Chapter 10: The Fire of Clairvaux
“Behold brethren… now is the day of salvation.”
– Bernard of Clairvaux83
In the early months of 1145, pilgrims returning from the Holy Land brought disturbing rumors of death and destruction from Outremer. The news was so shocking – Christians butchered in the streets, matrons hauled off into slavery, an entire crusader state swept away – that people were disinclined to believe them. By the middle of summer, however, the trickle of refugees had become a flood, confirming the worst suspicions. Even the most hardened observer, inured by years of worsening news from the East, couldn’t fail to admit the crisis.
A new crusade was obviously needed, but Pope Eugenius III (1145 - 53) was hardly the man to set the world on fire. A pious, mild-mannered Italian, he had only occupied the throne of St. Peter for a few months, and owed his election to the fact that no one more qualified had been willing to take the job. Rome had descended back into one of its periodic spasms of political chaos, and the gentle pontiff was unsuited to the task of stamping it out. His very first trip out of the city as pope was a disaster. The moment his escort had disappeared from view the gates of the city were locked and – in a whiff of nostalgia – the Roman Republic was declared restored. A senate was set up, complete with Republican constitution, and a Senator was elected as its temporal head. Pope Eugenius III, now homeless, was reduced to traveling through the courts of Europe looking for support to evict Rome's new masters. Hardly the inspiring leadership needed to unite Christendom.
Nevertheless, Eugenius gave it his best shot. In December of 1145, he issued the papal bull Quantum praedecessores84 calling for a new crusade. The response, however, was decidedly muted. Despite a generation of Europeans growing up on the grand stories of the heroes of the First Crusade, there seemed to be little interest in joining a new one. Three months later, Eugenius tried again, reissuing the bull and carefully laying out rules that he hoped would tempt the nobility to attend. Creditors were forbidden from collecting interest on any loans made to crusaders and debts were temporarily suspended.
The fact that the pope was in exile in France may have compromised his moral authority. If God had withdrawn his favor from this pope, then surely there was little need to listen to him? Or perhaps what depressed the turnout was the other rumor that reached Europe with news of Edessa's fall: whispers of a great Christian king in the east named Prester John who was successfully waging war against the Islamic threat.85 He had allegedly already conquered the old Persian capital and was heading west toward Jerusalem. Although he was a Nestorian – a schismatic branch of Christianity – he would surely march to the rescue of the crusader states.
In any case, no major figure seemed ready to sign up. The German monarch, Conrad III, refused outright, while the pious Louis VII of France was tempted, but strenuously opposed by his influential advisor Abbot Suger of St. Dennis.86
Fortunately for the pope, there was one figure in Europe who had the moral gravitas and force of personality to keep the crusade from fizzling. Even as a youth, Bernard of Clairvaux had shown remarkable charisma. Born into the privileged world of French nobility, he had been given a first rate education, and had won the esteem of teachers and fellow students alike. At the age of twenty-three he had decided to devote his life to the Church, and was so compelling that he convinced thirty of his friends and family to join a Cistercian monastery with him. His rise was meteoric. In only two years he was promoted to abbot of the monastery of Clairvaux, and before long had the ear of both spiritual and secular authorities.
Under his fiery and uncompromising leadership, the Cistercians became the most popular monastic order in Western Europe, and Bernard himself dominated continental affairs. He almost single-handedly ended a schism in the church, and his public support of the Templars won them a formal recognition as a monastic order. As a measure of esteem, Pope Eugenius III even took the name 'Bernardo' in his honor.
The respect that the pope felt for Bernard wasn't reciprocated. The abbot of Clairvaux considered Eugenius to be hopelessly simple-minded and ineffectual. The fact that such a man was the official head of the Catholic Church was a minor detail that could be conveniently overlooked by the abbot most of the time. Nevertheless, Bernard and the pope both shared a concern for the East, and when Eugenius begged him to preach in support of the crusade, he agreed at once.
The spot chosen was Vézelay, a pleasant hilltop in central France, which sported an impressive abbey that could accommodate large crowds. News that Bernard would preach, however, soon overwhelmed these preparations. A flood of visitors descended on the abbey, eager to hear the great man speak. Most notable was King Louis VII of France, who had never been completely dissuaded from his desire to go on crusade, and had jointly issued the invitation to Bernard in hopes of convincing his nobles to join him.
Anyone old enough to remember the First Crusade could be forgiven for a faint sense of déjà vu. As in 1095, there were too many people to fit inside the local cathedral, so the decision was taken to have Bernard preach from a platform erected in a nearby field instead. On March 31, 1146 Bernard of Clairvaux took his place next to King Louis in the center of a large dais. The symbolism of the moment – church and state united in a holy cause – was apparent to all, and a hush fell over the crowd. Bernard of Clairvaux didn't disappoint.
As at Clermont, the specific words said weren't written down. Their effect, however, was recorded with awe. The crowd listened with rapt attention, and when Bernard issued his charge to take the cross, the response was deafening. "Deus vult!" came the roar, an echo of the cry of Clermont. On the stage, Louis knelt with his wife, the beautiful Eleanor of Aquitaine, and both took the crusading oath. Men began to shout for cloth to sew crosses on their coats, and surged forward to receive them. The large quantities of fabric prepared by the monks for this purpose ran out so quickly that Bernard threw off his own outer garment and tore it into strips to provide material.
