The Collateral Damage of Crusading: 1099–1300
This is part of a book I am preparing about the history of Belgium. If you like it, don’t hesitate to reach out (@simonnichelson on twitter) or recommend me to a publisher.
Deus Lo Vult!
In the middle of the Place Royale in Brussels stands the proud equestrian statue of a medieval knight. A spear with a fluttering flag in one hand, the other hand pulling the reins of his unruly stallion, his head adorned with a crown, gaze fixed upon the horizon; this fearless knight is leading us into battle.
The statue by sculptor Eugène Simonis dates from 1848. It portrays a nobleman, the duke of Lower Lothringia, Godfrey of Bouillon, leaving on the first crusade. The crusader shouts the battle cry ‘Deus lo vult! God wants it!’ The statue, however, is a work of fiction and offers us more insight about the era during which it was created than about the figure it portrays.
In 1830, the newly-founded kingdom of Belgium needed heroes to inspire its citizens, symbols to unite a nation. The young nation embarked on a frantic search for its long and heroic collective past. The crusader Godfrey of Bouillon seemed a great candidate. William of Tyre, the chronicler of the first crusade, had even described him as ‘a religious man, mild-mannered, virtuous, God-fearing. He was just, he avoided evil, and he was trustworthy and dependable in his undertakings. He was considered by everyone to be most outstanding in the use of weapons and in military weapons.’ Was this not the ideal Christian knight? Was Godfrey not an ideal role model for the Belgians?
As the Belgian enthusiasm for the national hero rose, the attention for historical truth plummeted. The plaque beneath the statue reads: ‘First king of Jerusalem. Born in Baisy in Brabant’. The most obvious error is the place of birth. Godfrey wasn’t really born in Brabant, but in Boulogne, France. Some creative genealogy fixed this problem, and put Godfrey in Brabant, at the very heart of the new kingdom of Belgium. Secondly, he wasn’t actually the first king of Jerusalem. By proclaiming Godfrey as ‘first King of Jerusalem’, the statue sought to make a link between the epic hero Godfrey and the first King of Belgium, Leopold I.
Behind all the layers of Catholic veneration and nationalist recuperation, the historical Godfrey still remains an extremely interesting figure, but certainly not a moral guiding star. Born in 1060 as the second son of the Count of Boulogne (now in France), he inherited the castle of Bouillon (now in Belgium) from his uncle Godfrey the Hunchback, as well as the prestigious title of Duke of Lower Lothringia.
When Pope Urban II launched the call for a crusade, Godfrey answered wholeheartedly. He sold his own as well his mother’s domains to raise funds for the expedition. He departed in August 1096, two months after the People’s crusade had attacked Jewish communities in the Rhineland. The Jewish population of Cologne and Mainz feared a repeat of the events and bribed Godfrey. The pogroms in Germany set loose the venomous serpent of antisemitism across Europe for centuries to come. If Godfrey wasn’t an active participant, his passiveness surely amounted to tacit approval.
Three years after leaving their homes, the crusaders reached the walls of the Holy City of Jerusalem, where Godfrey would enter into legend. On the 15th of July 1099, Godfrey commanded the group of the crusaders who first scaled Jerusalem’s mighty walls. A massacre ensued. Very soon, the crusaders ‘were killing and slaying even to the Temple of Solomon, where the slaughter was so great that our men waded in blood up to their ankles’[i].
A week later, the crusaders elected Godfrey as King of Jerusalem during a council held in the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Godfrey rejected the title of King, saying that he couldn’t wear a crown of gold where the Saviour had worn a crown of thorns. Instead of king, he took on the title Advocatus Sancti Sepulchri, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre, the empty tomb of Jesus Christ.
Barely a month later, the Egyptian Fatimids sent a relief army to expulse the crusaders of Jerusalem. Godfrey demonstrated his military prowess again by taking the offensive rather than waiting for the enemy army behind Jerusalem’s strong walls. The crusaders marched to the coast, carrying with them the relic of the True Cross. They caught the sleeping Egyptian army completely by surprise beneath the walls of the town of Ascalon. The outnumbered crusader army marched with cattle between their ranks to make their numbers seem larger and increase the panic among the Egyptians. The battle of Ascalon was over in less than an hour. Those Egyptians who didn’t manage to escape, were captured and butchered to the last man. 12.700 of the 20.000 Fatamid troops were killed. For now, the crusader state was safe.
