public and dynastic business discussed at La Reole and that it was to take this further that, on 2nd February 1190, Richard sent writs summoning a council to meet in Normandy. The facts that the council was to meet on the eve of a conference with Philip of France and that Alice was summoned to attend point in this direction.

>From Nonancourt Richard rode the eight miles to Dreux to meet Philip on 16th March. We do not know what the two kings said to each other, only that the crusade, which had been due to start at Easter, was postponed until 24th June. They needed more time to complete their preparation. Were these preparations simply the massive material organisation of the crusade - or did they include diplomatic preparations? In wishing to discard Alice and marry Berengaria, Richard was caught in a very awkward diplomatic situation. It is clear that Philip would be disgraced if his sister were dropped in this fashion and he did nothing to avenge her honour. Could Richard afford to state his intentions publicly? If he did. would that destroy the fragile peace between the kingdoms and cause further interminable delays to the crusade on which his heart was set? Perhaps only when he and Philip were already on crusade could he marry someone else without inviting an immediate attack upon his lands. But it could not have been easy to persuade Sancho of Navarre to send his daughter to be married somewhere abroad in these ambiguous and hazardous circumstances. In February 1190 Richard may well have found that he needed more time to complete such intricate negotiations. In April Richard travelled south again, through Anjou and Poitou. By 8th May he was at Cognac on the river Charente. We next find him at Bayonne close to the border with Navarre on 6 June. According to Roger of Howden it was on this trip to Gascony that he hanged the lord of the castle of Chis for the crime of highway robbery. Though many of this lord's victims had been pilgrims on the way to Compostella, it is hard to believe that it was devotion to the cult of St. James - however much the Moor-slayer may have appealed to Richard - which alone had brought him into the Pyrenees. It may well have been on this occasion that Richard found the opportunity for a face-to-face meeting with Sancho to bring the negotiations to a satisfactory conclusion. Now at last Richard was ready to go. But far from him going on crusade without a thought for the problem of the succession, it rather looks as though the opposite was the case: that he had postponed his departure until most of the problems surrounding his marriage had been resolved. Richard was by no means just a fanatical crusader who neglected everything else.

>Not until February 1191 did the question of Richard's marriage come to the surface once more. The news reached Messina that Eleanor and Berengaria, accompanied by Count Philip of Flanders, had arrived at Naples. Richard sent some galleys to meet them there and convey them to Messina. But although Count Philip was allowed to embark, Eleanor and Berengaria were not: [King] Tancred's officials apparently claimed that their escort was too large. There was obviously more to it than this transparent excuse and so Richard went to Tancred to demand an explanation. Tancred eventually confessed to Richard that he had been listening to Philip's insinuations. The French king apparently had warned Tancred that Richard's word was not to be relied upon: that he had no intention of keeping the treaty they had made last October, and instead was planning to deprive Tancred of his kingdom.

>The French king had been playing a dangerous game. Once Tancred was convinced that he had nothing to fear from Richard, then Philip became the victim of his own intrigue. He protested his innocence, claiming that the whole thing was a put-up job, a scheme devised by Richard to give him an excuse for breaking his promise to marry Alice. For two reasons, however, Philip's defence does not ring quite true. Firstly, because Tancred's agents had prevented Berengaria from leaving Naples - an unnecessary complication if it was all just a charade. And secondly, because the count of Flanders, on his arrival in Sicily, took Richard's side against King Philip - which might suggest that he did not believe the French king's story. At all events it is clear that Philip was now isolated and in a weak bargaining position. Richard drove home his advantage. He had no wish, he said, to discard Alice but he could never marry her since she had been his father's mistress and had borne him a son. This was a grim accusation to make since Alice had been entrusted to the Old King's custody, but Richard claimed that he could summon many witnesses able to testify to its truth. In the face of this terrible threat to his sister's honour Philip gave up his struggle to save her marriage. In return for 10,000 marks he released Richard from his promise.

