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Constructing KingshipThe Capetian Monarchs of France and the Early Crusades$

James Naus

Print publication date: 2016

Print ISBN-13: 9780719090974

Published to Manchester Scholarship Online: January 2017

DOI: 10.7228/manchester/9780719090974.001.0001

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The First Crusade and the new economy of status, 1095–1110

The First Crusade and the new economy of status, 1095–1110

Chapter:
(p.28) 2 The First Crusade and the new economy of status, 1095–1110
Source:
Constructing Kingship
Author(s):

James Naus

Publisher:
Manchester University Press
DOI:10.7228/manchester/9780719090974.003.0003

Abstract and Keywords

Chapter two argues that the First Crusade had a polarizing impact on French society. The unlikely success of the expedition opened a new route to power for ambitious mid-ranking nobles and castellans, who suddenly were presented with the opportunity to transform heroic deeds done in the East into political status and capital at home. A good number of these men and women amassed political and economic benefits on the basis of their crusading reputations, a point that has (rightfully) led many to argue that the First Crusade had a generally positive impact on European society. And yet, the expedition’s success also occasioned a serious challenge for Europe’s non-crusading elite, in particular, the kings of France, who had to very quickly adapt their ruling methods to complete in the new ‘economy of status’. Through a close examination of Capetian marriage patterns and royal involvement with the production of crusade-related tests, this chapter builds up a picture of cultural frames, scripts, and schemata that in the early years of the twelfth century combined and resulted in what can appropriately be termed a ‘crisis of crusading’ for the French royal court.

Keywords:   Philip I, Hugh of Vermandois, First Crusade, Bohemond, Robert the Monk

In the spring of 1106, a sizeable crowd gathered at Chartres Cathedral to witness the marriage of the Norman crusader Bohemond of Antioch to Constance, the eldest daughter of King Philip I of France.1 Few could have predicted a royal bride for the Norman warlord, the son of a cattle poacher turned duke who only a decade before had faced the prospect of a landless existence after losing his inheritance to a half-brother.2 When he took the cross for the First Crusade in 1096, Bohemond was little more than an itinerant noble in southern Italy helping his uncle besiege the city of Amalfiwith the hope of carving out a small territory of his own. Yet, when he began his search for a suitable marriage partner in 1103, following closely on the heels of a spectacular performance on the First Crusade, his prospects had improved markedly. By the time that Bohemond travelled to the West in 1105, he not only enjoyed the substantial material rewards that accrued from ruling the principality of Antioch, but also considerable celebrity from his crusading reputation. He was famous enough that a monk from Angers used the occasion of his visit to date a transaction.3 Henry I discouraged him from visiting England on the grounds that his personal magnetism might tempt away the best English knights to join him in the East.4 In France, so many nobles asked Bohemond to stand as godfather to their children that Orderic Vitalis observed ‘henceforth his name was popularized in Gaul, though previously it had been virtually unknown to most people in the West’.5

Long before his 1105 trip to France, Bohemond had been staging elaborate ceremonies with the goal of promoting his crusading heritage. After the seemingly miraculous defeat of the Turkish Atabeg Kerboga in 1098 before the walls of Antioch, Bohemond sent the Muslim leader’s tent to the major pilgrimage centre at the Church of St Nicholas in Bari, ensuring (p.29) that it would be seen by the large crowds of pilgrims who visited the shrine each year.6 Nicholas Paul has shown how crusading memorabilia could function as memorial pegs for recalling the heroic deeds of the individual responsible for an object’s translation, and interpreted in this way, Bohemond’s decision to deposit Kerboga’s tent may well have been an attempt to ensure that future generations would remember his crusading deeds.7 In much the same fashion, Bohemond used to his advantage his imprisonment by the Turkish leader Ghumushtgin from 1100 until 1103. Early in the Norman’s return to Europe in 1105 he made a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat, the patron of prisoners, where he gave thanks for his deliverance from Muslim captivity.8 Stories of his daring escape soon appeared in St Leonard’s miracula, and quickly began circulating throughout the great courts of France and Germany, further inflating his reputation and making him arguably the most famous crusading hero in the decade following the capture of Jerusalem.9 The longer his journey lasted, the more people flocked to see him and the more enamoured with him they became.10

The 1106 wedding celebration at Chartres was designed to be the culmination of these efforts. The circumstances were certainly ideal for such a crowning display of theatrics. Since Constance was a French princess, the ceremony was a major affair of state, and an appropriately esteemed crowd was on hand to witness the nuptials. Alongside Philip and Prince Louis (the future Louis VI) stood the most influential prelates and magnates in France.11 Although we might wonder if his new bride was enthusiastic about her wedding being used to promote her husband’s upcoming expedition against the Greek Emperor Alexius I, Bohemond had no such qualms. By all accounts he put on a fantastic show, impressing the crowd with stories of his heroics at Antioch, a clever political move meant to connect the revered First Crusade with his upcoming expedition to Byzantium, thus lending the latter a degree of respectability.12 As Orderic Vitalis described the scene at Chartres, having mounted the pulpit Bohemond ‘urged all those who bore arms to attack the Emperor with him, promising them wealthy towns and castles in return’.13 Several weeks later he followed up with an appearance at the Council of Poitiers, where again he broadcast a call to arms, undoubtedly interspersed with an account of his own deeds.

Bohemond knew how to inspire nobles and knights who had come of age in the new era of crusading. These men were accustomed to measuring their conduct against what David Crouch has described as constructed archetypes of nobility, a mixed group of real-life heroes as well as many others drawn from the chansons de geste.14 The Song of Roland (p.30) had appeared in the decades leading up to the First Crusade, and served as a particularly effective yardstick for a noble hoping to measure his heroics. After 1099, of course, crusaders such as Bohemond and Godfrey of Bouillon were added to the mix, taking their places alongside men such as Ganelon and Roland. In this way, it would seem that the stars had aligned for the nobles to whom Bohemond now pitched his message, since they had the rare opportunity not only to follow in the footsteps of a great hero, but actually to retrace the steps of the first crusaders alongside a living veteran of the well-known expedition. It is worth noting that many of those who witnessed these performances had been on the First Crusade themselves or came from a crusading family. Therefore, they would have been familiar with Bohemond’s reputation, and his promises of earthly rewards would have found purchase among a sympathetic audience. It is perhaps also significant that a majority of those who participated in the Norman’s 1107 expedition came from the region between Poitiers and Chartres, an area that produced a high concentration of first crusaders and one in which Bohemond focused the majority of his recruitment efforts.15

Realignments of power

Bohemond’s meteoric rise in the West, and his successful parlaying of Eastern deeds into western political currency in the immediate years following the First Crusade afford us an excellent point of entry into the watershed nature of the expedition in the medieval imagination. Indeed, as noted in the introduction, scholars have long pointed to the astonishing ways in which the First Crusade transformed the West, and, in particular, have repeatedly stressed the point that few other episodes from the Middle Ages sparked the same level of literary output.16 For this reason, we are on solid ground to believe that the memory of the expedition penetrated deeply into the western imagination, shaping the actions and behaviour of the noble class that contributed a majority of the participants. This is both a blessing and a challenge to modern historians. So extraordinary were the nature of the expedition and the well-known stories of its leaders, that the amount of evidence produced has apparently satisfied the appetites of medieval historians, who on most topics must piece together bits of information from fragmentary sources.

The overwhelming focus on successful crusaders has obscured the serious problems faced by non-participants and those who abandoned the expedition: they lacked the crusading prestige necessary to compete in the developing economy of status. From their perspective, the more legendary (p.31) the First Crusade became, the more pronounced their problem, since additional attention would be drawn to their failure. Chief among those who felt such concern over their crusading heritage were the French monarchs, because when it came to crusading, they were both latecomers and failures. As a result, anything that drew attention to this point was a potential threat to the royal prestige. This was no minor concern. As we saw in the previous chapter, at the time of the First Crusade French royal power was fragile. It was also, to a large extent, based on the daily acceptance of regnal authority by the political elites–nobles, churchmen, and later, urban leaders.17 Indeed, French royal power in the Middle Ages depended more on negotiated compromise than coercive force; it was closer to a vision of power as guidance than to the common view that power equated to the ability to exercise force.18 Without the elites’ acquiescence, the system would have come apart at the seams, and thus kings feared anything that threatened to upset the perception that they were God’s rulers on earth.

When it came to lofty crusading reputations, the Capetians had more to lose than other nobles. This is because they had much at stake in the legacy of Charlemagne. They portrayed themselves–and generally were understood by others–to be the continuators of Charlemagne’s Frankish Kingdom: God’s chosen representatives on earth.19 At the end of the eleventh century, this was an image that the French kings worked hard to foster. King Philip selected a Carolingian-inspired name for his eldest son (Louis), and also demonstrated a marked bias toward Compiègne, a favoured Carolingian church that contained several royal tombs.20 By the early twelfth century, Charlemagne was close to becoming the gold standard by which other European rulers were measured. The First Crusade accelerated this process, since it occurred around the same period that Charlemagne’s deeds in the East gained in notoriety, in part through the popularity and widespread dissemination of texts such as the Song of Roland.21

Indeed, at the time of the First Crusade, the various Charlemagne legends provided a common memorial corpus that allowed a diverse set of participants a shared set of cultural referents, explaining, among other things, the common appearance of descriptors such as Franci to describe the various armies of the crusade. In calling together a diverse group of knights from across Europe, Pope Urban II was understood by contemporaries to have transformed these men from Norman, Breton, German back into Franks. This is certainly how twelfth-century writers saw things. Robert the Monk recalled Urban’s insistence that the potential first crusaders remember their Carolingian lineage: ‘Oh most valiant soldiers and (p.32) descendants of victorious ancestors, do not fall short of, but be inspired by, the courage of your forefathers.’22 Guibert of Nogent was equally pointed when he recorded how:

although the call from the Apostolic See was directed only to the Franks, as though it were specific, what nation under Christian law did not send forth hordes to that place? In the belief that they owed the same allegiance to God as did the Franks, the crowds strove to the full extent of their power, to share the danger with the Franks.23

We might reasonably imagine that if Charlemagne had been present at Clermont in 1095, he would have been among the first to take up the cross. It is worth asking, therefore, what did it mean, if anything, that his Capetian successors did not do so.