Godfrey died a little more than a year after the conquest of Jerusalem. He was buried in the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Notwithstanding the massacres he participated in, he soon became the model for the perfect Christian knight. He is present in Dante’s heaven and countless epic tales. The historical Godfrey and the legendary one soon became two very distinct figures. While the flesh of his body rotted away, the factual truth about the life of the historic Godfrey faded. The legendary Godfrey, however, continued to inspire. The crusader ideal captured the minds and hearts of Europe’s nobility for centuries to come. Dukes, counts and kings joined the crusade enthusiastically, but thereby left their properties at home behind in a fragile position.
The Flemish Sack of Constantinople
24 of February of the year 1200. After the end of mass, Baldwin IX[i], Count of Flanders and Hainaut, stood before the congregation in the Saint-Donatian’s church in Bruges, on the exact spot where his predecessor Charles the Good had been slain three quarters of a century before. His wife Maria of Champagne[ii], his brothers Henry and Eustache, and numerous noblemen looked up in tense anticipation. Was it true? Had the Count finally succumbed to the virus that had infected the ranks of the European nobility?
The jubilant Count soon confirmed their suspicions: He had decided to answer Pope Innocentius III’s call and join the fourth crusade. After two years of preparations, he kissed his pregnant wife Maria, as well as his infant daughters Joan and Margaret goodbye and left for Venice, where transport ships and trouble awaited.
The crusaders had made a deal with the Venetians to build a fleet to transport the entire crusaders army in exchange for the hefty sum of 85.000 marks of silver. However, many crusaders had chosen to sail with their own ships, so less than half of the anticipated number of crusaders needed transport from Venice. The Venetians, who had provided many more ships then needed, were adamant that the agreed sum of 85.000 marks of silver had to be paid in full. Baldwin, one of the figureheads of the crusade, borrowed money and desperately pawned anything of any value. Even after this, the crusaders were only able to raise a little more than half of the money required[iii].
At this point, Enrico Dandolo, the half-blind but enormously cunning octogenarian doge of Venice, proposed the crusaders a very different means of payment. The Venetians had recently ceded the city of Zadar (current-day Croatia) to the Hungarians. If, Dandolo suggested, the crusaders would reconquer Zadar for the Venetians, he would forfeit their debt. Notwithstanding the fact that the Hungarians were Catholics just like them, the crusaders accepted and Zadar was conquered. However, because of the lost time, autumn was approaching, and the crusader army was forced to spend the winter there.
During the winter, a young Byzantine nobleman paid the crusaders a visit, seeking their help. The visitor, named Alexios, was the exiled son of the deposed Byzantine emperor Isaac II. He had fled the Byzantine empire and was looking for support to win his empire back. In return for their help, he promised the crusaders 200.000 marks and an army of 10.000 warriors to help conquer Jerusalem. Moreover, Alexios would end the schism of Christianity, the ecclesiastic brawl that divided the Eastern Orthodox and Western Catholic church.
The penniless crusaders, including Baldwin, once again accepted to be diverted from their goal. The Venetians, who were in a fierce competition with the Byzantines for power in the Mediterranean, could not believe their luck. Straying ever further from their original quest, the crusader fleet set sail for the heart of the Byzantine Empire, Constantinople.
Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine empire, counted over 400.000 inhabitants and was by far the largest city in the medieval European world. It was ten times larger than the big cities in Northern Europe. Protected on three sides by water and high walls all around, the mighty capital of the Eastern Roman Empire seemed impregnable. Nevertheless, with their ‘flesh trembling’, the crusaders prepared for an attack.
The Flemish battalion was the biggest one of the crusader army, composed of ‘a great number of excellent soldiers and archers, more than anyone else in the army’. The Count of Flanders was therefore in command of the attack.
The crusaders formed their formations on the land side. The Byzantine army, led by Emperor Alexios III, decided to encounter the crusader army outside of the city walls. Seeing the enemy troops march towards him, the Emperor got cold feet. He mumbled that ‘David [the biblical king] was saved by fleeing’ and decided to follow his glorious example. He fled the battle, and the city, ‘taking with him both his wife and ample funds from the imperial treasury’.
