Chapter 8: The Field of Blood

“This hatred and scorn gave rise to our loss…”

 – William of Tyre

Baldwin's death left the kingdom of Jerusalem at a crossroads. He had no surviving children, and his closest male heir, his older brother Eustace of Boulogne, was in Europe and not eager to leave the comfort of his home. After much deliberation, the assembled barons of Outremer elected to give the crown to the late king's cousin, Baldwin of Le Bourg, the last surviving noble member of the original crusading generation. 

The new king, who was crowned on Easter Sunday, 1118, was a study in contrast to the old regime. Where Baldwin I had been gregarious and charismatic, Baldwin II was private and guarded. Though he lacked the common touch of his predecessor, he was devoutly pious, and determined to be a good steward of the kingdom. 

He was tested immediately. The saving grace of Outremer had always been the disunity of its enemies. The Shi’ites of Egypt and the Turkish Sunnis of Syria had always been more concerned with attacking each other to purify Islam than the mutual Christian enemy between them. The success of Baldwin I, however, had convinced them to patch up their differences in the face of this greater threat. Within weeks of his accession, Baldwin II was informed that a joint Shi’ite Fatimid and Sunni Turkish army was marching up from the south. This was the kind of nightmare that woke sensible crusaders in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. 

Baldwin II gathered the entire strength of the kingdom and marched out to confront them. For three months the two armies stared at each other, neither willing to make the first move. To the Muslims the western knights still had the aura of invincibility, while the Franks were unsure of their new king's prowess and – as a contemporary succinctly put it – preferred living to dying. 

Eventually, the reputation of the Franks won the day. The Islamic leaders, unwilling to risk a battle or maintain their alliance indefinitely withdrew, and the threat melted away. It was at least a small victory to start the new king’s reign, but whatever luster bestowed on Baldwin II was quickly undone the next year. The Frankish reputation for invincibility could cut both ways, since it convinced otherwise sensible westerners to take outrageous risks. Roger, the new Prince of Antioch, upon whose well-being the security of the entire Christian north depended, decided that his eastern border needed shoring up, and launched a full-scale attack on the emirate of Aleppo. 

This wasn't the first time that Aleppo had faced an invasion from Antioch, and the emir was well prepared. He had allied with other emirs as far away as Damascus, nearly two hundred miles to the south, and had raised an army forty thousand strong. Baldwin II sent frantic messages, begging Roger to postpone the attack until he arrived, but Roger was eager to come to grips with the enemy and ignored him, marching with seven hundred knights and four thousand infantry into the desolate country of present-day western Syria. 

Thanks to his spies, the Emir of Aleppo was well aware of Roger's every move. He waited until the Christians had reached a waterless plain and then, in the evening of June 27, 1119, launched a probing attack that was only driven off after a desperate struggle. At last Roger realized the danger he was in. The same spies that had kept the Muslims aware of his movements had misled him into believing the emir's army was far away. Scouts who were sent out confirmed his worst fears – the crusaders were completely surrounded. 

That night there was little rest in the Christian camp. Those who did manage to sleep were plagued by nightmares and the cries of a sleep-walker who ran through the camp shouting that they were doomed. Early the next morning, with a hot, dry wind blowing dust in their faces, the crusaders tried to break out of the encirclement, and a handful of knights managed to slip through the lines. They were the only survivors. 

The butchery was such that ever after the site of the battle was known as Ager Sanguinis – the field of blood. The lucky ones died fighting. Those who were captured were dragged back to Aleppo in chains where they were tortured to death by the jeering crowds in the streets. The sheer scale of the disaster was difficult to fathom. The crusaders, always short of manpower, had lost the entire fighting strength of one of their most powerful states in a single blow. Even worse, the myth of crusader superiority was crushed forever. The belief, shared by both sides, that Frankish knights were superior fighters had sheltered the crusaders from being overwhelmed by their far more numerous enemies. Now even that thin shield was gone, and increasingly bold attacks were surely on the way. 