The Capetians had a sorry record when it came to the First Crusade. King Philip had not participated because he had been excommunicated. Even if he had wanted to go, it would have been difficult. Royal power was still personal in 1095, and the court probably could not have survived the prolonged absence of the King. Philip’s brother Hugh of Vermandois did go, though he abandoned the host in 1098 after the siege of Antioch, which was potentially more problematic for the Capetian image.24 Fulcher of Chartres noted that those who abandoned the crusading host were ‘vile before God and men’, while the papal legate, Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy, called upon western bishops to pronounce anathema on returning crusaders who had not fulfilled their vows.25 Hence, the Capetians had much to lose. Although Hugh would ultimately return to the East to discharge his vow as part of the crusade of 1101, nobody in 1098 could have known the lasting impact of his initial flight. The long-term effect of shame was a real problem, and could be easily dredged up for use by one’s political enemies, sometimes many years after the fact. The case of Stephen of Blois–the most famous deserter of the First Crusade–is instructive on this point. While most authors ultimately came to forgive Stephen for his actions, at least one surviving variant of the crusade chronicle of Baldric of Bourgueil went to some length to chastise Stephen for his cowardice. Nicholas Paul has studied the corresponding manuscript and has argued that it demonstrated that it was produced on the instructions of political enemies of Stephen’s, belabouring the story of his flight with the goal of undercutting his political standing in the West.26 With the same goal in mind, in the mid-twelfth century Abbot Suger linked the ongoing treachery of Hugh of Le Puiset with the ignoble crusading career of his father, Everard III, a well-known (p.33) crusader in his own right, to cast a long shadow over the entire family.27 Hugh of Vermandois’s high profile would have made him an attractive target for castellans hoping to undercut Capetian power in the region around Paris. Within this context, it must have been discomforting for Philip and Prince Louis, less than five years later, to watch Bohemond use the occasion of a royal wedding to recount his crusading achievements and try to convince the flower of French knighthood to follow him to Byzantium. After all, the crusader was an interloper if judged by aristocratic rank, but the prime attraction if judged by attention. To be sure, the original purpose of the marriage may have been to appropriate some of Bohemond’s crusading prestige for the royal family, but not at the cost of overshadowing their own reputation. Many of those who followed the Norman were, after all, vassals of the French King.

The wedding celebration at Chartres thus captures one of the basic–if hitherto underappreciated–legacies of the First Crusade: the complexity of the challenge to Capetian power and authority. This was not simply a consequence of Hugh’s departure from Antioch and Philip’s non-participation; it was related to a host of issues connected to French royal power. At its core, though, the threat posed to the Capetian court by the First Crusade was manifest in, and to a degree a product of, the rise of what we might appropriately term the ‘crusading castellans’. The success of the expedition challenged the prevailing European system of power by redirecting the martial energy of the mid-ranking nobility toward an ecclesiastically sanctioned cause, redefining the terms by which social status and rulership came to be valued, with greater emphasis now on military success and heroic crusading, both elements imbued with a distinctly Christian ethic.28 In practical terms, the First Crusade opened up a fresh, and perhaps unprecedentedly fruitful, source for acquiring prestige, valour, and heroism: all crucial ingredients for an ambitious castellan or mid-ranking noble hoping to climb the socio-political ladder in early-twelfth-century France.29 As we saw in the previous chapter, this was the same group that had been challenging royal authority for years, attempting to aggrandize power at the King’s expense. The First Crusade gave them the necessary traction to do so in a much more effective way. If, as Thomas Bisson has argued, scholars must be more alive to the increasing role of charisma and prestige in attaining power in the early twelfth century, then it is a point in need of consideration in the particular context of the Capetian experience.30 From 1099 onward, there was little in Christendom more heroic than being a crusader, and as veterans returned from the East with their new-found prestige in hand, the circumstance (p.34) was primed for new systemic tensions to be introduced into the long-term social competition between the King and his nobles.

How transformative could the crusade be for one’s reputation? We have already seen the extent to which Bohemond gained standing on the basis of his eastern deeds. Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis wrote that Constance ‘was not seeking another marriage with somebody unworthy of her’, and so Philip selected Bohemond.31 The implication in this sentence, of course, is that Bohemond was worthy of a royal bride. But what made him so? A few sentences before, Suger suggested that his bravery at the 1098 siege of Antioch had much to do with it.

About that time Bohemond, the famous prince of Antioch, came down to France. As the great siege of the city ended, the garrison there admired his valor and chose to surrender only to him. He had won fame and celebrity among the people of the East, and the Saracens themselves praised his noble deeds, which could never have been done without the help of God.32

The French kings took marriage decisions very seriously; indeed, much of the Capetian accrual of power over the tenth and eleventh centuries was the result of well-chosen partners, a point borne out by the various marriages of King Henry I (r. 1031–60).33 Constance’s first marriage was to Hugh of Troyes, the Count of Champagne, and thus a noble with an ancient and esteemed pedigree. Though the union was not long-lasting–it was annulled for consanguinity in 1104–Hugh’s status is deserving of closer attention.34 The counts of Champagne were among the most powerful magnates in France, a point that fits well with what we know about Capetian marriage patterns in general. In 1033, King Henry was engaged to the daughter of the German Emperor Conrad II, and within a year of her death he had married another German princess, Matilda.35 After she died in 1044, the French King married Anna, daughter of the Grand Duke of Kiev, Yaroslav I.36

The pattern was clear. Kings and their children married other royalty and their children. Constance’s own marriage experiences, however, identify a crucial transformation that took place in the French political structure. The next successful suitor after Hugh of Troyes was a Norman parvenu with little other than a heroic reputation to recommend him, and King Philip surely would not have accepted the proposal if he had not believed the union would add value to the Capetian dynastic cause. Considering the prominence given to Bohemond’s crusading experience in the surviving sources, it is reasonable to conclude that Philip wanted (p.35) Bohemond linked to his family because he hoped to benefit from his reputation.37 At least one French chronicler tried to do just this. Writing around 1108, Guibert of Nogent assigned Bohemond a quasi-French status ‘since his family was from Normandy, a part of France, and since he had obtained the hand of the daughter of the French King’.38 Although there are no known similar accounts produced after this date, this may be the combined result of Bohemond’s failed 1107 attack on the Byzantine empire (which undercut his reputation in the West) and the fact that he proved to be a cruel husband to Constance. Philip, of course, could not have known this when he made the initial decision, and it is therefore significant that at the same time that he accepted Bohemond’s proposition, Philip also agreed to marry another of his daughters, Cecile, to Tancred, a Norman crusade veteran (and Bohemond’s cousin) who remained in the Latin East.39 The King’s attempts to link his family to established crusading heroes bespeaks a change in the complexion of the twelfth-century power structure. Crusaders with prestige could, quite suddenly, command the attention of kings and marry their children.

Other examples demonstrate this transition. For instance, Guy the Red, the Count of Rochefort, organized a remarkable reception for himself in 1102 upon his return to his lordship southwest of Paris. Guy’s is one case in which the failure of the 1101 crusade–which he joined to redeem himself for deserting the First Crusade in 1098–did not seem to undercut his celebrity.40 As he approached the abbey of Morigny, he was ‘met with a procession’ and was ‘welcomed with the highest honours’.41 The next morning, the Abbot escorted Guy on the twenty-mile journey to Saint-Arnoult-en-Yvelines, where he was met again by a monastic procession as well as a large crowd of local notables who had gathered to catch a glimpse of the returning hero. By 1104, Guy had regained the post of royal seneschal and arranged the engagement of his daughter Lucienne to King Philip’s oldest son, the future Louis VI.42 Suger hinted that Guy’s crusading experience was a key factor in Philip’s willingness to agree to the nuptials by describing Guy as ‘a man of experience and a veteran knight who had returned from the expedition to Jerusalem renowned and rich’.43 Of course, Louis’s marriage to a member of the Montlhéry family might also be explained in terms of Capetian weakness–as evidence of Philip’s desperation to forge an alliance with the most troublesome of his nobles. Yet, this does not reveal the full picture. Had Philip simply wanted a political alliance with Guy’s family, this marriage could have easily been arranged before the crusade. Guy was, after all, the royal seneschal at this time. The fact is that something (p.36) about Guy’s position had changed after his return from the East, and Suger’s comments are strong evidence for the Count’s enhanced status as the result of the First Crusade. It is worth noting that Guy’s family, the Montlhérys, also benefited from his reputation, converting it into a spectacular rise to prominence in France and the Latin East.44

Robert of Flanders also parlayed crusader credentials into power, first by orchestrating an impressive ceremony to mark his return to the West. Before departing for home, he sent ahead to the abbey of Anchin a relic of St George that he had acquired. The translation narrative produced at the abbey to mark the occasion indicates that Robert sent the relic in advance specifically so that it would generate positive publicity. When he did finally return to Flanders, the narrative records how Robert was welcomed as a triumphant hero and how he entertained the monks with stories of his crusading adventures.45 He continued to work hard to realize the positive benefits of his heroism. Over the succeeding decade, Robert never missed an opportunity to highlight his eastern deeds, and eventually he won for himself the title of ‘son of Saint George’ in the monastic chronicles and chanson de geste of the twelfth century.46

Likewise Robert of Normandy and Rotrou of Mortagne both returned home to the ‘well-deserved praises of their close friends and relatives’.47 Members of the Le Puiset family, one of the most celebrated crusading dynasties in northern France, they emphasized their eastern deeds in support of rising political ambitions at home.48 Despite blistering criticisms by chroniclers for his actions before and after the First Crusade (not to mention those directed at his abhorrent conduct toward Jews in the early stages of that campaign), Thomas of Marle still received praise for his heroism at the battle of Doryleaum. He was even feted by one author as a ‘valiant’ crusader with a ‘loyal heart’.49 Gauging the practical impact of such sentiment is difficult, but it is certainly instructive that Thomas’s nefarious character had been mostly forgotten by later twelfth-century authors, having been replaced by the memory of his crusading heroics as preserved in sources such as the Chanson de Jérusalem.50 Indeed, in 1219 the monks of Nogent-sous-Coucy were ordered by one of Thomas’s descendants to ‘honourably translate’ the body of the infamous crusader to a more prominent position in the church choir, ostensibly so that he was more visible to visiting pilgrims.51 Based on this, it would seem that crusading prowess had an enduring power to shape the long-term memory of one’s reputation. Indeed, in some cases it was the defining element.

The transformative impact of crusading prestige introduced a serious potential challenge to the prevailing conceptions of kingship by (p.37) significantly broadening the field of those who could participate at the highest levels in what had been a rigidly structured and closed power system.52 The twelfth century was marked by profound social and political transformation. This was particularly evident in views on kingship, which, as we saw in the previous chapter, underwent fundamental changes in this period. Crusading intersected with this phenomenon as it was received, memorialized, and interpreted in the West. In some cases, crusading provided ambitious nobles with their first opportunity to compete directly with more prestigious rulers. Ritual celebrations (i.e. adventus and triumphus celebrations) on the scale of and of the sort engineered by Guy the Red and Bohemond had previously belonged to kings, emperors, and a select few of the most powerful aristocrats. Since Roman times such displays had been the privilege of the vicarius Christi and were taken as demonstrative evidence of his sacral nature.53 The celebration of military triumph, in particular, was a tool that secular rulers since Constantine had used to articulate a hierarchical view of society at whose summit they stood as Christ’s representatives on earth.54 Indeed, they modelled their ceremonial on Christ’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, with the clear intention of stressing their roles as christomimetes–imitators of Christ. This was a lofty promise for an earthly ruler to be sure, but this was the conception of sacral kingship that framed the early Middle Ages. It was also a tenacious idea, even outlasting the ecclesiastical reform movement of the eleventh century. The Norman Anonymous, writing around 1100, could still note without hesitation that the ‘power of the King is the power of God … whatever he does, he does not simply as a man, but as one who has become God and Christ through grace’.55

Imperial entry celebrations were designed to evoke an image of Christ-centred kingship, and crusading veterans were attempting to participate in and gain status from the same ritual performance. In such a context, Guy’s reception by the monks and nobles at Saint-Arnolt was more than a hastily organized welcome-home ceremony. Rather, it was an act designed to elevate him to the level of sacral ruler and to accrue the accompanying political and social benefits. The links and threats to kingship implicit in such instances were not far-fetched. To command military forces and lead nobles in battle were long recognized as crucial functions of early medieval rulers. Charlemagne was well known for personally commanding his army.56 Indeed, the contemporary histories of his life, as well as the various legends that appeared long after his death, were largely based on his military prowess.57 He was also known to ensure loyalty by distributing the conquered territory as payment to his supporters. In 793 (p.38) he famously lavished rich rewards on his leading counts simply because they had not joined the rebellion of his son Pippin.58 Things had changed for the French kings by the twelfth century. Philip and the soon-to-be Louis VI did not have the political, military, or ecclesiastical resources to make such gifts or promises, but neither did anyone else. The First Crusade changed this, in part because it narrowed the gap between noble and king, creating, effectively, a new class of noble warriors that embodied elements traditionally associated with kingship. Bohemond promised ‘wealthy towns and castles’ to those nobles at his wedding ceremony who chose to follow him to the East.59 Everywhere he went in France, the Norman distributed relics along with ‘gold, silver, gems, and silk’ while recounting sensational stories of his crusading adventures.60 To members of the audience, who were mostly familiar with Carolingian legends, he would have looked like Charlemagne reborn, bestowing wealth and power on those who supported him. The impressive number of leading nobles from northern France who followed him to the East lends force to this point. Could Bohemond now challenge Philip’s position, completing the transformation from Italian marauder to French powerbroker? One must not underestimate the effect of the scene that played out at Chartres; like Guy the Red, the Norman warlord was appropriating a traditional royal function for himself.