The stunned Byzantines decided it wasn’t worth fighting for a cowardly fleeing Emperor, and quickly sent word to the crusaders that they would crown their candidate. The deposed Emperor Isaac II was released from his jail, and re-crowned Emperor together with his son Alexios, the young man who had convinced the crusaders to sail to Constantinople.
The crusaders celebrated their victory in their camps, but their joy was short-lived. Since the fleeing emperor had taken the treasury, the Byzantines couldn’t pay the mind-boggling reward Alexios had promised. Furthermore, the Orthodox Byzantines refused to subjugate to the Catholic church and end the schism of Christianity. The unrest soon led to a palace coup. In the best Byzantine fashion, the young Emperor Alexios was strangled.
The news of Alexios’ death infuriated the crusaders in their camps across the Bosporus. The crusaders craved for revenge. Catholic clergymen — ignoring letters from the Pope — spurred them on, preaching that ‘the Greeks are worse than the Jews’. On the 8th of April 1204, the Venetian fleet attacked Constantinople and after four days, they succeeded in scaling the ramparts by using the masts of ships sailed beneath the walls. Mighty Constantinople had fallen; now she would suffer.
The Sack of Constantinople was an event of apocalyptic dimensions. Churches, abbeys and palaces were emptied of anything of value. Art objects such as golden goblets were melted down just for the value of the material. The altar of the Hagia Sophia, made of gold and precious stones, was broken into pieces and distributed among the soldiers. Other artworks were dragged off, such as the horses which now adorn the San Marco Basilica in Venice. Big parts of the town were set aflame. According to a French chronicler ‘more houses burned down than there were in three cities in France’. A Byzantine chronicler lamented that ‘everyone can imagine all the misfortunes that have befallen captured cities — killing of men and enslavement of women, plundering, destruction of homes and all the other things that are wrought by the sword’[iv]. In the streets, men were killed for no reason, while women were being raped.
At the epicentre of this man-made cataclysm, an orgy of looting and plundering was taking place in the proud church of Hagia Sofia, the cultural focal point of the Orthodox world. Horses and mules were brought into the church to transport the plundered booty. When they fell on the slippery church floor, they were killed on the spot, so their blood and guts ran over the sacred floor. A whore was presiding over this chaos. She sat and danced on the Patriarch’s throne, while she sang obscene songs[v].
All medieval sackings were brutal, often leading to outrights slaughters. The sacking of Constantinople however, was unique in that more than a pillaging, it seemed an attempt at cultural genocide against fellow Christians. When he learned of the events, Pope Innocentius III — the man who had originally called for the crusade — sent a vitriol-infused letter. Why, he asked, would the Orthodox even consider ending the schism after witnessing how the crusaders ‘made their swords, which they were supposed to use against the pagans, drip with Christian blood ? The crusaders have committed incest, adultery, and fornication before the eyes of men’.
The Pope eventually calmed down when he learned about the crusaders’ plan to replace the Orthodox Byzantine empire with a Catholic empire, the so-called Latin Empire of Constantinople. In May 1204, a council of 6 Venetians and 6 crusaders elected Baldwin IX, Count of Flanders and Hainaut as the first Latin Emperor of Constantinople[vi]. The Count had led most of the crusade and was now chosen with the approval of the Venetians. The Count of Flanders was now an emperor, ruling over the town and the empire his men had violated.
Baldwin organised the empire as a mirror image of a Western feudal kingdom, split up in several counties and duchies. The crusading noblemen dispersed across the Byzantine empire to take possession of their newly granted estates. Since they took their armies with them, they Constantinople was left virtually undefended. Baldwin’s behaviour continued in the mode of the crusaders’ arrival; he showed no respect for, nor understanding of the Byzantines and their culture. Baldwin’s anti-Byzantine policy further alienated the population.
The Byzantines soon rebelled and allied themselves with their archenemies, the Bulgars. Ioannitsa, the King of the Bulgars and the Wallachians, was better known by his soubriquet Romaioktonos, the Slayer of Romans (the Byzantines rightfully called themselves Romans, because they were the Eastern Roman Empire). When Baldwin was beleaguering Adrianopolis (today Edirne in Turkey), the inhabitants asked Ioannitsa for help. Using his fast, light cavalry against the heavily armoured, but slow crusader horses, the crusaders were outmanoeuvred[vii].
