The Cuckoo’s Egg
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.
Walking along the canals and the little cobbled streets of Ghent, lined with brick facades of historical houses, one cannot help but gasp when the Instagram-perfect Gravensteen, the Castle of the Counts, reveals itself right in the middle of the city. It is nothing short of the archetypical medieval fortress. The Gravensteen castle is also a remarkable early witness of the influence of the crusades on Europe.
In 1177, three quarters of a century after the first crusade, the Flemish Count Philip of Alsace visited the Holy Land. There he paid close attention to the superior construction of the military strongholds. Once he returned to Flanders, he ordered the construction of a new castle and used all the innovations he had seen during the crusades. For instance, the reclining facade of the keep was intended to enable defenders to throw stones on attackers and was inspired by the design of the keep in the Crac des Chevaliers, the crusader castle in current-day Syria.
One or two historical footnotes shatter the idyllic picture the Gravensteen offers. First of all, the castle was heavily modified, remodelled after some 19th century’s architect’s fanciful idea of what a medieval fortress ought to look like. Especially the mesmerising reflection of the castle in the water of the moat is something tourists have him to thank for.
Secondly, Philip ordered the building of the castle within the city walls. How can a stronghold within a city truly contribute to a city’s defence against enemy troops, especially when it was built long before the invention of cannons and other long-range firearms? The truth is that the first and foremost purpose of the castle was not to defend the citizens of Ghent, but to defend against the citizens of Ghent and their endemic revolts against count and king. The ominous walls of the castle weren’t meant to scare invaders; they were meant to deter insurgents within the walls. Although Philip was a great and able governor, who stimulated the growth of the cities and the cultivation of the land, the Gravensteen is a silent witness of the friction between the count and his subjects.
Figure 7. The difference between the Gravensteen, as depicted in Flandria Illustrata (1641) and today
Philip was maybe Europe’s most influential nobleman that wasn’t a king in his own right. He had inherited Flanders from his father Thierry at the peak of its power. He ruled from the river Scheldt till the Seine, over some of the richest lands and towns in Europe. His lavish and extensive court was undistinguishable from a royal court. He acted as a Maecenas for artists. Most notably, the French writer Chretien de Troyes stayed in the Saint-Peter’s Abbey in Ghent while writing Perceval. It was this novel that introduced the topic of the Holy Grail in the Arthurian romans.
Philip didn’t only inherit his prestige, he functioned as the spider at the centre of the web of European diplomacy. In 1164, he mediated between his cousin, the English king Henry II, and Thomas Becket, who landed on the Flemish coast as a refugee. He was close to the emperor Frederic Barbarossa and even joined him on his botched attempt to suppress the Italian cities during the battle of Legnano (1176), one of the most important battles of the Middle Ages. The count was captured and shortly imprisoned, but was soon released and left on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem the next year. In Jerusalem, he was offered the kingship of the crusader state of Jerusalem by his relative, the leprous king Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, but he refused the crown. He also befriended king Louis VII of France. When the French king fell ill, he appointed count Philip as mentor and counsellor to the young dauphin, Philip II, who was crowned co-king soon afterwards. He would later be known as king Philip-August.
As the protector of the young king, the count had seemingly reached the zenith of his power. But like a bird unknowingly brooding the egg of a cuckoo, Philip was rearing Flanders’ most fearsome opponent. He overplayed his hand when he forced a marriage between his niece and Philip-August by including a dowry so appealing it couldn’t be refused: all of Flanders’ territorial advancements of the last century. Soon afterwards, the 15-year old king informed Philip that he was no longer in need of a counsellor. The harsh truth must have dawned on count Philip very soon; he had lost a third of Flanders to the crown without ever unsheathing his sword. Some minor military conflicts ensued, but when Tournai, a city practically in the heartland of Flanders, recognized Philip-August as their direct liege lord, it was clear who was the stronger party.
The call for a third crusade in 1187 must have felt like a welcome relief for a battered and outwitted count of Flanders. Philip had one problem, however. He and his wife Matilda, daughter of the king of Portugal, were childless. The Flemish count didn’t have an heir. Philip showed remarkable statesmanship and tried to ensure that the county wouldn’t be dragged down a succession crisis after his death. He swallowed his pride and made a deal with Flanders’ longstanding rival to the south, the count of Hainaut, who was married to Philip’s sister Margaret. Philip agreed that the house of Hainault would rule Flanders after his death.
With his succession arranged, Philip departed for the crusade[i]. He joined the crusader armies in Sicily, from where they would sail on. Philip arrived at a time of crisis. The kings of France and England, Philip-August and Richard Lionheart were at each other’s throat, and it seemed the crusade might fail before it had even started. Philip managed to shine one more time, briefly regaining some of his diplomatic prestige, and mediated successfully between the two kings. The fleet sailed to Palestine in March 1191.
Together with the Flemish count, king Philip-August of France and king Richard Lionheart of England joined the siege of Acre which had already been going on for two years. The influx of new, fresh troops finally tipped the scales in favour of the besiegers and on the 12th of July, the city surrendered. However, Philip of Flanders and many others in the disease-ridden crusader camp didn’t witness the fall of Acre, because he had died just days before.
King Philip-August immediately saw the opportunity and left for France by the end of July. Flanders was without a direct male heir and the crown could assert itself over the deceased count’s brother-in-law, the count of Hainaut. He also sent a delegation of knights ahead to organise the occupation of Flanders. By some extraordinary coincidence, this delegation met Gislebert, the chancellor (and chronicler) of Hainaut while he was in Italy on a diplomatic mission. Gislebert quickly warned the Count of Hainaut, who occupied Flanders before the French King could lay claim to it.
The crusader spirit had put Flanders at risk of losing its great independence of the French crown. Only by coincidence and the decisive reaction of the count of Hainaut, it survived. A disgruntled Philip-August was put before a fait accompli. The count of Hainaut now ruled Flanders on behalf of his wife. Their oldest son, Baldwin IX, would become count both of Hainaut and of Flanders[ii]. He would make an even worse mistake than his grandfather Philip: he joined a crusade without having an heir.
[i] His fleet sailed down the Atlantic coast, stopping on the way to assist Philip’s brother-in-law king Sancho of Portugal with the reconquista of Silves to the Arabs.
[ii] Baldwin IX of Flanders was at the same time Baldwin VI of Hainaut. Here, we shall call him Baldwin IX.