Nobles, of course, had been imitating rulers and vying for a participatory stake in royal privilege for quite some time. In addition, the reforming papacy was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the sacral elements that had been attached to kingship since the early Church. Yet, these were mostly abstract concerns and neither of these points had much impact on how rulership was actually practised at the turn of the twelfth century.61 Kings continued to set themselves apart from those they ruled with ritual demonstrations of their divine selection. They were acclaimed with laudes, anointed, and ceremonially recrowned on high feast days.62 Geoffrey Koziol has argued that the great eleventh-century princes consciously used the adventus ceremony, in particular, as a means by which to separate themselves from the rising power of the castellan class, which included men like Guy and Bohemond.63 Yet, this was also a crucial period of transition. It is worthwhile following Bisson in setting the First Crusade alongside other transformative events such as the 1066 invasion of England and the Investiture Contest that began what he has described accurately as the ‘crisis of the twelfth century’.64 In so doing, it bears asking what it meant for contemporary views of kingship, power, and dynasticism that no rulers had taken part in the First Crusade, an (p.39) event so important to the medieval imagination that one contemporary chronicler considered it to rank alongside the ‘creation of man’ and ‘the mystery of redemption on the cross’.65

Robert the Monk, who probably witnessed Urban’s speech at Clermont, recalled how the Pope instructed potential crusaders to mimic the ‘worth and greatness of Charlemagne, his son Louis and other kings who destroyed the pagan kingdoms and brought them into Christendom’.66 Such a passage had troubling implications for Europe’s current rulers, since according to Urban they were not living in the image of Charlemagne. Had kings lost their divinely sanctioned status? And if so, how did this affect a ruler’s ability to govern as the representative of Christ? After all, the crusaders had been victorious without them, and no less, they were victorious in Jerusalem, the city of Christ. Indeed, Guibert of Nogent wrote of the virtues that came from the non-participation of kings, ‘lest the visible royalty seem to seize divine operations for itself’.67 The sacred status enjoyed by European monarchs had always depended on the ruler’s ability occasionally to demonstrate it, and thus the failure of kings to participate in the First Crusade introduced the potential to challenge such long-held assumptions. Hugh of Fleury, writing in the first decade of the twelfth century, produced a text called the Liber qui modernorum regum Francorum continent actus, which he dedicated and presented to Louis VI. Recalling Hugh Capet’s rise, Hugh remarks, ‘and thus passed away the second line of Frankish kings, with royal power transferring to a third, selected by the judgement of God, whom he wishes to elevate, and whom he humbles’.68 The Capetians, Hugh argues, remained divinely selected.

The problem was not that the French kings necessarily lost their sacred image; the problem was that the returning crusaders were now claiming a piece of that for themselves, and in this case sacredness was a zero-sum game. As a consequence, the prestige from participating in this most momentous event was very suddenly diffused among a wide base of people–a majority of crusading families in northern France–with the result being a dramatic shift in the complexion of power. Many mid-ranking nobles now had the traction necessary to vie for privileges that had previously belonged to the vicarius Christi, to kings, emperors, and a select group of aristocrats. It is therefore easy to see how a lack of crusading prestige could be considered a liability by members of the ruling elite whose claim to divine approval and the authority that depended on it was the most vulnerable. The First Crusade established a new economy of status in which heroics and prestige were the needed currency, and those who were prestige-poor were at a marked competitive disadvantage.

(p.40) Crisis and response

This phenomenon obliged rulers to confront long-term systemic social tensions within the European power system, and it was by no means a purely French experience. Such whispers appear in sources from across Western Europe. The desire to tap into crusading prestige may help explain why in January 1103 Emperor Henry IV wrote a letter to his godfather, Abbot Hugh of Cluny, outlining his plan to lead an armed expedition to the Holy Land as a means of shoring up his political position against recalcitrant nobles and, most especially, his son.69 In the Anglo-Norman world, Robert Curthose’s reputation profited from his crusading experiences, with stories and objects related to his time in the East circulating long before Robert’s own arrival from Jerusalem in the late summer of 1100 when, according to Orderic Vitalis, he may have celebrated an adventus ceremony at Rouen.70 Robert of Torigni noted in the late 1130s that Robert Curthose’s crusading reputation had afforded him (relatively) comfortable imprisonment at the hands of his younger brother, King Henry I of England, who chose to treat him ‘not as an enemy captive but rather as a noble pilgrim’.71 William of Malmesbury wrote that Robert’s bravery was the result of ‘many feats … such that neither Christian nor pagan could throw him from his horse’.72 Whereas William described how the Lotharingian leader Godfrey of Bouillon had cut several Turks in two, more significant is his claim that Robert killed the Muslim leader Kerboga at Antioch.73 This story, of course, is not true, and an author as well informed as William of Malmesbury would have known as much. Henry of Huntingdon also went to great lengths to explain Robert’s post-1099 failings in explicit crusading terms, asserting that his loss of Normandy in 1106 was the result of his refusal to accept the crown of Jerusalem in 1099.74 This claim was also fabricated. In fact, Robert was never offered the crown. But as Henry tells it, Robert chose to return home rather than to ‘toil for the Lord of kings’, and as a result ‘God condemned him to everlasting inactivity’.75 That Henry felt the need to link the loss of Normandy with Robert’s crusading career is notable because it means that a writer who was in tune with aristocratic opinion felt that Robert’s lack of post-1099 success needed explaining, presumably because it was the opposite of what would have been expected. It is unfortunate that Henry says little else, but this example nevertheless provides enough evidence to show that a real concern was present–lurking below the surface. In France, however, royal power was extremely fragile and was threatened not only by King Philip’s non-participation, but also by the premature departure of his brother, Hugh of Vermandois. Therefore, one might expect any anxiety to be more intensified.

(p.41) In 1072, as a way to secure an alliance with Robert the Frisian, who had just defeated him in battle, King Philip married Robert’s daughter, Bertha.76 The union was never a happy one, perhaps because Bertha struggled with infertility for nearly a decade before giving Philip a male heir (the future Louis VI) in 1081. Two more children (both girls) eventually followed, but soon it became clear that the Queen was now barren. In 1092, the King left her for Bertrade of Montfort, the wife of Fulk of Anjou, whom Philip met while touring the region. Not only was Bertrade still reasonably young and therefore likely fertile, she also was descended from a family that wielded tremendous power in the Capetian heartland.77 From both a dynastic and political perspective, therefore, she was an ideal match for the King. Thus, with the blessing and assistance of an obliging bishop, the King married Bertrade before an audience of leading French bishops.78 However, while Philip was ultimately reconciled with Fulk, the King’s refusal to take back Bertha was unacceptable to Pope Urban II. Philip and Bertrade were excommunicated on three separate occasions: by the papal legate Hugh of Die in 1094, by Urban in 1095, and then again by the papal legate John in 1099.79 It is the first two of these that concern the present discussion, since they rendered Philip canonically ineligible to join the First Crusade. Scholars have used this point to form a stock narrative about the French King’s failure to participate and Urban’s decision to avoid carefully the royal principality on his preaching tour of France between November 1095 and July 1096.80 Their argument is that the rift between King and Pope was yet another manifestation of the larger battle between the papacy and secular powers. It is true that Philip did not want to take the cross in the first place, and was probably more than happy to be rid of troublesome nobles for an extended period and to reap the political benefits that came from providing departing crusaders with cash in exchange for territory.81 Indeed, no European rulers joined the First Crusade, probably believing, as Jay Rubenstein put it, that the entire ‘plan was insane’.82

But absence from the expedition does not prove disinterest in the crusade and we must be careful to keep the two points distinct.83 The biggest flaw with this line of reasoning is that it fails to recognize that for very different reasons neither Philip nor Urban could afford to give the other any room to manoeuvre. From the King’s point of view, there were major political complications that prevented him from repudiating Bertrade and returning to Bertha as the Pope wished. In addition to the Queen’s aforementioned inability to conceive, Philip may genuinely have preferred Bertrade. Magnifying this point was the fact that these events were playing out at precisely the time when Philip was engaged in a war (p.42) against William Rufus who, as Suger reminds us, aspired to the French throne.84 Thus, Philip needed to make sure that he could produce more sons (in case Louis died) and he also needed to ensure that his children with Bertrade were legitimate. For this reason Philip and the French bishops worked hard to ensure that Bertrade was recognized as the French Queen (by his subjects if not the Pope) and not merely as a concubine.85 For his part, Urban could not allow any leeway for the king either. To be sure, had the Pope wished to annul Philip’s union with Bertha, there was clear precedent for doing so. After all, medieval popes were not strangers to annulling the marriages of Europe’s nobility, and Bertha and Philip were related within the prohibited degrees, as were Fulk and Bertrade.86 What made the circumstance different in 1095 was that the crusade was on the horizon, which, in the words of Marcus Bull, ‘was the brainchild of an assertive reformist papacy’ that was still recovering from doing battle with the German Emperor.87 Thus, kings or emperors, while probably not interested in participating anyway, were nonetheless most unwelcome from the perspective of the Pope.