The only thing that saved Antioch from falling immediately was the Emir of Aleppo's failure to follow up his great victory. The field of blood was a monumental success, a ringing emotional and political triumph against the hated crusaders. Surely the moment deserved a bit of showboating. Accolades poured in. The caliph in Baghdad sent a robe of honor along with the title 'Star of the Faith', and he was lionized in song. Only a bout of sickness, brought on by a series of lavish parties he threw for himself, brought the crowing to an end. He roused himself to raid Antioch's suburbs, but the moment had passed. No serious attempt was made to either take the city or prevent king Baldwin II from marching to its relief. 

The only positive outcome from the disaster as far as Outremer was concerned, was that it underscored the need for the barons to work together to survive. That meant having a unified strategy and commander. No more adventuring or posturing – from now on, the King of Jerusalem was their clearly recognized overlord. 

As gratifying as that may have been to Baldwin II, however, it did nothing to address the danger that the entire north was now in. He did his best to project strength by marching east to confront the Emir of Aleppo's army, but the resulting battle was confused enough for each side to claim victory. It bought him some time, but even a direct victory couldn't mask the main problem. Baldwin II couldn't repopulate Antioch’s depleted garrison out of thin air or create new soldiers to replace those who had been lost. His only hope was to get help from overseas. Within months of the field of blood, he had dispatched an urgent plea to the pope, begging him to preach another crusade. 

The Military Orders

The desperation of the time spawned one of the most notable features of crusader life in Outremer. Sometime in 1118, a French knight by the name of Hugh of Payns had visited Jerusalem, accompanied by eight companions. Unlike many pilgrims, they had come with the intention of staying, dedicating their lives to Christ and their swords to the protection of the poor. Since all of them expressed the desire to become monks, the Patriarch of Jerusalem administered the usual three monastic vows – poverty, obedience, and purity. 

The times, however, called for something more. Hugh and his comrades were men of war, desperately needed as fighters. They had come to serve, and – probably at Hugh's insistence – the Patriarch added a fourth vow. They were charged with protecting pilgrims on the route to Jerusalem. 

For the first time in Christianity, monastic discipline was fused with military skills. Hugh and his followers now had a sacred mandate to use violence to protect the poor and keep the pilgrimage routes open. As a sign of the importance of this mission, King Baldwin offered Hugh part of his own palace to serve as headquarters, and rooms were cleared in the building that had formerly been the al-Aqsa mosque on the Temple Mount.⁷⁹ Hugh and his knights were officially given the unwieldy name of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, but were more commonly known as the Knights Templar, or more simply, Templars. 

Hugh's new group – with their instantly recognizable white monastic cloaks emblazoned with a red cross – proved immensely popular. In 1128 the Templar Order received the blessing of the pope, which led to huge numbers of recruits. Since their mandate included the protection of pilgrims – wherever they were – they could soon be seen throughout Europe. The individual members, true to their vows, were impoverished, but the order itself soon grew quite wealthy. A large reason for this was an ingenious service that they offered. Because they were in every western European country as well as the near east, they served as a convenient means of transferring money. Pilgrims could deposit funds in their home country and when they reached the Holy Land, could present their receipt to collect it again for a minimum service charge. The Templars effectively became the world's first international bank. 

They were soon joined by a second military order. As early as the start of the eleventh century a group of pilgrims had founded a hospital in Jerusalem for the care of travelers. In the year before the occupation of the city, all Christians had been expelled from Jerusalem, and the hospital had closed, but when the crusaders took the city, a group of monks from the abbey of St. Mary of the Latins – located in the heart of the Old City – decided to start another dedicated to the author of one of the gospels, St. John. They were officially named the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem, and were easily distinguishable from their Templar brethren by the black robes they wore with a white cross sewn onto the left sleeve. 