>Why was Richard so anxious to marry Berengaria? A romantic attachment is not impossible, but it would inevitably have been secondary to the requirements of diplomacy. In France alone the Angevin empire was faced by tour other 'feudal empires' - to use Professor Le Patourel's terminology. These were the empire of the counts of Flanders, the Capetian empire, the empire of Blois-Champagne and the empire of Saint-Gilles-Toulouse. In the crisis of 1173-4 three of these 'empires' had joined in the attack on Henry II. In the crisis of Richard's rule as duke of Aquitaine in 1183, the fourth - Toulouse - had supported the Young King in his war against Richard. In 1190 the position was that the princes who ruled three of these neighbouring empires had taken the cross: Count Philip of Flanders, King Philip of France, Count Theobald of Blois and Count Henry of Champagne. Only Count Raymond of Toulouse intended to stay at home. Richard can have been in no doubt what this meant. For the last six years he and Raymond had been in an almost continuous state of war. It was inevitable that Raymond would grasp at the opportunity presented by Richard's crusade. All the length of the Angevin frontiers there was no threat so serious as that posed by the count of Toulouse. It is in this context that we must see the marriage to Berengaria of Navarre. When in the first six months of 1190 Richard twice travelled south it was to arrange a crucial alliance which would help safeguard his dominions at their most vulnerable point.

>In diplomatic terms Richard's marriage proved its worth. In 1192 while he was still in Outremer a revolt broke out in Aquitaine. The leading rebels were the count of Perigord and Bernard, viscount of Brosse, but in all probability they were encouraged by Philip - who had returned in time to celebrate the Christmas of 1191 at Fontaineblea - and by Raymond of Toulouse. Berengaria's brother, Sancho, brought a large force of knights to help the seneschal of Gascony and together they took the war into Raymond's lands, advancing right up to the walls of Toulouse. Nowhere else in the Angevin empire had Richard's absence caused any serious unrest. If he had returned home by January or February 1193, as seemed likely when he left Acre in October 1192, it would have been clear to historians that the arrangements he had made for the government of his dominions during his crusade had worked extremely well. As it turned out, however, the unforeseeable eventuality of his capture and imprisonment called everything into question.

>In one respect the marriage clearly failed. There were no children, no heirs. The terms of the treaty of Messina in March 1191 make it clear that heirs were very much in Richard's mind, as one would expect, as he awaited Berengaria's arrival in Sicily. After all, he already had one son, Philip, to whom he had granted the lordship of Cognac. But no legitimate children came. Historians sometimes write as though Richard was responsible for this - but suppose Berengaria were barren or that, for some other reason, like Henry I and Adela of Louvain, Richard and Berengaria could not have children. What then could Richard have done? He might, presumably, have had the marriage annulled - but while the Navarre alliance remained important this would have been politically foolish. Nonetheless by 1197-8 the marriage was clearly no longer working - either as a diplomatic instrument or as a means of producing an heir.

>Berengaria did not re-marry and, for the rest of her life, she remained a shadowy figure in the background. Never again did she stand as close to the centre of the stage as she did during the complex negotiations of 1190-1. But for the historian of the politics of western Europe this brief episode in her life is important for the light which it sheds on Richard's style as a ruler. Although by 1197-8 Richard may have been disappointed by the results of his marriage, we are not entitled to believe that his attitude towards it was negative from the start. On the contrary, in the light of the remarkable circumstances in which he was married, it is clear that, as a politician, Richard was able to outmanoeuvre a tactician as astute as Philip Augustus. It is equally clear, moreover, that he was neither a reluctant husband nor an irresponsible ruler who went off on crusade while neglecting to provide for the security of his dominions, in the south as well as in the north.

Roxburgh Castle was occupied by an English garrison. But trouble in England between the forces of Edward, Earl of March, and King Henry VI gave the Scots hope that they could reclaim it. In the summer of 1460 a Scottish army lay siege to the castle, led by the 29-year old King James II.

James, who had a noted interest in artillery and guns, brought a host of bombards, including Mons Meg, one of the largest in the world. These cannons were fired and made swift work in demolishing the walls.

On the third day of August, Queen Mary and the 8-year old Duke of Rothesay arrived at the siege camp. The King greeted his wife and then prepared to order a gun salute to honour her presence. In the company of Lord George Douglas, 'the Great Earl' of Angus, his sworn companion in arms, King James went and personally stood by his favourite cannon, the Lion, and the bombards were ignited.

In the presence of all witnesses, the Lion exploded, sending shards of heavy shrapnel flying in all directions, wounding the Earl of Angus and cutting through the thigh of the King, severing his leg completely and fatally wounding him. James died at the siege camp that day, and was laid to rest within the royal pavilion, to the great mourning of the Scots.

The Scottish nobility immediately proclaimed the young prince as James III, and he and his mother prepared for the coronation - a necessity to quell political turmoil when news of the old king's death spread across Scotland. His corpse meanwhile was lodged in the Monastery of St. Peter, at Roxburgh. The Earl of Angus, despite his injury, continued the siege, and the castle fell only five days later. It was subsequently demolished and never rebuilt.