Although political circumstances and his excommunication obliged Philip’s direct exclusion from participating in the expedition, there is reason to believe that he directed events from the background, playing a key role in coordinating the northern French response to Urban’s appeal. According to Guibert of Nogent, writing around 1108, Philip and his brother Hugh of Vermandois jointly hosted a meeting of leading French magnates at Paris in early February 1096–just three months after Urban’s Clermont sermon–to discuss their participation in the upcoming expedition.88 Guibert is vague in identifying who was present at this meeting, but three of Philip’s household officers–Guy the Red, Wallo II of Chamont-en-Vexin, and Gilbert Payen of Garlande–were likely on hand, since they ultimately joined the French host. Bull has speculated further, on the basis of the routes taken to the East by other leading French nobles, that Stephen of Blois, Robert of Normandy, and Robert of Flanders were either participants in this meeting or at least aware of it, which strengthens the case for Philip’s oversight in coordinating the northern French crusaders.89 It also means that Philip had influence over the early plans of some of the most important crusaders from Northern Europe. While the king could not go himself for reasons stated above, he did lobby hard for his brother to serve as his representative in the East. In 1096, Philip announced Hugh’s acceptance of the crusading vow to Urban at the Council of Nîmes.90 According to the Byzantine chronicler Anna Comnena, Hugh carried with him a papal banner, almost certainly (p.43) a vexillum beati Petri given to him by the Pope.91 Guibert of Nogent notes that Hugh was sent to Constantinople ahead of the main force to negotiate with the Greek Emperor, the assumption being that his royal birth made him a de facto leader of the crusade. Anna also records a letter that Hugh allegedly sent to the Byzantine Emperor demanding a ‘magnificent reception’ upon his arrival in Constantinople because of his royal status.92 No western source mentions such a letter, and we must doubt whether it ever existed. However, what is important is that Anna’s reference makes plain that Hugh’s royal identity was well known, presumably because he was trading on his brother’s political capital.

Philip obviously had a clear interest in the details and progression of the First Crusade and ensured that a close family member would be a leader of the expedition. In a sense, therefore, Philip was hedging his bets in case Urban’s gamble paid off and the crusaders were successful. They were, of course, but Philip’s wager did not pay off, because Hugh was hardly an ideal crusader. While Hugh’s name appears in the major crusade narrative chronicles, this is more because of his royal status than for any specific accomplishments. The eyewitness Gesta Francorum, for example, names Hugh seven times, almost always in a list of crusaders, suggesting that the royal brother was important because of his status but played a secondary role among the expedition’s leaders.93 One event that draws significant attention is Hugh’s departure from the Christian army in July 1098, following the siege of Antioch. Along with Count Baldwin of Hainault, Hugh was sent to Constantinople as an envoy to meet with Alexius. The sources are not clear on the purpose of the trip–the two men were either chiding Alexius for his failure to support the crusaders or urging him finally to join the army–but this is of secondary importance.94 At some point during their journey, Turkish or Turkopole marauders attacked them. Baldwin disappeared (presumably killed), and Hugh ultimately arrived safely in Constantinople. This harrowing experience (on top of the dire nature of the situation at Antioch) apparently frayed his nerves and he decided to return home to France rather than rejoin his fellow crusaders at Antioch. The sources are not in agreement on the details of Hugh’s departure, though there is some reason to believe that he was seen as bearing the stain of cowardice. Moreover, Hugh’s eagerness to join the ill-fated crusade of 1101 suggests that he was concerned about the stigma of failure. Hugh’s wife, Adela, made a donation to the abbey of Saint-Arnoul in Crépy in 1118, and the fact that she highlighted Hugh’s participation in the 1101 expedition without any mention of the more famous 1096–99 crusade underscores this point.95

(p.44) Considering Hugh’s public desertion of the crusading host and his close relationship to the King in the years leading up to the First Crusade, it is possible that Philip was a factor in Hugh’s decision to head back to the East in 1101, as a way of staving off negative publicity for the royal court. Indeed, we have already seen how, at the turn of the twelfth century, heroic deeds were one of the main factors in establishing one’s prestige and authority. The converse also held true, of course, and when Hugh returned to France after deserting the crusading army, he did so under a cloud of shame, which, by extension, hung over the royal house. Hugh was, after all, Philip’s closest crusader relative, and had played a key role in governing France before his departure in 1096.96 It may be helpful here to compare Hugh’s case to that of Stephen of Blois, the well-known deserter whom Orderic Vitalis described as an ‘object of contempt’ for his abandonment of his fellow crusaders at Antioch.97 So badly was Stephen treated that he ultimately returned to the East in 1101 at the insistence of his wife, Adela of Blois, lest he bring dishonour to his family.98 Although the parallel is not exact, the basic narrative is instructive: as the story of the miraculous capture of Jerusalem began spreading across Europe in the autumn of 1099, there is reason to suspect that Philip and those who functioned in his immediate orbit were troubled over the juxtaposition of the crusade’s success and the failure of the royal contingent. Given this, the important questions to ask are: what was the response, where did it originate, and who initiated it? The answer is that early efforts to sanitize the Capetian crusading experience came in various forms and from a number of places, both inside and outside the royal court.

Internally, Philip made a concerted effort to link his relatives by marriage with well-known crusaders and their families. As previously discussed, Philip married off two of his daughters to the Norman crusading heroes Bohemond and Tancred. In 1104, after Guy the Red returned from ‘the expedition to Jerusalem renowned and rich … [Philip] soon persuaded [Louis] to take the daughter [Lucienne] of the count in solemn marriage’.99 Suger wrote that this marriage resulted from the growing friendship between Philip and Guy that blossomed after the former’s return from the East, hinting that Guy’s crusading experience was the key factor in Philip’s willingness to agree to the proposed nuptials.100 Guy Trousseau, who participated in both the 1099 and the 1101 expeditions, convinced the King to agree to a union between his daughter, Elisabeth, and Count Philip of Mantes, second in line to the French throne after Prince Louis.101 Between 1104 and 1106 four of the King’s five surviving children married either First Crusade veterans or their daughters. These were (p.45) significant departures from the typical French royal marriage pattern, bespeaking deliberate attempts on the part of the royal court to link the Capetians with crusading prestige.

While members of the royal court were arranging marriage alliances with crusaders, various crusade chroniclers also sought to mitigate the stigma of Hugh’s desertion and Philip’s failure to participate, though for different reasons.102 Of particular relevance to a consideration of the French royal court are those texts composed within the loci of Capetian power. Between about 1106 and 1110 several Benedictine monks from northern France–Robert the Monk, Baldric of Bourgueil, and Guibert of Nogent–revised and adapted the Gesta Francorum, a Norman text that was the most popular eyewitness narrative of the First Crusade, to fit better into a western European intellectual framework.103 The author of the Gesta did not have the luxury of time to polish his text into a piece of exegetical writing. But monks had nothing if not an abundance of time, as well as the necessary scriptural knowledge. Because of their territorial and temporal proximity and shared common source, these ‘second-generation’ accounts are often considered part of a common genre of early-twelfth-century monastic crusading chronicles–what Jonathan Riley-Smith referred to as the ‘theologically refined’ version of the expedition. Scholars have long sought to work out the particular relationships among the texts, but in so doing have tended to flatten the individual characteristics of each.104 Indeed, the fact that all three texts were copied from a common source allows for a rare glimpse into the minds of these monks by considering the additions and deletions made in each text, an approach that raises new questions about authorial motivation, textual composition, and, as we will see, monastic competition. In terms of the French court and the crusade, a close review of these texts reveals a keen interest in protecting the royal image.

Of the three chronicles, Robert the Monk’s Historia Iherosolimitana is an excellent case study, having the distinction of being far and away the most popular in the Middle Ages, surviving in over eighty manuscripts scattered across France, Flanders, and Germany.105 It is also the most useful for questions involving the royal court because Robert was a monk at ‘a certain monastery of Saint-Remi’ that had explicit connections to the Capetian family.106 Until recently there has been general consensus that Robert completed his history no later than 1108, the terminus date assigned because of parallels between Robert’s chronicle and a German text of that year, the Magdeburger Aufruf.107 If the strong relationship between the texts is correct, then 1108 must indeed be so, but recent work by Marcus Bull and Damien Kempf has called this claim into question, (p.46) citing the thinness of the argument for thematic and lexical borrowings from the Historia Iherosolimitana. As a consequence, it now seems likely that Robert’s work was composed between about 1108 and 1110.108 This is a crucial point because the relationship between the Capetian court and Saint-Remi changed dramatically in 1108, when Louis VI was crowned in Orléans, instead of the usual site at Reims, perhaps explaining Robert’s motives for composing a text with a clear Capetian bias.

After learning of Philip’s death, Louis and his advisors had to work fast to secure his position because, as Suger notes, ‘a conspiracy of wicked and evil men would have excluded him from it had it been possible’. As a result, at the strong urging of Ivo of Chartres, Louis did not make the trip to Reims, but rather was crowned at Orléans. The Archbishop of Reims was not pleased, and sent several letters of objection to the Pope asserting the illegitimacy of the coronation and reasserting Hincmar’s claim that Reims was the only legitimate site of the ceremony. Indeed, the matter was ultimately settled only by the careful diplomatic assuaging of Ivo of Chartres, who recognized Reims’s claims, but argued for the legitimacy of the 1108 ceremony on the grounds that it was performed ‘for the common good’.109 Nevertheless, this instance is important because it bears witness to the seriousness with which the religious officials at Reims took their connection to the royal family and the reluctance with which they accepted even the appearance of challenges to that relationship. It is worth considering Robert the Monk’s chronicle in the context of the strained complexion of the relationship between the Capetians and Saint-Remi in 1108.

The fact that Robert’s text is fundamentally based on the Gesta Francorum makes it especially valuable, since it is possible to consider in great detail what changes he made to the eyewitness account, either by deletion or addition. Although the author of the Gesta Francorum remains unknown, the text has a clear Norman bias, the overall impact being to enhance and celebrate Bohemond’s role on the expedition. Thus, the author’s interest in crusaders from the Ile-de-France is limited to those of some renown. Nevertheless, when describing the difficult days at Antioch, the Gesta does include a list of several French crusaders who fled the host: ‘William of Grandmesnil, his brother Aubré, Guy Trousseau, and Lambert the Poor’.110 Given the context, the list of names is not essential to advance the narrative, and thus, the most likely reason for the author’s decision to include it was to highlight the terrible conditions, making Bohemond’s role stand out as a shining example of bravery and heroism. It is worth noting that three of the four are absent from Robert’s chronicle, a deliberate omission without question. When the Gesta began circulating (p.47) around northern France in the early twelfth century, passages that negatively portrayed crusaders from that region–such as Guy Trousseau, who at this very time was arranging to marry his daughter to the King’s son–were most unwelcome. Therefore, Robert attempted to mitigate the negative reputation of the deserting crusaders by deleting their names. This is a small example, to be sure, but it is an excellent point of entry into the textual changes that Robert made to the base narrative of the Gesta Francorum in his endeavour to sanitize the Capetian image.

While Robert could simply delete the list of French knights who fled from Antioch because most people would not notice the absence of four seemingly unimportant knights, he faced a more difficult challenge with the desertion of Hugh of Vermandois.111 By virtue of his royal status, Hugh was too prominent a figure to leave out of the chronicle, and his shameful return to the East in 1101 was well known among a French audience.112 Faced with such a prospect, Robert effectively reworked the narrative of the crusade to cast Hugh as a genuine hero, one on a par with Godfrey of Bouillon and even Bohemond. Specifically, where the Gesta glossed over Hugh’s royal status, Robert is careful to place Hugh into just such a context. In his description of Bohemond receiving news of the crusade Robert wrote that Bohemond ‘was told by his sources about the princes: Hugh the Great, brother of King Philip of France’.113 Of course, this does not equate to writing a royal version of the First Crusade, and one must allow for the fact that Robert was writing in northern France and would have been more likely to go into detail about local crusaders. But the fact that Hugh’s royal status is inserted into Robert’s text on four separate occasions, and that the corresponding passages in the Gesta make no such reference, is a clear indication of the author’s desire to bolster Hugh’s leadership role on the crusade in every way possible.