More commonly known as the Knights Hospitaller – or simply Hospitallers – these monks took seriously Christ’s instruction to treat the ignored sections of society well. The sick and particularly the poor – who they referred to as the 'holy poor' – were given special attention. Men and women who had never slept in proper beds were given luxurious accommodations. They were clothed with fresh garments and given lavish meals of meat and wine, all at the expense of the Hospitallers. As the influx of pilgrims grew, so too did the hospital. By 1113 it had more than two thousand beds and the group been formally recognized as a religious order. Over the course of the twelfth century, the need to protect as well as care for pilgrims grew, and the Hospitallers, although they never relinquished their original mission of caring for the sick and poor, gradually transformed into a military order. 

Both of the military orders played a pivotal role in the survival of the crusader states. They gave Baldwin II and his successors what was most severely needed. A tough, international order of warriors who were single-mindedly devoted to the defense of Outremer. 

Venetian Assistance

More immediate help to the kingdom came from a fresh wave of crusaders in 1122. Baldwin II's urgent pleas hadn't gone unnoticed. Pope Calixtus II (1119-1124) was too embroiled in political troubles with the Holy Roman Empire⁸⁰ to preach a crusade, but he had helpfully forwarded the request for aid to the Doge of Venice. 

The response of the great Italian maritime republics of Pisa, Genoa, and Venice to the First Crusade had been mildly embarrassing. Genoa and Pisa had belatedly sent ships and Venice had declined to participate at all. If it hadn't been for Bohemond, whose family was originally French, Italy – home of the pope – would have been completely unrepresented. The Venetian doge, Domenico Michele, was determined to make up for his city’s awkward non-appearance in a manner that only the world's oldest and wealthiest Republic could. Outfitting a hundred and twenty warships at state expense, the doge raised an army fifteen thousand strong, and set sail on August 8, 1122. 

Instead of sailing directly to Palestine, however, Doge Michele decided to take a small detour first. He had brilliantly restored his city's Christian honor by sailing to the aid of Outremer, but surely a small bit of opportunistic raiding was in order? After all, it would be a shame to waste the opportunities that such a superb fleet offered. The Byzantines had recently restricted Venetian trading privileges within the empire, and the imperial island of Corfu, located just off the coast of present-day northwestern Greece, was more or less in their path.⁸¹ They could punish the Byzantines and enrich themselves on their way to doing the Lord's work. 

Corfu, however, proved frustratingly difficult to take. After several months of hammering ineffectively away at the walls, the Venetians were forced to spend an uncomfortable winter huddled in their camps along the rocky coast. Spring brought some relief, but they were forced to abandon the siege when news of a fresh disaster in Palestine reached them. 

While Doge Michele had been occupied with revenge, the situation in the East had dangerously deteriorated. Just after the Venetian fleet had sailed from its lagoon, the Count of Edessa, accompanied by a small group of knights, had marched south to Aleppo in an ill-conceived effort to expand his borders. In a driving rainstorm the Christians had stumbled into the emir's army, and – their horses useless in the slick mud – were easily captured. When King Baldwin II tried to contain the damage with a show of force, he was surprised as well, and taken captive. 

The capture of the King of Jerusalem set off alarm bells throughout Outremer. A daring rescue attempt was organized immediately by some local Christian Armenians who had no desire to fall back under Islamic rule. Fifty of them disguised as monks gained entry to the castle where Baldwin was being held, and after a short struggle managed to overpower the garrison. 

Freedom, however, wasn't assured. They were deep in Turkish territory and an army would undoubtedly soon be on its way to relieve the castle. Since the king was far too well known to travel incognito, the Count of Edessa was tasked with slipping back to Outremer and raising a relief force. Baldwin II would stay behind and hold the castle until help arrived. 

The count barely made it through. With only two companions, he hid by day and traveled by night. Evading capture a dozen times, he was almost defeated by the Euphrates river. The count had never learned to swim, and only made it across by inflating two wineskins and using them as floats. His more rigorous companions managed to tow him across, dragging him half-drowned onto the opposing bank. 

A relief army was thrown together, but by the time it set out it was already too late. Baldwin II had held out as long as he could, but a large Turkish force had managed to breach one of the walls. As a punishment for their resistance, the defenders – with the lone exception of Baldwin II – were hurled from the walls. The king was then moved to a more secure prison where escape was impossible. 