Few saints of medieval England have such a legacy as St. Hugh. The 12th century Bishop of Lincoln, a Burgundian by birth, came to England in the reign of King Henry II. He oversaw the erection of churches and monasteries, including building work on his own cathedral. He was not afraid to rebuke even kings for their harsh taxation and oppressive Forest Laws, and he was renowned for his great charity. When anti-Jewish pogroms broke out, Hugh offered the Jews of Lincoln shelter in his own palaces. He was kind to animals, especially swans, and was said to have befriended several of the birds. He greatly enlarged the cathedral school, which educated clerks of the diocese.

So renowned was the good bishop that many miracles were attributed to him: William of Newburgh reports that on one occasion, he even successfully rebuked a dead man who was wandering from his grave in search of living victims, not by driving a stake through the heart, burning it and decapitating the corpse (as was custom for dealing with such revenants), but by absolving the deceased of his sins and laying him to rest in peace.

But it was not solely supernatural entities that Hugh faced: there were human opponents as well. Several times he served as a messenger between England and France, and several times he went to the royal court to act as spiritual confessor to the very kings themselves.

The cause of the Bishop's current struggle, in the year 1198, were his frequent critiques of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Hubert Walter, who, in addition to his ecclesial post, also was Chief Justice, holding a bench of pleas at Westminster Palace. Toward the latter years of King Richard's reign, the wars with France were becoming ever more fierce, and the King's demand for higher taxes grew more and more oppressive. Criticisms were lodged at Archbishop Hubert, in particular, for (as many of the clergy saw it) serving both God and Mammon in attempting to mediate between his religious and secular duties, and being largely responsible for overseeing tax collection. In fact, Hubert had on numerous occasions, made requests that he be relieved of his duties as a justiciar to instead focus on his role as an archbishop - Richard, however, steadfastly refused. Bishop Hugh was one of these such critics.

>Almost a year and four months before his death, Richard, King of the English, became exceedingly angry with him for this reason. The King was across the sea, engaged in a bitter struggle with Philip, King of the French, and a general council of all the magnates of England was summoned at Oxford by Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury. The Archbishop, who presided in the King's stead, explained the King's serious position: with smaller resources and forces he was struggling against a very powerful king, who was straining every nerve to disinherit and ruin him. Finally, he asked them to decide as a body by what means they could best help their lord in his desperate situation.

>It was then suggested by those who like him believed that every wish of the King should be unhesitatingly obeyed, that the barons of England, amongst whom the bishops were included, should provide him with three hundred knights to fight for a whole year across the sea at their expense against his enemies.

>When the Bishop of Lincoln was publicly asked to consent to this, he remained silent and thoughtful for a short time until first the Primate, the Archbishop of Canterbury and then Richard, Bishop of London, who held the office of dean amongst the bishops, had declared their readiness to devote themselves and their men and property to the King in his need.

>He then immediately answered to this effect: 'This noble and distinguished assembly will remember that I am a stranger in this land, and was raised to the episcopate from the seclusion of the eremetical life. Therefore when the church of our Lady Mary, God's blessed Mother, was committed to my inexperienced hands, I took pains to find out its customs and privileges, and also its obligations and services, and in the performance and preservation of these for thirteen years or thereabouts I have faithfully followed in the footsteps of my predecessors. I am well aware that the church of Lincoln is bound to serve the King in war, but only in this land, and it is a fact that no service is due beyond the frontiers of England. I should therefore prefer to return to my native land and resume my normal eremetical way of life rather than remain here as bishop and cause unprecedented burdens to be laid on the church under my charge by surrendering her ancient rights.'

>The Archbishop took this answer badly, and in a low voice and with lips trembling from anger he asked Herbert, the Bishop of Salisbury what his opinion was about the provision of aid to the King. He replied to this question shortly and as follows: 'It seems to me that without great damage to my church, I cannot say or do anything else than what the Bishop of Lincoln has just suggested ought to be done.'

>The Archbishop now completely lost control of himself, and stormed at the Bishop of Lincoln. Having dismissed the council, he informed the King that the latter was responsible for the rejection of his proposal. When the King had received two or three messengers from the Archbishop, in great wrath and indignation he ordered that all the Bishop's possessions should be confiscated. The same instructions were sent about the Bishop of Salisbury who had supported the Bishop of Lincoln. What next? The Bishop of Salisbury suffered confiscation immediately; only by going to the King, and enduring many insults and much rudeness and being put to great expense, was he able with great difficulty to buy back the King's favour and his own possessions by the payment of a large sum of money.