More telling is the way in which Robert reworked a story from the Gesta Francorum that described a prophecy made by the mother of Kerboga, the Turkish governor of Mosul. She told her son, who at the moment was planning an attack on the Christians at Antioch, that if he fought against the crusaders he would be defeated. In an effort to understand his situation more fully, Kerboga questioned his mother on various points about the Christian faith. ‘Are not Bohemond and Tancred the gods of the Franks?’, he asked in the Gesta Francorum.114 Robert made a slight but crucial alteration: ‘Are Hugh the standard-bearer and the Apulian Bohemond, and the Knight Godfrey [of Bouillon] their gods?’.115 The substitution of Hugh’s name for Tancred’s is a clear attempt to associate the King’s brother with two genuine, proven heroes of the crusade. By the time Robert was writing, (p.48) Bohemond and Godfrey were the best-known crusaders. It is also worth remembering that Robert wrote just about four years after Bohemond had married Constance, a time when establishing a textual connection to the Norman hero would have been viewed by the royal court in a positive light. It was also a time, as we saw, that clerics at Reims were working hard to ensure the preservation of the coronation rite for their city. And thus, this passage, which joined together in battle the King’s uncle and his brother-in-law, would have resonated powerfully with a northern French audience, and perhaps won favour for the abbey at the royal court.

Portraying Hugh as a crusading hero was no easy task. His widely known desertion would have to be addressed. The Gesta Francorum had noted Hugh’s departure in a single, short sentence: ‘Hugh went but he never came back.’116 Such a gloss is understandable from the Gesta’s author, who was predominantly interested in Norman crusaders. But Robert was writing in a location close to Hugh’s domain with the clear purpose of sanitizing his crusading exploits. Thus, he could not ignore the royal brother’s departure. Robert did not disappoint, writing that ‘once Hugh had carried out his mission to the Emperor, he died unexpectedly and could not return at the end of his life as planned’.117 Obviously, Hugh did not die on his mission to Constantinople and, given his heavy reliance on the testimony of returning crusaders, it is unlikely that Robert was simply uninformed about the fate of the brother of the French King. Rather, the evidence supports a claim that Robert knew of Hugh’s return to France in 1098, knew of his actual death in 1102 while trying to fulfil his original vow, but altered his chronicle to blur these episodes. Indeed, Robert conflated Hugh’s experience on the two expeditions with the goal of erasing his earlier failure.

Guibert of Nogent’s history is worth briefly considering alongside Robert’s because, unlike his contemporary from Saint-Remi, Guibert was not a member of a community with an explicit connection to the royal house. In fact, Guibert displayed a marked disfavour toward the Capetians on several occasions.118 Moreover, that he was so emphatic in noting that much of his information was gathered from returning crusaders suggests that the stories that appear in the Dei gesta per Francos reflect the sort of crusading lore circulating around northeastern France in the first decade of the twelfth century.119 As noted earlier, when he discussed the background to the crusade, Guibert carefully couched the expedition in terms of French history, transforming Bohemond’s Norman background into a French one to accomplish this task.120 In terms of context, it should be noted that Guibert’s chronicle was written shortly after Bohemond’s (p.49) 1106 marriage to Constance (probably around 1108), when writing about a French connection to a crusading hero would have been popular in northern France. Furthermore, if Guibert’s portrayal of Bohemond is placed alongside his treatment of key members of the royal court, in fact, a manifest interest in northern French crusaders is clear. Like Robert, Guibert went out of his way to highlight Hugh of Vermandois’s royal ancestry when he noted that Hugh’s arrest in Dyrrachium at the beginning of the crusade was the result of his princely status.121 However, the most telling part of Guibert’s text is his description of Hugh’s departure from the East, which he attributed to illness: ‘who could claim that Count Stephen and Hugh the Great, who had always been honourable, because they had seemed to retreat for this reason [illness] were comparable to those who had always behaved badly?’.122 Guibert wrote his narrative after Hugh had returned to the East as one of the leaders of the 1101 crusade, and separating Hugh from other deserters probably contributed to the redemption of Hugh’s image that occurred throughout the twelfth century.

Each chronicler who undertook to produce a sanitized narrative of the First Crusade did so for different reasons, though probably they all hoped to secure a long-term position of favour for their abbey. But in the short term these chronicles bear witness to a more dramatic point: there was a widespread recognition among a group outside the royal court that the Capetian image was threatened by the King’s failure to crusade. One might assert that the position of the French King in the first decade of the twelfth century was not as weak as this argument assumes, and that the French monarchy was on the precipice of a great leap forward in terms of its ability to project power. The reign of Louis VI would come to be remembered as a period of marked increase in the fortunes of the French monarchy, but this is not the point. However, the issue at hand is less one of fact–was the French King weak in 1100 and was his position about to improve?–and more one of perception–did the French King and those surrounding him believe that he was threatened? All the evidence marshalled above points to an affirmative answer to the latter question. The die was cast, linking crusading prestige with rulership and power. Soon enough, a deliberate effort to shape the crusading memory of the Capetians would begin from within the court itself, under the leadership of Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis.

Notes

(1) OV, Vol. VI, pp. 46–50; VLG, pp. 46–50; Actes, Vol. I, p. 43, no. 22.

(2) Ralph B. Yewdale, Bohemond I, Prince of Antioch (Princeton, 1924), pp. 3–39.

(p.50) (3) Archives d’Anjou: Recueil de documents et mémoires inédits sur cette province, ed. Paul A. Marchegay, 3 vols (Angers, 1843–54), Vol. III, p. 242, no. 396. See also Nicholas L. Paul, ‘A Warlord’s Wisdom: Literacy and Propaganda at the Time of the First Crusade’, Speculum 85 (2010), 534–66.

(4) OV, Vol. VI, p. 68.

(5) Ibid., Vol. VI, p. 70.

(6) ‘Historia belli sacri’, in RHC Oc., Vol. III, p. 206.

(7) Paul, To Follow in Their Footsteps, pp. 90–133.

(8) Albert Poncelet, ‘Boémond et S. Léonard’, Analecta Bollandiana 31 (1912), 24–44.

(9) ‘Vita et miracula S. Leonardi auctore Waleramno Episcopo Namburgensi’, Acta sanctorum, ed. Jean Bolland, Jean Carnedet, et al. (Paris, 1863, repr. Brussels, 1965), Novembris, Vol. III (Paris, 1863), pp. 178–82, portion concerning Bohemond, pp. 173–82; William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum anglorum: The History of the English Kings, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors, completed by Rodney M. Thomson and Michael Winterbottom (Oxford, 1998), p. 693. For Bohemond’s itinerary in the West see Luigi Russo, ‘Il viaggio di Boemundo d’Altavilla in Francia’, Archivio storico Italiano 603 (2005), 3–42.

(10) Yvonne Friedman, ‘Miracle, Meaning, and Narrative in the Latin East’, Studies in Church History 41 (2005), 123–34.

(11) VLG, pp. 46–50.

(12) John G. Rowe, ‘Bohemond of Antioch, Paschal II, and the Byzantine Empire’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 49 (1966–67), 165–202.

(13) OV, Vol. VI, pp. 70–1.

(14) David Crouch, The Birth of Nobility: Constructing Aristocracy in England and France, c. 900–c. 1300 (London, 2005), pp. 30–7; Richard E. Barton, ‘Aristocratic Culture: Kinship, Chivalry, and Court Culture’, in A Companion to the Medieval World, ed. Carol Lansing and Edward English (Malden, MA, 2009), pp. 500–24 (pp. 504–11). It is helpful to consider this alongside Victor Turner’s concept of ‘root paradigms’; see Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca, NY, 1974); Victor Turner, ‘Process, System and Symbol’, Daedalus 106 (1977), 61–80.

(15) Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge, 1997), map 4 and pp. 239–42.

(16) See above, pp. 7–8.

(17) See above, pp. 17–19.

(18) Michael E. Moore, A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of Frankish Kingdoms, 300–850 (Washington, DC, 2011), pp. 1–2. Consider for example the influence of Max Weber. See Pierre Clastres, Society against the State, trans. Robert Hurley (New York, 1989), pp. 7–13; Jean-William Lapierre, Essai sur le fondement du pouvoir politique (Aix-en-Provence, 1968). For alternative perspective consider Søren Kierkegaard, Papers and Journals: A Selection, trans. Alastair Hannay (London, 1996), esp. p. 235.

(19) Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford, 2011), pp. 102–6 and 114–15. See also Janet T. Nelson, ‘Charlemagne and Empire’, in The Long Morning of Medieval (p.51) Europe: New Directions in Early Medieval Studies, ed. Jennifer R. Davis and Michael McCormick (Burlington, VT, 2008), pp. 223–34 (p. 232).

(20) Geoffrey Koziol, The Politics of Memory and Identity in Carolingian Royal Diplomas: The West Frankish Kingdom (840–987) (Turnhout, 2012), pp. 560–1.

(21) Karl-Ferdinand Werner, ‘Das hochmittelalterliche Imperium im politischen Bewusstsein Frankreichs (10.–12. Jahrhundert)’, Historische Zeitschrift 200 (1965), 1–160 (pp. 14–18); Gabriele, An Empire of Memory, p. 158; Marcus Bull, ‘Overlapping and Competing Identities in the Frankish First Crusade’, in Concile de Clermont de 1095 et l’appel à Croisade: Actes du Colloque Universitaire International de Clermont-Ferrand (23–25 juin 1995) organisé et publié avec le concours du Conseil Régional d’Auvergne (Rome, 1997), pp. 195–211.

(22) RM, p. 6.

(23) GN, pp. 88–9.

(24) Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’; James Naus, ‘The French Royal Court and the Memory of the First Crusade’, NMS 55 (2011), 49–78; Jay Rubenstein, ‘Putting History to Use: Three Crusade Chronicles in Context’, Viator 35 (2004), 131–68.

(25) Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana: Mit Erläuterungen und einem Anhange, ed. Hans Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913), p. 168; Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100, ed. Hans Hagenmeyer (Innsbruck, 1901), p. 160; both cited in Elizabeth Siberry, Criticism of Crusading, 1095–1274 (Oxford, 1985), p. 47. See also James Brundage, ‘The Army of the First Crusade and the Crusade Vow: Some Reflections on a Recent Book’, Medieval Studies 33 (1971), 334–44; and James Brundage, ‘An Errant Crusader: Stephen of Blois’, Traditio 16 (1960), 380–95.

(26) Nicholas Paul, ‘Crusade, Memory, and Regional Politics in Twelfth-Century Amboise’, JMS 31 (2005), 127–141, esp. p. 139.

(27) VLG, pp. 128–30.

(28) Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and Gascony, c. 970–1130 (Oxford, 1993), pp. 250–81. On the martial elements of French kingship see Régine Le Jan, ‘La sacralité de la royauté mérovingienne’, Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales 58 (2003), 1217–41.

(29) Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century, p. 2.

(30) Ibid., pp. 2–21.

(31) VLG, p. 48.

(32) Ibid., p. 44.

(33) Andrew W. Lewis, Royal Succession in Capetian France: Studies on Familial Order and the State (Cambridge, MA, 1981), pp. 44–77; Andrew W. Lewis, ‘Anticipatory Association of the Heir in Early Capetian France’, American Historical Review 83 (1978), 906–27.