Baldwin was captured by the Bulgars during the battle. With the Emperor imprisoned, his brother Henry of Flanders became regent. Constantinople was soon buzzing with rumours. ‘The barons said that they had often heard tell that the emperor Baldwin died in Ioannitsa’s prison, but they did not believe it’. The Greek historian Nicetas Choniates had heard that Ioannitsa in a fit of rage ‘removed Baldwin from prison, gave orders that his legs be summarily chopped off at the knees and his arms at the elbows before being cast headlong into a ravine. For three days Baldwin lay as food for the birds before his life ended miserably’[viii]. Others whispered ‘that after Ioannitsa killed Baldwin, his head served as a goblet for the barbarian, after it had been cleaned of all its contents and decorated all round with ornament’. Yet another rumour held that Ioannitsa’s wife had tried to seduce Baldwin. She promised to let him escape if he would take her with him and they would rule Constantinople together. Baldwin refused. The spiteful rejected lover returned to her husband and declared that Baldwin had tried to seduce her. The enraged Ioannitsa immediately had Baldwin executed and fed his flesh to the dogs.
We will never know whether Baldwin died of natural causes, was executed or ended up as a fancy drinking goblet. But in the end, the crusaders accepted the news of the death of Baldwin, Count of Flanders and Hainaut, first Emperor of the Latin Empire of Constantinople. Many returned to Europe, completely demoralised. Baldwin’s brother Henry was crowned Emperor in difficult conditions, but showed more respect for the Byzantines and fared better than his brother. He ruled for 11 years until his death, probably due to poisoning by his own wife. The Latin Empire lasted for 50 years.
Ferrand, te voilà ferré
When the rumours about Baldwin’s demise reached the royal court of France, King Philip-August of France immediately appointed a puppet governor in the figure of the count of Namur and obliged him to send Joan and Margaret, the underage orphaned daughters of Baldwin to the French court. The two girls remained at the French court in a luxurious captivity for six years.
King Philip-August also reserved for himself the right to choose Joan’s future husband. Joan’s husband would become the acting count, so King Philip-August needed a weak, submissive candidate. With an obedient count at the helm, Philip-August would finally be able to keep a tight grip on the notoriously rebellious county of Flanders.
In his search for a suitable candidate, the King stumbled upon Ferdinand, the fourth son of the King of Portugal. Philip-August believed Ferdinand was the ideal future count. Ferdinand wasn’t embroiled in French politics and didn’t have influential backers among the mighty French barons, so he seemed like a weak, mouldable figurehead. But as a prince of Portugal, he was at the same time just prestigious enough. The wedding took place in Paris in January 1212. After six years of enforced guardianship, Joan left the French court at the side of her new husband and took up her rightful role as Countess of Flanders.
What should have been a joyful return to Flanders for Joan turned into an absolute humiliation. Before even entering Flanders, the newly-weds were captured by French troops and forced to hand over several towns over to the crown. These aggressive tactics towards Joan and Ferdinand was an error of judgement by the French King. The humiliation drove them straight into the arms of France’s adversaries.
The next year, Philip-August of France planned an invasion of England and — as was customary — asked his vassal Ferdinand to send troops. The Flemish Count pointed out that England was Flanders’ most important commercial partner, and refused.
When the invasion of England was cancelled last minute for diplomatic reasons, King Philip-August already stood with his entire army and fleet of 1700 ships on the North-French coast, ready to embark. Frustrated, he decided to teach his Flemish vassal a lesson. Instead of crossing to England, he sailed to the Flemish port of Damme, the outport of Bruges. Damme now lays inland, but at the time a large bay reached deep inland, which meant sea ships could sail up to Damme. Part of the fleet moored inside the port, while the rest stayed in the sheltered bay. Leaving his fleet behind, Philip-August then left Damme to besiege Ghent.
Ferdinand and Joan in the meantime sought help with the enemy of their enemy: the English King John Lackland. John had narrowly avoided a French invasion and now leapt at the chance to ward off the French invasion threat definitively by creating a diversion in Flanders. In May 1213, the English fleet sailed to Damme. To their surprise, they found that the French had left their fleet virtually unmanned while they were beleaguering Ghent. Unopposed, the English fleet crushed the French, stole or burned all the ships moored in the bay.
The next day, the hastily returned Philip-August came to relief his troops inside of Damme, but the exit of the port was blocked by destroyed ships. Instead of risking that the rest of his fleet would also fall into the hands of the English, he set fire to the remaining ships and Damme. In just two days, the French king had lost his entire fleets. On the mainland, the Flemish nobility and the cities joined forces and over the course of the next year they managed to repulse the French land army as well.