The response was even more electrifying in the countryside. Bernard embarked on a tour of central France, preaching and deputizing lieutenants to spread the word further. His message was subtly different from the one that Urban had preached. The deliverance of Jerusalem – the motivation for the First Crusade – was no longer functional since the city was still in Christian hands. Instead, Bernard's audiences were charged with the important work of rescuing the Holy Land itself. The crusade was redemptive, a chance for sins to be forgiven by doing the Lord's work. It was – in Bernard's memorable phrase – a 'badge of immortality' that this particular generation was fortunate enough to be able to seize. No mere armed pilgrimage, this crusade would be a justification of conversion by the sword.
French audiences were convinced. A few days after his speech at Vézelay, Bernard reported back to Eugenius III of his success in a letter that managed to be both self-congratulatory and bombastic. "You ordered; I obeyed", he trumpeted, "I spoke and at once the crusaders have multiplied to infinity. Villages and towns are now deserted..."
For all of his bluster, Bernard was acutely aware that his prestige was now on the line. He had breathed the Second Crusade into life, and it was therefore his responsibility to ensure that it did not degenerate into farce. Foremost among his concerns was that the outrages against the Jews weren't repeated. He called them 'living words of Scripture' because in their diaspora they reminded Christians of the suffering of Christ, and carefully emphasized that they weren't to be persecuted. “Under Christian princes they endure a hard captivity,” he said, from which – much like Christians – they waited for deliverance.
The Holy Roman Empire
Once again, however, persecutions broke out. A Cistercian monk named Radulf soon crossed into Germany and began to preach sermons against the Jews. This was disturbing for several reasons. Pope Eugenius III had specifically forbidden the preaching of the crusade in Germany because he needed the German monarch’s help in retaking Rome. A furious Bernard fired off letters to the Rhineland ordering them to stop attacking Jews, but for once he was ignored. Only the appearance by Bernard himself in Germany, and a public castigating of Radulf, managed to restore order.
The appearance of the charismatic abbot in the Holy Roman Empire may have stopped persecution of the Jews, but it also ensured that crusading fervor swept through the empire. Bernard was perfectly well aware that the pope didn’t want the crusade preached in Germany, but had no intention of calling off his efforts. Now that the Germans were responding to the call, he meant to see it done correctly.
Convincing large numbers of Germans – in French – to participate on a long, perilous march to the Holy Land, should have been an uphill battle. Any imperial subject wishing to expand Christendom needed to look no further than the empire's eastern frontier where a large number of pagan tribes awaited conversion. Most German leaders viewed this work, which had been progressing for nearly a century, as far more important than the remote menace of Islam. Despite these obstacles, and the need for an interpreter, however, Bernard met with his usual success.
This was not at all welcome news for the German monarch Conrad III. Since he had yet to be crowned in Rome by the pope, he was still technically only the King of Germany, a state of affairs that was both mildly embarrassing and politically dangerous since it undercut his credibility within the empire. As a remedy, Conrad had promised Eugenius III that he would restore the Holy City to the pope in return for a coronation. The last thing he needed now was for the attention of his nobles to be diverted by talk of a crusade.
His first instinct was to ignore Bernard. When the fiery cleric asked to speak to the king in the fall of 1146, Conrad demurred, protesting that the timing wasn't quite right. But Bernard wasn't one to be brushed off so easily. The German clergy begged him to continue his efforts, and Conrad reluctantly agreed to host him that Christmas.
The king didn't stand a chance. Bernard unleashed the full force of his eloquence, reducing many of the audience to tears. He finished his sermon with an elaborate listing of the king's many blessings – a large and prosperous kingdom, a beautiful wife, wealth and luxury. What more, he thundered while fixing Conrad with a fierce stare, do you need showered upon you by Christ to be willing to do his work? With that poor Conrad broke, and wracked by sobs just managed to choke out “I am ready to serve Him.”
When Bernard returned to Clairvaux in the early months of 1147, he had reason to be well pleased with his work. Thanks entirely to him, two massive armies, led by actual kings, were pledged to march to the defense of the Holy Land. If the First Crusade, led by mere nobles had been successful, how much more so would Bernard's be?
There were, however, some potentially troubling signs on the horizon. When a group of German nobles petitioned Eugenius III to fulfill their vows by waging war on the pagans east of the empire, the pope agreed to a simultaneous 'Wendish' crusade. He then granted the same permission to the Spaniards to continue the struggle against Islam in the west. The Second Crusade was now aimed in three directions at once, and was in danger of diluting its strength.
Those were distant concerns in early 1147, and could easily be dismissed. The bulk of committed troops were heading to Syria to retake Edessa. They were well-trained, well led, and, unlike their predecessors, had the benefit of marching to the aid of a land with castles and friendly powers already established. If the Lord's favor was with them – and Bernard was fully confident that it was – they could hardly fail.