(34) OV, Vol. IV, pp. 264–5; VLG, p. 48. James Doherty has recently completed a Ph.D. thesis at Lancaster University on ‘Count Hugh of Troyes and the Early Crusading Era’. Unfortunately, I was not able to consult this work before submitting this manuscript for publication.

(35) Jan Dhondt, ‘Sept femmes et un trio de rois’, Contributions à l’histoire économique et sociale 3 (1964–65), 37–70 (53–5); Lewis, Royal Succession, p. 45.

(p.52) (36) Recueil des actes de Philippe Ier, pp. xvi–xxiii.

(37) Jean Flori, Bohémond d’Antioche: Chevalier d’aventure (Paris, 2007), pp. 266–7.

(38) GN, p. 106.

(39) OV, Vol. IV, pp. 264–5; ‘Historia regum Francorum monasterii sancti Dionysii’, MGH SS 9, pp. 395–406 (p. 405); William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, 2 vols, CCCM 63 and 63A (Turnhout, 1986), Vol. I, p. 495.

(40) VLG, pp. 38–40; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. Susan B. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), p. 614.

(41) La chronique de Morigny 1095–1152, ed. Léon Mirot, 2nd edn (Paris, 1912), pp. 40–1.

(42) Eric Bournazel, Le gouvernement capétien au XIIe siècle 1108–1180: Structures sociales et mutations institutionelles (Paris, 1975), pp. 31–4; Augustin Fliche, Le règne de Philippe 1er, roi de France (1060–1108) (Paris, 1912), pp. 320–3.

(43) VLG, pp. 39–41.

(44) Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, pp. 144–88. Guy of Rochefort’s nephew, Guy Trousseau, arranged a marriage between his daughter Elisabeth and Count Philip, the French King’s youngest son. See OV, Vol. V, pp. 30 and 98; VLG, p. 36.

(45) ‘Narratio quomodo reliquiae martyris Georgii ad nos Aquicinenses pervenerunt’, RHC Occ., Vol. V, pp. 248–52 (p. 251); ‘Annales Aquicinctini’, MGH SS 16, pp. 503–6.

(46) Nicholas Paul has identified a number of charters, produced between 1100 and the Count’s death in 1111, that make manifest reference to his experience in the East. See Paul, To Follow in Their Footsteps, p. 41.

(47) OV, Vol. VI, p. 394.

(48) Jean Laureau, ‘Les seigneurs du Puiset à la Croisade’, Bulletin de la Société archéologique d’Eure-et-Loire 62 (1999), 23–35; John L. LaMonte, ‘The Lords of le Puiset on Crusade’, Speculum 17 (1942), 100–18.

(49) La chanson d’Antioch, ed. Susanne Duparc-Quioc (Paris, 1976), pp. 171 and 450; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, p. 96.

(50) Susanne Duparc-Quioc, Le cycle de la croisade (Paris, 1955), pp. 39–44.

(51) Paul, To Follow in Their Footsteps, p. 148.

(52) On French political transformation more generally see Poly and Bournazel, The Feudal Transformation; Achille Luchaire, Histoire des institututions monarchiques de la France sous les premiers Capétiens (987–1180) (Brussels, 1964); Robert Fawtier, The Capetian Kings of France: Monarchy and Nation, 987–1328, trans. Lionel Butler and R. J. Adam (London, 1960); Dominique Barthélemy, L’ordre seigneurial: Xie–XIIe siècle (Paris, 1990); Strayer, On the Medieval Origins of the Modern State; Bull, ‘Introduction’, in France in the Central Middle Ages, pp. 2–3.

(53) Susan Twyman, Papal Ceremonial at Rome in the Twelfth Century (London, 2002), pp. 1–22; Kathleen Ashley, ‘Introduction: The Moving Subjects of Processional Performance’, in Moving Subjects: Processional Performance in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Kathleen Ashley and Wim Hüsken (Amsterdam, 2001), pp. 7–24; Karl Leyser, Rule and Conflict in Early Medieval Society: Ottonian Saxony (Bloomington, 1979), pp. 94–105; Clifford Geertz, ‘Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power’, in Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York, 1983), pp. 121–46.

(p.53) (54) Twyman, Papal Ceremonial, pp. 13–18; Michael McCormack, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge, 1990); Geoffrey Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor: Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, NY, 1992), pp. 289–324; Ernst Kantorowicz, ‘The King’s Advent and the Enigmatic Panels in the Doors of Santa Sabina’, Art Bulletin 26 (1944), 207–31 (pp. 215–16).

(55) Norman Anonymous, Tractates, ed. Heinrich Böhmer, in MGH Libelli de lite 3, pp. 642–87 (p. 667). Cited and discussed in Ernst Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, 1981), pp. 42–61.

(56) Roger Collins, Charlemagne (Toronto, 1998), pp. 43–101.

(57) For a review of the critical texts involved in this tradition see Gabriele, An Empire of Memory, 2, pp. 41–70.

(58) ‘Annales Laureshamenses’, MGH SS 1, pp. 22–32 (p. 35).

(59) OV, Vol. VI, pp. 70–1.

(60) Ralph of Caen, ‘Gesta Tancredi’, RHC Oc. 3, pp. 587–716 (p. 714); OV, Vol. V, pp. 170–1. Also see Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, pp. 78–80.

(61) Geoffrey Koziol, ‘England, France, and the Problem of Sacrality in Twelfth-Century Ritual’, in Cultures of Power: Lordship, Status, and Process in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. Thomas N. Bisson (Philadelphia, 1995), pp. 124–48; Bernhard Töpfer, ‘Tendenzen zur Entsakralisierung der Herrscherwürde in der Zeit des Investiturstreites’, Jahrbuch für Geschichte des Feudalismus 6 (1982), 164–71.

(62) Koziol, ‘England, France, and the Problem of Sacrality’, pp. 125–6; Ernst Kantorowicz, Laudes regiae: A Study in Liturgical Acclamations and Medieval Ruler Worship (Berkeley, 1946); H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘The Anglo-Norman Laudes regiae’, Viator 12 (1981), 39–78.

(63) Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor, pp. 133–4. This should be read alongside Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton, 2001); Geoffrey Koziol, ‘The Dangers of Polemic: Is Ritual Still an Interesting Topic of Historical Study?’, Early Medieval Europe 11 (2002), 367–88; Philippe Buc, ‘The Monastery and the Critics: A Ritual Reply’, Early Medieval Europe 15 (2007), 441–54.

(64) Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century, pp. 1–21.

(65) RM, p. 4.

(66) Ibid., p. 6.

(67) GN, p. 328.

(68) Hugh of Fleury, Liber qui modernorum regum Francorum continet actus, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 9, pp. 376–95.

(69) Die Briefe Heinrichs IV, ed. Carl Erdman, MGH Deutsches Mittelalter (Leipzig, 1937), pp. 39–40. Discussed in Ian S. Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106 (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 109–10.

(70) William M. Aird, Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy (1054–1134) (Woodbridge, 2008), pp. 191–202. For the possibility of an adventus ceremony at Rouen see OV, Vol. V, pp. 300–1, cited in Aird, Robert Curthose.

(71) Cited in Christopher Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 1096–1588 (Chicago, 1988), p. 23.

(p.54) (72) William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum anglorum, p. 703.

(73) Ibid. Cited and discussed in Tyerman, England and the Crusades, pp. 22–3.

(74) Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 1996), p. 454.

(75) Ibid.

(76) Fliche, Le règne de Philippe 1er, pp. 36–77.

(77) George Duby, Medieval Marriage: Two Models from Twelfth-Century France, trans. Elborg Forster (Baltimore, 1978), pp. 28–45.

(78) Ibid.; Marie-Bernadette Bruguière, ‘Canon Law and Royal Weddings, Theory and Practice: The French Example, 987–1215’, in Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Medieval Canon Law, ed. Stanley Chodorow (Vatican, 1992), pp. 473–96.

(79) Duby, Medieval Marriage, p. 30; Sacrorum conciliorum nova, et amplissima collectio, ed. J. D. Mansi, 55 vols (Paris, 1901–27), Vol. XX, p. 815; Robert Sommerville, ‘The French Councils of Pope Urban II: Some Basic Considerations’, Annuarium historiae conciliorum 2 (1970), 98–114; Augustine Fliche, ‘Urbain II et la croisade’, Revue d’histoire de l’Eglise de France 13 (1927), 289–306 (p. 300).

(80) For Urban’s itinerary see Alfons Becker, Papst Urban II. (1088–1099), 2 vols (Stuttgart, 1964–88), Vol. II, pp. 435–58.

(81) Christopher K. Gardner, ‘The Capetian Presence in Berry as a Consequence of the First Crusade’, in Autour de la Première Croisade: Actes du colloque de la Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East (Clermont-Ferrand, 22–25 juin 1995), ed. Michel Balard (Paris, 1996), pp. 71–81 (pp. 75–6).

(82) Jay Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven: The First Crusade and the Quest for Apocalypse (New York, 2011), p. 21.

(83) For conceptualization of this idea see Vincent Ryan, ‘Richard I and the Early Evolution of the Fourth Crusade’, in The Fourth Crusade: Events, Aftermath, and Perceptions, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Aldershot, 2008), pp. 3–14.

(84) VLG, p. 10.

(85) In practice this meant that Philip ensured the proper rituals were followed in the marriage, including the gift of a dowry and the celebration by the Bishop of Senlis. Duby, Medieval Marriage, p. 38.

(86) Bruguière, ‘Canon Law and Royal Weddings, Theory and Practice’.

(87) Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, p. 26; Carl Erdmann, The Origin of the Idea of Crusade, trans. Walter Goff art and Marshall W. Baldwin (Princeton, 1977); Ian S. Robinson, ‘Gregory VII and the Soldiers of Christ’, History 58 (1973), 169–92; H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘The Genesis of the Crusades: The Springs of Western Ideas of Holy War’, in The Holy War, ed. T. P. Murphy (Columbus, OH, 1976), pp. 9–32 (pp. 17–21).

(88) GN, pp. 133–4; Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 33–5; Matthew Gabriele, ‘The Provenance of the Descriptio qualiter Karolus Magnus: Remembering the Carolingians in the Entourage of King Philip I (1060–1108) before the First Crusade’, Viator 39 (2008), 93–117 (pp. 113–16).

(89) Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 34.

(p.55) (90) Sacrorum conciliorum nova, Vol. XX, p. 937; La chronique de Saint-Maixent, ed. and trans. Jean Verdon (Paris, 1979), p. 154.

(91) Erdmann, The Origin of the Idea of Crusade, pp. 182–200.

(92) Anna Comnena, The Alexiad, trans. E. R. A. Sewter (Baltimore, 1969), pp. 313–14.

(93) GF, pp. 5, 18, 19, 20, 68, 70, and 72.

(94) Cf. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, pp. 340–2; GF, p. 72.

(95) Gallia Christiana in provincias ecclesiasticas distributa, ed. Scévole de Sainte-Marthe and Louis de Sainte-Marthe, 16 vols (Farnborough, 1970), Vol. X, appendix, pp. 424–5 n. 57.

(96) ‘Annales S. Benigni Divionensis’, MGH SS 7, pp. 37–50 (p. 42). Cited and discussed in Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 31.