The Battle of Damme was merely the prelude for the first giant, pan-European battle of the Middle Ages. Flanders became the crystallisation point of different European conflicts. Flanders itself was fighting for its very survival against the French crown. Meanwhile the English King John Lackland had lost huge swaths of lands on the continent to Philip-August and had barely averted an invasion. King John found an ally in his nephew, the German Welf Emperor Otto IV, who was involved in a struggle for control of the Holy Roman Empire with Frederick II from the competing Staufen family. The latter in his turn enjoyed the support of the French King and the Pope. Two power blocks thus formed. France stood alone against an alliance made up of England, the Welf Holy Roman Empire, Flanders, Brabant[ix] and Holland.
On a hot July day in 1214 on a corn field at Bouvines, a village not far from Lille, the French and the allied armies finally met. The English were absent, having been beaten earlier by the French.
The French King lead his troops in person and handpicked the location of the battlefield. The French deployed their 7.500 troops with their back to the sun, leaving the 9.000 allied troops fighting with the bright summer sun blinding their eyes. King Philip-August stood beneath the oriflamme, the French battle standard. On the opposing side, Otto IV had picked up the Italian habit of the carracio, a battle cart donned with the German Eagle and a dragon. The French King prayed and then ‘he had himself hastily armed and he jumped on his steed, as lively and in as great spirits as if he had been on his way to a wedding or a celebration to which he had been invited’. French battle cries ‘Montjoie! Saint-Denis!’ were met with cries ‘Rome!’, by the Germans and the Flemings. According to a French account, the Flemish Count swore an oath that he would fight against no other battalion than that of the French King, with the express intention of killing him[x].
Things, however, didn’t go as he wished. After three hours of fighting, The Flemish Count, his body covered in wounds, was struck to the ground and captured by French troops. In the meanwhile, the French King narrowly escaped death when German soldiers pulled him off his horse. His harness protected him against the blows of their weapons, while his knights freed him. The French King survived by the scruff of his neck; his armour saving him.
The battle was now at a pivotal point. The French now sought out Emperor Otto. One of the French knights swung a knife deep into the skull of Otto’s horse. The injured animal still had enough force to turn around and flee before it collapsed. Otto quickly mounted another horse and fled the battle, leaving behind his eagle and his standard. This was the turning point of the battle. The discouraged and worn out allied troops were soon overcome by the French army. The French captured many of their opponents, including the Flemish Count, and loaded them in chains on carts. The French victory at Bouvines was complete.
The Battle of Bouvines was a turning point in medieval history with a different meaning for all participants, it meant something else. For the French, it concluded Philip-August’s decade-long conquest of French territory from the English. Even today, for the patriotic French, Bouvines signifies a starting point for their national history, the point where France emerged from the mist of time and confirmed itself as a strong and proud nation. For the English, the war with France meant the end of the Plantagenet’s continental ambitions, but today it’s mainly seen as the prequel of an important episode in the development of English democracy: King John’s domestic position in England was severely weakened by the defeat, partly explaining why he was forced to sign the Magna Carta the next year. For the Germans, it meant the end of the conflict over the Emperor’s crown. The Welf Otto IV lost his crown to his Staufen competitor Frederick II.
For Flanders, the defeat at Bouvines put its status as a relatively autonomous county within France at risk. Its definitive incorporation into the French crown domain threatened. Together with other knights, Count Ferdinand was paraded around Paris in an open cart. The French crowd, which had cheered for the wedding of Joan and Ferdinand just two years before, now mocked the Flemish Count and jeered at him: ‘Ferrand, te voilà donc ferré’, ‘Ferdinand, now you’re truly caught’. As was customary, most noblemen were soon ransomed, but the French King refused to release Ferdinand. Instead, he was imprisoned in the Louvre, then a new fortress outside the Paris city walls.
Joan was forced to accept grueling surrender conditions, but against overwhelming odds and the strong pro-French faction in Flanders, she fought back. Step by step, she wrenched power back out of the hands of the pro-French noblemen. She pleaded with the French King and collected money to ransom her husband, but the French King flat-out refused. Without her incarcerated husband, Countess Joan would have to weather the storm alone. Would Flanders, ruled by an adolescent girl, survive?