>No one, however, dared to lay hands on the lands and goods of the Bishop of Lincoln, because they feared to offend him, and dreaded his excommunication as much as a death sentence. Nothing therefore was done almost from the Feast of St. Nicholas [December] to the beginning of September, for the royal escheators dared not sequester the Bishop's property in spite of the King's frequent peremptory orders.

And so, at last, Hugh decided to go to the King's court and speak to Richard directly. Crossing from England at one of the south coast ports (potentially Dover or Southampton), he went to Normandy, to Gaillard Castle, christened by King Richard his daughter, the 'Fair Castle on the Rock'.

>He approached him himself, without making use of the services of an intermediary, and found him in the chapel of his new castle at the Rock of Andely hearing High Mass, on the Feast of the great doctor St. Augustine [28th August], and immediately greeted him. The King was on a royal throne near the entrance, and the two bishops of Durham and Ely stood at his feet.

>When the Bishop greeted the King he did not reply, but having frowned at him after a little while turned his face away. The Bishop said to him, 'Lord King, kiss me.'

>But Richard turned his head even further and looked the other way. Then the Bishop firmly gripped the King's tunic round his chest, and shook it violently, saying again, 'You owe me the kiss [of peace], because I have come a long way to see you.'

>The King answered, 'You deserve nothing from me.'

>He shook him more vigorously than before, this time by his mantle which he held firmly, and said boldly 'I have every right.'

>The other, overcome by his courage and determination, after a little while kissed him with a smile. There were present two archbishops, and five bishops standing between the King's throne and the altar. These were anxious to include the Bishop amongst themselves after his victory over the King and made a place for him near the King. He, however, passed them by and took up his position on the step at the side of the altar, and with eyes firmly fixed on the ground, he concentrated only on the sacrifice of the mass. The King looked at him almost all the time with great curiosity.

>When the holy sacrifice of the mass which I have already described was ended, he approached the King and remonstrated with him in a few forcible words for his recent wholly undeserved anger with him, giving him some very good reasons to show that he had never failed in his duty to him. The King could not contradict him and laid all the blame on the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had so often misrepresented him in his letters. The Bishop by his ready explanations was easily able to convince him that it was all completely untrue. He said: 'Except for the honour of God and the salvation of my soul and yours, I have never up till now opposed anything, however trivial, which was to your advantage.'

>The King's indignation was thus dispelled. He made royal gifts to the Bishop, and sent him to lodge as his guest at Castle Gaillard which he had recently constructed on the island not very far away. He asked him to come back to see him on the next day so that after another interview he might return home assured of his favour and friendship. He heard this thankfully and promised to return on the morrow.

>As his spiritual father, however, he felt his responsibility for the welfare of his soul, and so, taking his hand, he made him get up from his chair and drew him apart to a place near the altar. He asked him to sit down, and sitting down himself, spoke thus to him in private: 'You are of our diocese, lord King, and because of our priestly office we shall have on the terrible Day of Judgement to answer for your soul, which the Lord of the world redeemed with his own blood. I ask you therefore to tell me the state of your conscience, so that I can give you effective help and counsel as the Holy Spirit shall direct me. At least a year has passed since I spoke to you about it on another occasion.'

>The King answered that his conscience was clear in almost everything except his hatred for his enemies, because of their relentless and persistent attacks on him.

>The Bishop replied, 'If you were to try and please the merciful God who rules the world in all things, he would enable you to be reconciled with your enemies or to defeat them. You must, however, take special care to see that you do not yourself sin against your Maker, which God forbid you should do, and that you do not injure your neighbour. The Scriptures say, "When the ways of a man are pleasing to the Lord, he shall make his enemies wish for peace." On the other hand it says of those who displease him, "The whole earth shall war on his behalf against the froward." Again a holy man has said concerning the Lord, "Who ever opposed him and had peace?"

>'Concerning you, indeed - and I speak in sorrow - it is generally reported that you are not faithful to your marriage bed, and do not keep inviolate the privileges of the Church, especially in the matter of the appointment or election of bishops. It is even said that you have been wont to promote people to the rule of souls from motives of friendship or because they have paid for it, and this is a very heinous sin. If it is true, undoubtedly God will not grant you peace.'

>The King listened attentively to his exhortations and counsels, denying in some cases that he was guilty, and imploring the assistance of his prayers in others. After receiving his blessing he sent him away, and Hugh thankfully set out for the lodging which the King had chosen and provided for him.