(97) OV, Vol. V, pp. 324–5.

(98) Brundage, ‘An Errant Crusader’, pp. 390–2.

(99) VLG, pp. 39–41; Fliche, Le régne de Philippe 1er, p. 320 n. 4; Bournazel, Le gouvernement capétien, pp. 31–4 and 46.

(100) VLG, pp. 39–41.

(101) Bournazel, Le gouvernement capétien, pp. 31–4.

(102) Jonathan Phillips provides a brief introduction to the First Crusade literature in his recent discussion of the years leading up to the Second Crusade. Jonathan Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven, 2010), pp. 17–36. For an alternative approach to the texts see Jean Flori, Chroniqueurs et propagandistes: Introduction critique aux sources de la première croisade (Geneva, 2010).

(103) Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading (Philadelphia, 1986), pp. 132–52; Susan Edgington, ‘The First Crusade: Reviewing the Evidence’, in The First Crusade: Origins and Impact, ed. Jonathan Phillips (Manchester, 1997), pp. 57–77.

(104) John France, ‘Use of the Anonymous Gesta Francorum in the Early Twelfth Century: Sources for the First Crusade’, in From Clermont to Jerusalem: The Crusades and Crusader Societies, 1095–1500, ed. Alan V. Murray (Turnhout, 1998), pp. 29–42; Rubenstein, ‘What Is the Gesta Francorum?’; France, ‘The Anonymous Gesta Francorum’; Colin Morris, ‘The Gesta Francorum as Narrative History’, Reading Medieval Studies 19 (1993), 55–71; Kenneth B. Wolf, ‘Crusade and Narrative: Bohemond and the Gesta Francorum’, JMH 17 (1991), 207–16; Harari, ‘Eyewitnessing in Accounts of the First Crusade’.

(105) For manuscript identification see Friedrich Kraft, Heinrich Steinhöwels Verdeutschung der ‘Historia Hierosolymitana’ des Robertus Monachus: Eine literarhistorische Untersuchung (Strasbourg, 1905). Although Knoch identified more than 100 manuscripts, Damien Kempf and Marcus Bull have revised that number to 80, allowing for translations of manuscripts; RM, p. lxv. For discussion of the text see Carol Sweetenham, ‘Introduction’ to Robert the Monk, Robert the Monk’s History of the First Crusade: ‘Historia Iherosolimitana’ (Aldershot, 2005), pp. 1–47; Edgington, ‘The First Crusade’; Georg Marquardt, Die ‘Historia Hierosolymitana’ des Robertus Monachus: Ein quellenkritischer Beitrag zur Geschichte des ersten Kreuzzugs (Königsberg, 1892); Luigi Russo, (p.56) ‘Ricerche sull’ “Historia Iherosolimitana” di Roberto di Reims’, Studi medievali 43 (2002), 651–91.

(106) RM, p. 3.

(107) Peter Knoch, ‘Kreuzzug und Siedlung: Studien zum Aufruf der Magdeburger Kirche von 1108’, Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel und Ostdeutschlands 23 (1974), 1–33.

(108) RM, pp. xvii–xli.

(109) Hincmar of Reims, Vita sanctii Remigii, PL 125, cols 1129–88. It is also possible that Ralph the Green was particularly upset that the Archbishop of Sens was responsible for the coronation of Louis, as the two bishoprics had been at odds over the right of coronation for several centuries by this point.

(110) GF, pp. 56–7.

(111) For what follows see Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 36–40.

(112) As evidence of this, see a charter produced around 1100 at the abbey of Molesme in which a departing crusader describes his intention to follow Hugh to the East as part of the 1101 expedition. Cartulaires de l’abbaye de Molesme, ed. Jacques Laurent, 2 vols (Paris, 1907–11), Vol. II, p. 13, no. 7.

(113) RM, p. 740.

(114) GF, pp. 55–6.

(115) RM, p. 813.

(116) GF, p. 72.

(117) RM, p. 837.

(118) Jay Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York, 2002), pp. 87–95.

(119) GN, p. 82. In fact, Guibert included several negative comments about Philip I and his relationship with the French Church. He was, for instance, the only one of the early-twelfth-century chroniclers to point out that Philip was excommunicated at the Council of Clermont, which certainly was not a move intended to ingratiate himself with the King. Guibert may well have disliked Philip, particularly his relationship with the Church, but the way that the monk treated members of the royal entourage shows that stories about these men were what people wanted to hear around 1108.

(120) Ibid., pp. 105–6.

(121) Ibid., p. 35.

(122) Ibid., p. 228.

Notes:

(2) Ralph B. Yewdale, Bohemond I, Prince of Antioch (Princeton, 1924), pp. 3–39.

(p.50) (3) Archives d’Anjou: Recueil de documents et mémoires inédits sur cette province, ed. Paul A. Marchegay, 3 vols (Angers, 1843–54), Vol. III, p. 242, no. 396. See also Nicholas L. Paul, ‘A Warlord’s Wisdom: Literacy and Propaganda at the Time of the First Crusade’, Speculum 85 (2010), 534–66.

(5) Ibid., Vol. VI, p. 70.

(6) ‘Historia belli sacri’, in RHC Oc., Vol. III, p. 206.

(8) Albert Poncelet, ‘Boémond et S. Léonard’, Analecta Bollandiana 31 (1912), 24–44.

(9) ‘Vita et miracula S. Leonardi auctore Waleramno Episcopo Namburgensi’, Acta sanctorum, ed. Jean Bolland, Jean Carnedet, et al. (Paris, 1863, repr. Brussels, 1965), Novembris, Vol. III (Paris, 1863), pp. 178–82, portion concerning Bohemond, pp. 173–82; William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum anglorum: The History of the English Kings, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors, completed by Rodney M. Thomson and Michael Winterbottom (Oxford, 1998), p. 693. For Bohemond’s itinerary in the West see Luigi Russo, ‘Il viaggio di Boemundo d’Altavilla in Francia’, Archivio storico Italiano 603 (2005), 3–42.

(10) Yvonne Friedman, ‘Miracle, Meaning, and Narrative in the Latin East’, Studies in Church History 41 (2005), 123–34.

(12) John G. Rowe, ‘Bohemond of Antioch, Paschal II, and the Byzantine Empire’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 49 (1966–67), 165–202.

(14) David Crouch, The Birth of Nobility: Constructing Aristocracy in England and France, c. 900–c. 1300 (London, 2005), pp. 30–7; Richard E. Barton, ‘Aristocratic Culture: Kinship, Chivalry, and Court Culture’, in A Companion to the Medieval World, ed. Carol Lansing and Edward English (Malden, MA, 2009), pp. 500–24 (pp. 504–11). It is helpful to consider this alongside Victor Turner’s concept of ‘root paradigms’; see Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca, NY, 1974); Victor Turner, ‘Process, System and Symbol’, Daedalus 106 (1977), 61–80.

(15) Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge, 1997), map 4 and pp. 239–42.

(16) See above, pp. 7–8.

(17) See above, pp. 17–19.

(18) Michael E. Moore, A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of Frankish Kingdoms, 300–850 (Washington, DC, 2011), pp. 1–2. Consider for example the influence of Max Weber. See Pierre Clastres, Society against the State, trans. Robert Hurley (New York, 1989), pp. 7–13; Jean-William Lapierre, Essai sur le fondement du pouvoir politique (Aix-en-Provence, 1968). For alternative perspective consider Søren Kierkegaard, Papers and Journals: A Selection, trans. Alastair Hannay (London, 1996), esp. p. 235.

(19) Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford, 2011), pp. 102–6 and 114–15. See also Janet T. Nelson, ‘Charlemagne and Empire’, in The Long Morning of Medieval (p.51) Europe: New Directions in Early Medieval Studies, ed. Jennifer R. Davis and Michael McCormick (Burlington, VT, 2008), pp. 223–34 (p. 232).

(20) Geoffrey Koziol, The Politics of Memory and Identity in Carolingian Royal Diplomas: The West Frankish Kingdom (840–987) (Turnhout, 2012), pp. 560–1.

(21) Karl-Ferdinand Werner, ‘Das hochmittelalterliche Imperium im politischen Bewusstsein Frankreichs (10.–12. Jahrhundert)’, Historische Zeitschrift 200 (1965), 1–160 (pp. 14–18); Gabriele, An Empire of Memory, p. 158; Marcus Bull, ‘Overlapping and Competing Identities in the Frankish First Crusade’, in Concile de Clermont de 1095 et l’appel à Croisade: Actes du Colloque Universitaire International de Clermont-Ferrand (23–25 juin 1995) organisé et publié avec le concours du Conseil Régional d’Auvergne (Rome, 1997), pp. 195–211.

(24) Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’; James Naus, ‘The French Royal Court and the Memory of the First Crusade’, NMS 55 (2011), 49–78; Jay Rubenstein, ‘Putting History to Use: Three Crusade Chronicles in Context’, Viator 35 (2004), 131–68.

(25) Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana: Mit Erläuterungen und einem Anhange, ed. Hans Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913), p. 168; Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100, ed. Hans Hagenmeyer (Innsbruck, 1901), p. 160; both cited in Elizabeth Siberry, Criticism of Crusading, 1095–1274 (Oxford, 1985), p. 47. See also James Brundage, ‘The Army of the First Crusade and the Crusade Vow: Some Reflections on a Recent Book’, Medieval Studies 33 (1971), 334–44; and James Brundage, ‘An Errant Crusader: Stephen of Blois’, Traditio 16 (1960), 380–95.

(26) Nicholas Paul, ‘Crusade, Memory, and Regional Politics in Twelfth-Century Amboise’, JMS 31 (2005), 127–141, esp. p. 139.

(28) Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and Gascony, c. 970–1130 (Oxford, 1993), pp. 250–81. On the martial elements of French kingship see Régine Le Jan, ‘La sacralité de la royauté mérovingienne’, Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales 58 (2003), 1217–41.

(30) Ibid., pp. 2–21.

(32) Ibid., p. 44.

(33) Andrew W. Lewis, Royal Succession in Capetian France: Studies on Familial Order and the State (Cambridge, MA, 1981), pp. 44–77; Andrew W. Lewis, ‘Anticipatory Association of the Heir in Early Capetian France’, American Historical Review 83 (1978), 906–27.

(34) OV, Vol. IV, pp. 264–5; VLG, p. 48. James Doherty has recently completed a Ph.D. thesis at Lancaster University on ‘Count Hugh of Troyes and the Early Crusading Era’. Unfortunately, I was not able to consult this work before submitting this manuscript for publication.

(35) Jan Dhondt, ‘Sept femmes et un trio de rois’, Contributions à l’histoire économique et sociale 3 (1964–65), 37–70 (53–5); Lewis, Royal Succession, p. 45.

(37) Jean Flori, Bohémond d’Antioche: Chevalier d’aventure (Paris, 2007), pp. 266–7.

(39) OV, Vol. IV, pp. 264–5; ‘Historia regum Francorum monasterii sancti Dionysii’, MGH SS 9, pp. 395–406 (p. 405); William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, 2 vols, CCCM 63 and 63A (Turnhout, 1986), Vol. I, p. 495.

(40) VLG, pp. 38–40; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. Susan B. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), p. 614.