The Resurrection of Baldwin
Was he Baldwin IX, Count of Flanders, Emperor of the Latin Empire of Constantinople or just a skilful imposter? He no longer knew himself. His mind was at the same time thoughtlessly numb with fear and in a state of almost supernatural perception, soaking up every detail around him: the slight swinging in the breeze of the rough cord which was masterfully tied into a noose, the sweaty stench of the hangman, the monotonous Latin mumbling of the priest, the tears rolling down the faces of onlookers beneath the city walls of Lille. Piss dripped down his leg as the noose was tightened around his neck. This time there was no way out.
On the 25th of February 1224, a horseman was trying to keep warm while his horse navigated the slippery, icy roads towards Valenciennes. In a little village along the way, a hermit signalled him, begging for something to eat. It had been a long harsh, winter, and famine had devastated the county. When the horseman reached down to hand the hermit a small coin, their eyes crossed. The horseman gasped. He had seen those eyes before. He had seen them during the crusade. They were the eyes of Baldwin, Count of Flanders, Emperor of Constantinople.
Over a pitcher of ale, the horseman told his tale in an inn in Valenciennes for all who cared to listen. The news spread like wildfire. Baldwin had returned! Things would get better now!
Why wouldn’t it be true? Many families had gone for years without any news of their beloved who had joined the fourth crusade. Naturally, the hope to see a father or brother again continued to smoulder. After years of waiting, a knock on the door could announce the homecoming of a crusader. Other crusaders joined religious orders upon their return. Because of this, in cases far and few between, a family member unexpectedly found back the familiar face of a supposedly dead relative, hidden beneath the hood of a monk’s habit. Hadn’t it even happened in Valenciennes itself, when a counsellor of the countess Joan had recognized his supposedly deceased uncle dressed in a Franciscan habit?
Burchard of Avesnes listened attentively to the rumours. To understand who he is, we need to take a step back, before the Battle of Bouvines, to the release of Joan and her sister Margaret out of the guardianship of the French King and the gilded cage of the French court. Joan had just married Ferdinand and taken up her titles as Countess of Flanders and Hainaut. With little time for baby-sitting, she had entrusted her younger sister Margaret to a guardian, Burchard of Avesnes, the bailiff of Hainaut. However, Burchard, aged 40, exploited the vulnerability of the ten-year old Margaret and married her, without the consent of Joan and Ferdinand. Burchard calculated that in case of the premature death of Joan, Margaret would become countess of Flanders and Hainaut, and he, her husband, acting Count.
Joan moved heaven and earth to have the marriage annulled, but Burchard refused. He fled with Margaret to the Ardennes, where they raised two children. In 1219, Burchard even invaded Hainaut with a private army, but Joan managed to capture him. In the meantime, Joan had discovered that Burchard had been ordained priest many years before. This was not unusual for the second son of a noble family at the time. Not long after his ordination, Burchard had decided the religious life was nothing for him after all, had chucked off the frock and returned to the life of a nobleman.
When Joan drew the Pope’s attention to Burchard’s priesthood, he promptly annulled the marriage and excommunicated Burchard. In 1221, Joan released Burchard, on the condition that he would undertake a pilgrimage to Rome to ask for forgiveness to the Pope. When Burchard returned from Rome three years later, Margaret had remarried with Guy de Dampierre, a nobleman from the Champagne area, and given birth to another child. Margaret had also rejected her first two children. Nobody can imagine the hatred Burchard must have felt for Joan, the mastermind behind this plan.
Burchard of Avesnes had been fruitlessly brooding his revenge, when he heard the rumours about the return of Count Baldwin in the guise of a hermit. Burchard immediately rode out to meet him. Upon seeing the hermit, Burchard bowed and kissed his hand in recognition. Burchard had met Baldwin before he departed to the crusades. With that, for the people of Valenciennes, the matter was settled. Their former bailiff had recognised the hermit. Their beloved Count Baldwin had returned!
On Palm Sunday — the entry of Jesus in Jerusalem, how could it be more symbolic! — the resurrected Baldwin made his entry in Valenciennes, welcomed by a jubilant crowd. Baldwin was bathed, his hair cut, his beard shorn. Dressed in a royal purple cloak, he appeared before the exultant people, who experienced a religious state of ecstasy. Those who still had doubts in their heart if the shabby hermit was really their Count, had just witnessed an epiphany.