News of the king’s capture gave the doge a convenient excuse to raise the siege that had proved far more difficult than anticipated, and he hurried to Palestine. His arrival lifted the cloud of doom that had been hanging over Outremer. The absence of the king had tempted the Fatimids to invade the kingdom of Jerusalem again, but a spirited defense by the remaining Christian army had defeated it. Even better, the Venetian fleet had arrived in time to catch the Fatimid navy, and completely destroy it. 

Doge Michele had followed up this victory by sailing to the Muslim held city of Tyre on the coast of present-day Lebanon, and putting it under immediate siege. With the help of the crusader army, he forced it to surrender in the summer of 1124, after little more than a year. The last important port in the north of Palestine was once again in Christian hands. Doge Michele could sail back to Venice in triumph. 

Thanks largely to Doge Michele, the kingdom of Jerusalem was greatly strengthened. Later that year, it even got its king back. The Emir of Aleppo was killed by a stray arrow, and luckily for Baldwin II, the emir’s successor was eager to remain on good terms with the crusaders. Baldwin II was released in exchange for some hostages and returned to his capital with the embarrassing understanding that his absence had actually improved things. 

Not only were the fortunes of the crusader states on a more solid footing, but the emirate of Aleppo was also in disarray. Baldwin II, however, could never quite impose himself on his vassals the way his predecessor had. The lack of a firm hand allowed the petty rivalries that had plagued the Christian cause from the beginning to reassert themselves. Instead of attacking Aleppo while it was weak, the new Prince of Antioch inexplicably decided to invade Christian Edessa to his northeast. The assault weakened both crusader states and allowed Aleppo the time it needed to recover. Once again, a golden opportunity had been squandered. 

Somehow, this move summed up Baldwin II's entire kingship. He had been an active leader, well meaning, and competent enough. In a different time and place he may even have been considered a good king. But he lacked charisma and suffered from chronic bad luck. It was hardly his fault that the triumphs of his reign occurred without him, or that his vassals proved themselves both foolish and disloyal. When he expired in 1131, however, Outremer was weakened and surrounded by the greatest threat it had ever faced. 

Three years before Baldwin II died, a new emir had appeared in Aleppo. Imad ad-Din Zengi was as ambitious as he was ruthless, possessed a superb military mind, and was intimately familiar with the crusaders. He was the son of a governor of Aleppo, but had grown up in Mosul at the court of Kerbogah. He had seen his patron return from Antioch a broken man, and learned first hand how formidable the western knights could be. It was a lesson that he wouldn't forget. With a combination of cunning and daring, Zengi had seized control of both Mosul and Aleppo, forging a single powerful state on Edessa's doorstep. His goal, frequently reiterated, was to drive the crusaders into the sea. 

The rise of a new powerful Muslim state came at a particularly bad time for the kingdom of Jerusalem. Baldwin II had no sons, and in an attempt to keep the throne in the family, had married off his eldest daughter Melisende to a wealthy magnate named Fulk of Anjou. 

The news was greeted with joy by everyone except Melisende who didn't relish the thought of a union with the short, cranky, middle-aged count. There were other reasons to be skeptical as well. The ambitious Fulk had known exactly how desperately he was needed, and had held out until the aging Baldwin II had agreed that he should reign jointly with his wife. Once that concession had been given, the marriage took place, and despite mutual distaste, a son – Baldwin III – was duly produced. 

Had Baldwin II lived longer, this would have been a welcome development. Both Fulk and Melisende were flawed candidates to rule. The Count of Anjou was disliked by many of the northern nobles who viewed him as an interloper, while Melisende's gender made it impossible for her to rule alone. Their son, however, had both the pedigree and – with the backing of his father – the resources to be accepted by everyone. Unfortunately for everyone, Baldwin II, with his usual timing, had died when his grandson was only two. 

Just when unity was needed against the growing threat, the throne of Jerusalem was splintering. A mere three weeks after the old king was laid to rest, Fulk, Melisende, and Baldwin III were all awkwardly crowned as joint monarchs. It was not an auspicious start.