>The King in the meantime discussed him with his attendants and commented with much appreciation on his holiness. 'Indeed,' he said, 'if other bishops were such as he, no king or ruler would ever dare raise up his head against them!'

And so Hugh escaped the fury of the Lionheart, whose anger was quelled almost in an instant, and instead of threats, he began sending messages to Lincoln requesting prayers instead.

>Thus, by God's favour he escaped from the snares of the courtiers, and he and all his company set out joyously for home, blessing and magnifying the Lord.

And by September, news arrived and went up and down the kingdom, proclaimed by heralds in every shire, and by written letters to the learned.

>The Bishop had only just returned to England and had not yet reached his cathedral, when the King attacked the King of the Franks near Gisors and put him to flight, many of his nobles being taken prisoner. On this occasion the Earl of Nevers fell into the moat of the castle, and was drowned in its waters. Richard sent an account of his victory to the Bishop of Lincoln, and begged him to continue his prayers on his behalf. He also put in the letter the number of distinguished men whom he had captured and their names. Amongst other matters he described how King Philip too would have drunk his fill of the water of the moat into which he had fallen in his precipitate flight, if he had not been immediately rescued by his men and so escaped death.

>Many of his own men declared that this notable victory had been granted to him by God through the prayers of the holy bishop, since, forgetting his first rage, he had decided to treat him with great deference as his lord.

"Once defended by King Richard's shield, now undefended, O England, bear witness to your woe in the gestures of sorrow. Let your eyes flood with tears, and pale grief waste your features. Let writhing anguish twist your fingers, and woe make your heart within bleed. Let your cry strike the heavens. Your whole being dies in his death; the death is not his but yours. Death's rise was not in one place only, but general.

"O tearful day of Venus! O bitter star! That day was your night; and that Venus your venom. That day inflicted the wound; but the worst of all days was that other - the day after the eleventh - which, cruel stepfather to life, destroyed life. Either day, with strange tyranny, was a murderer. The besieged one pierced the besieger; the sheltered one, him without cover; the cautious one pierced the incautious; the well-equipped soldier pierced an unarmed man - his own king!

"O soldier, why, treacherous soldier, soldier of treachery, shame of the world and sole dishonour of warfare; O soldier, his own army's creature, why did you dare this against him? Why did you dare this crime, this hideous crime?

"O sorrow! O greater than sorrow! O Death! O truculent Death! Would you were dead, O Death! Bold agent of a deed so vile, how dare you recall it? You were pleased to remove our sun, and condemn our day to darkness. Do you realise whom you snatched from us? To our eyes he was light; to our ears, melody; to our minds an amazement. Do you realise, impious death, whom you snatched from us? He was the lord of warriors, the glory of kings, the delight of the world. Nature knew not how to add any further perfection; he was the utmost she could achieve. But that was the reason you snatched him away: you seize precious things, and vile things you leave as if in disdain.

"And Nature, of you I complain; for were you not, when the world was still young, when you lay new-born in your cradle, giving zealous attention to him? And that zeal did not flag before your old age. Why did such strenuous effort bring this wonder into the world, if so short an hour stole the pride of that effort away? You were pleased to extend your hand to the world and then to withdraw it; to give thus, and then to recall your gift. Why have you vexed the world? Either give back to us him who is buried, or give us one like him in excellence. But you have not resources for that; whatever you had that was wondrous or precious was expended on him. On him were exhausted your stores of delight. You were made most wealthy by this creature you made; you see yourself, in his fall, most impoverished. If you were happy before, in proportion to happiness then is your misery now.

"If heaven allow it, I chide even God. O God, most excellent of beings, why do you fail in your nature here? Why, as an enemy would, do you strike down a friend? If you recall, your own Joppa gives evidence for the King - alone he defended it, opposed by so many thousands. Acre, too, gives evidence - his power restored it to you. The enemies of the Cross add their witness - all of them Richard, in life, inspired with such terror that he is still feared now he is dead. He was a man under whom your interests were safe. If, O God you are, as befits your nature to be, faithful and free of malice, just and true, why then did you shorten his days? You could have shown mercy to the world; the world was in need of him. But you choose to have him with you, and not with the world; you would rather favour heaven than the world. O Lord, if it is permissible to say it, let me say - with your leave - you could have done this more graciously, and with less haste, if he had bridled the foe at least (and here would have been no delay to that end; he was on the verge of success). He could have departed more worthily then to remain with you. But by this lesson you have made us know how brief is the laughter of earth, and how long are its tears."