Baldwin started a triumphant homecoming tour through the cities of Hainaut and Flanders. City after city welcomed him as if he were the Messiah himself. Burchard’s sons, Baldwin’s grandchildren, were presented to the crowd as future Counts.
Joan had last seen her father when she was barely two years old and she therefore couldn’t identify him. She sent older noblemen who had known her father to Baldwin. Upon their return, they declared him an imposter. It mattered little. Not only did the people believe the hermit to be the real Count, even the English King sent him a letter offering to renew their old alliance against France. Joan was forced to flee from city to city, from castle to castle as the supporters of the resurrected Baldwin chased her through her own county. In the end, she was forced to ask help to the King of France, Louis VIII, the son of the by now deceased Philip-August.
Louis, worried about the rumours that Baldwin enjoyed the support of England, decided to put Baldwin to the test himself. He invited him to pay homage for the county of Flanders. This would in effect mean that Baldwin would be reinstated as Count of Flanders. Baldwin accepted, but walked into a trap. Over dinner, the King asked him simple questions, to which the real Baldwin surely must have known the answer. Where did he marry? Where was he knighted? Where did he pay homage to King Philip-August? Baldwin shook his head. He couldn’t remember; he was an old man, tired from the trip. Tomorrow surely, he would remember. He asked the King permission to retire.
The next morning, Baldwin had disappeared. His escape counted as an admission of guilt. Furthermore, two bishops present at the dinner, had recognised him. Years before, he had impersonated the Count of Blois, another crusader gone missing. His name was Bertrand de Rayns, a minstrel who had joined the crusade and had had ample opportunity to observe how noblemen behaved. After a manhunt that took two months, the false Baldwin was finally captured. Joan had him put in chains and paraded around Flanders and Hainaut. Heralds announced the true identity of the imposter. But the Messianic belief in the return of Baldwin was rooted so deeply, that the popular support barely waned. Joan was forced to order the execution of the man who pretended to be her father.
After a trial in Lille, he was tied with his feet to a cart and dragged out of the city, where the gallows awaited. To his left and right, two dogs were hung. An abbot from Valenciennes, where the belief in the false Baldwin continued unabatedly, quietly removed the body and buried it. When Joan found out, she ordered the body exhumed and hung again.
The next year, in early 1227, Ferdinand finally left his prison cell in the Louvre. He had spent twelve years incarcerated. Joan had forced his release by threatening to remarry the Count of Bretagne, a mighty but untrustworthy vassal of the French king. The episode with the false Baldwin had also shown that Flanders could yet renew its alliance with the English if the wrong Count was to rise to power. Rather than risking this, the French King decided to release Ferdinand under gruelling conditions, such as an enormous fine. Above all, the Flemish cities had to swear loyalty to the King in case there was a new dispute between King and Count. Flanders, led by Joan, had survived the aftermath of the battle of Bouvines, but lost much of its former autonomy. The King now had a much tighter grasp on the rich county. It would be another 80 years before Flanders would reclaim some of its independence in the Battle of the Golden Spurs.
[i] Baldwin IX of Flanders was at the same time Baldwin VI of Hainaut. Here, we shall call him Baldwin IX.
[ii] The niece of both the French king Philip-August and the deceased English king Richard Leonhart.
[iii] Villehardouin
[iv] Archopolitos, p. 113.
[v] Nicetas Choniates: The Sack of Constantinople. https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/source/choniates1.asp Translation from from Dana C. Munro, “The Fourth Crusade
[vi] He set up the imperial palace in the splendid Boukoleon palace. Amongst the inventory of the palace, there is mention of a bottle with Christ’s blood, probably the one that is now venerated in Bruges. Wife maria of champagne died
[vii] George Akropolites, p. 139.
[viii] https://archive.org/stream/o-city-of-byzantium-annals-of-niketas-choniates-ttranslated-by-harry-j-magoulias-1984/o-city-of-byzantium-annals-of-niketas-choniates-ttranslated-by-harry-j-magoulias-1984_djvu.txt
[ix] Brabant had been forced to join by Ferdinand, who had captured the two sons of the duke of Brabant.
[x] William the Breton, a French chaplain who was at the battle, left us a vivid, but very coloured pro-French account.
[i] Gesta Francorum