(41) La chronique de Morigny 1095–1152, ed. Léon Mirot, 2nd edn (Paris, 1912), pp. 40–1.

(42) Eric Bournazel, Le gouvernement capétien au XIIe siècle 1108–1180: Structures sociales et mutations institutionelles (Paris, 1975), pp. 31–4; Augustin Fliche, Le règne de Philippe 1er, roi de France (1060–1108) (Paris, 1912), pp. 320–3.

(44) Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, pp. 144–88. Guy of Rochefort’s nephew, Guy Trousseau, arranged a marriage between his daughter Elisabeth and Count Philip, the French King’s youngest son. See OV, Vol. V, pp. 30 and 98; VLG, p. 36.

(45) ‘Narratio quomodo reliquiae martyris Georgii ad nos Aquicinenses pervenerunt’, RHC Occ., Vol. V, pp. 248–52 (p. 251); ‘Annales Aquicinctini’, MGH SS 16, pp. 503–6.

(46) Nicholas Paul has identified a number of charters, produced between 1100 and the Count’s death in 1111, that make manifest reference to his experience in the East. See Paul, To Follow in Their Footsteps, p. 41.

(48) Jean Laureau, ‘Les seigneurs du Puiset à la Croisade’, Bulletin de la Société archéologique d’Eure-et-Loire 62 (1999), 23–35; John L. LaMonte, ‘The Lords of le Puiset on Crusade’, Speculum 17 (1942), 100–18.

(49) La chanson d’Antioch, ed. Susanne Duparc-Quioc (Paris, 1976), pp. 171 and 450; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, p. 96.

(50) Susanne Duparc-Quioc, Le cycle de la croisade (Paris, 1955), pp. 39–44.

(52) On French political transformation more generally see Poly and Bournazel, The Feudal Transformation; Achille Luchaire, Histoire des institututions monarchiques de la France sous les premiers Capétiens (987–1180) (Brussels, 1964); Robert Fawtier, The Capetian Kings of France: Monarchy and Nation, 987–1328, trans. Lionel Butler and R. J. Adam (London, 1960); Dominique Barthélemy, L’ordre seigneurial: Xie–XIIe siècle (Paris, 1990); Strayer, On the Medieval Origins of the Modern State; Bull, ‘Introduction’, in France in the Central Middle Ages, pp. 2–3.

(53) Susan Twyman, Papal Ceremonial at Rome in the Twelfth Century (London, 2002), pp. 1–22; Kathleen Ashley, ‘Introduction: The Moving Subjects of Processional Performance’, in Moving Subjects: Processional Performance in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Kathleen Ashley and Wim Hüsken (Amsterdam, 2001), pp. 7–24; Karl Leyser, Rule and Conflict in Early Medieval Society: Ottonian Saxony (Bloomington, 1979), pp. 94–105; Clifford Geertz, ‘Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power’, in Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York, 1983), pp. 121–46.

(p.53) (54) Twyman, Papal Ceremonial, pp. 13–18; Michael McCormack, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge, 1990); Geoffrey Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor: Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, NY, 1992), pp. 289–324; Ernst Kantorowicz, ‘The King’s Advent and the Enigmatic Panels in the Doors of Santa Sabina’, Art Bulletin 26 (1944), 207–31 (pp. 215–16).

(55) Norman Anonymous, Tractates, ed. Heinrich Böhmer, in MGH Libelli de lite 3, pp. 642–87 (p. 667). Cited and discussed in Ernst Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, 1981), pp. 42–61.

(56) Roger Collins, Charlemagne (Toronto, 1998), pp. 43–101.

(57) For a review of the critical texts involved in this tradition see Gabriele, An Empire of Memory, 2, pp. 41–70.

(58) ‘Annales Laureshamenses’, MGH SS 1, pp. 22–32 (p. 35).

(60) Ralph of Caen, ‘Gesta Tancredi’, RHC Oc. 3, pp. 587–716 (p. 714); OV, Vol. V, pp. 170–1. Also see Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, pp. 78–80.

(61) Geoffrey Koziol, ‘England, France, and the Problem of Sacrality in Twelfth-Century Ritual’, in Cultures of Power: Lordship, Status, and Process in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. Thomas N. Bisson (Philadelphia, 1995), pp. 124–48; Bernhard Töpfer, ‘Tendenzen zur Entsakralisierung der Herrscherwürde in der Zeit des Investiturstreites’, Jahrbuch für Geschichte des Feudalismus 6 (1982), 164–71.

(62) Koziol, ‘England, France, and the Problem of Sacrality’, pp. 125–6; Ernst Kantorowicz, Laudes regiae: A Study in Liturgical Acclamations and Medieval Ruler Worship (Berkeley, 1946); H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘The Anglo-Norman Laudes regiae’, Viator 12 (1981), 39–78.

(63) Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor, pp. 133–4. This should be read alongside Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton, 2001); Geoffrey Koziol, ‘The Dangers of Polemic: Is Ritual Still an Interesting Topic of Historical Study?’, Early Medieval Europe 11 (2002), 367–88; Philippe Buc, ‘The Monastery and the Critics: A Ritual Reply’, Early Medieval Europe 15 (2007), 441–54.

(66) Ibid., p. 6.

(68) Hugh of Fleury, Liber qui modernorum regum Francorum continet actus, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 9, pp. 376–95.

(69) Die Briefe Heinrichs IV, ed. Carl Erdman, MGH Deutsches Mittelalter (Leipzig, 1937), pp. 39–40. Discussed in Ian S. Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106 (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 109–10.

(70) William M. Aird, Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy (1054–1134) (Woodbridge, 2008), pp. 191–202. For the possibility of an adventus ceremony at Rouen see OV, Vol. V, pp. 300–1, cited in Aird, Robert Curthose.

(71) Cited in Christopher Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 1096–1588 (Chicago, 1988), p. 23.

(74) Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 1996), p. 454.

(77) George Duby, Medieval Marriage: Two Models from Twelfth-Century France, trans. Elborg Forster (Baltimore, 1978), pp. 28–45.

(78) Ibid.; Marie-Bernadette Bruguière, ‘Canon Law and Royal Weddings, Theory and Practice: The French Example, 987–1215’, in Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Medieval Canon Law, ed. Stanley Chodorow (Vatican, 1992), pp. 473–96.

(79) Duby, Medieval Marriage, p. 30; Sacrorum conciliorum nova, et amplissima collectio, ed. J. D. Mansi, 55 vols (Paris, 1901–27), Vol. XX, p. 815; Robert Sommerville, ‘The French Councils of Pope Urban II: Some Basic Considerations’, Annuarium historiae conciliorum 2 (1970), 98–114; Augustine Fliche, ‘Urbain II et la croisade’, Revue d’histoire de l’Eglise de France 13 (1927), 289–306 (p. 300).

(80) For Urban’s itinerary see Alfons Becker, Papst Urban II. (1088–1099), 2 vols (Stuttgart, 1964–88), Vol. II, pp. 435–58.

(81) Christopher K. Gardner, ‘The Capetian Presence in Berry as a Consequence of the First Crusade’, in Autour de la Première Croisade: Actes du colloque de la Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East (Clermont-Ferrand, 22–25 juin 1995), ed. Michel Balard (Paris, 1996), pp. 71–81 (pp. 75–6).

(82) Jay Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven: The First Crusade and the Quest for Apocalypse (New York, 2011), p. 21.

(83) For conceptualization of this idea see Vincent Ryan, ‘Richard I and the Early Evolution of the Fourth Crusade’, in The Fourth Crusade: Events, Aftermath, and Perceptions, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Aldershot, 2008), pp. 3–14.

(85) In practice this meant that Philip ensured the proper rituals were followed in the marriage, including the gift of a dowry and the celebration by the Bishop of Senlis. Duby, Medieval Marriage, p. 38.

(87) Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, p. 26; Carl Erdmann, The Origin of the Idea of Crusade, trans. Walter Goff art and Marshall W. Baldwin (Princeton, 1977); Ian S. Robinson, ‘Gregory VII and the Soldiers of Christ’, History 58 (1973), 169–92; H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘The Genesis of the Crusades: The Springs of Western Ideas of Holy War’, in The Holy War, ed. T. P. Murphy (Columbus, OH, 1976), pp. 9–32 (pp. 17–21).

(88) GN, pp. 133–4; Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 33–5; Matthew Gabriele, ‘The Provenance of the Descriptio qualiter Karolus Magnus: Remembering the Carolingians in the Entourage of King Philip I (1060–1108) before the First Crusade’, Viator 39 (2008), 93–117 (pp. 113–16).

(p.55) (90) Sacrorum conciliorum nova, Vol. XX, p. 937; La chronique de Saint-Maixent, ed. and trans. Jean Verdon (Paris, 1979), p. 154.

(92) Anna Comnena, The Alexiad, trans. E. R. A. Sewter (Baltimore, 1969), pp. 313–14.

(95) Gallia Christiana in provincias ecclesiasticas distributa, ed. Scévole de Sainte-Marthe and Louis de Sainte-Marthe, 16 vols (Farnborough, 1970), Vol. X, appendix, pp. 424–5 n. 57.

(96) ‘Annales S. Benigni Divionensis’, MGH SS 7, pp. 37–50 (p. 42). Cited and discussed in Bull, ‘The Capetian Monarchy’, 31.

(102) Jonathan Phillips provides a brief introduction to the First Crusade literature in his recent discussion of the years leading up to the Second Crusade. Jonathan Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven, 2010), pp. 17–36. For an alternative approach to the texts see Jean Flori, Chroniqueurs et propagandistes: Introduction critique aux sources de la première croisade (Geneva, 2010).

(103) Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading (Philadelphia, 1986), pp. 132–52; Susan Edgington, ‘The First Crusade: Reviewing the Evidence’, in The First Crusade: Origins and Impact, ed. Jonathan Phillips (Manchester, 1997), pp. 57–77.

(104) John France, ‘Use of the Anonymous Gesta Francorum in the Early Twelfth Century: Sources for the First Crusade’, in From Clermont to Jerusalem: The Crusades and Crusader Societies, 1095–1500, ed. Alan V. Murray (Turnhout, 1998), pp. 29–42; Rubenstein, ‘What Is the Gesta Francorum?’; France, ‘The Anonymous Gesta Francorum; Colin Morris, ‘The Gesta Francorum as Narrative History’, Reading Medieval Studies 19 (1993), 55–71; Kenneth B. Wolf, ‘Crusade and Narrative: Bohemond and the Gesta Francorum’, JMH 17 (1991), 207–16; Harari, ‘Eyewitnessing in Accounts of the First Crusade’.

(105) For manuscript identification see Friedrich Kraft, Heinrich Steinhöwels Verdeutschung der ‘Historia Hierosolymitana’ des Robertus Monachus: Eine literarhistorische Untersuchung (Strasbourg, 1905). Although Knoch identified more than 100 manuscripts, Damien Kempf and Marcus Bull have revised that number to 80, allowing for translations of manuscripts; RM, p. lxv. For discussion of the text see Carol Sweetenham, ‘Introduction’ to Robert the Monk, Robert the Monk’s History of the First Crusade: ‘Historia Iherosolimitana’ (Aldershot, 2005), pp. 1–47; Edgington, ‘The First Crusade’; Georg Marquardt, Die ‘Historia Hierosolymitana’ des Robertus Monachus: Ein quellenkritischer Beitrag zur Geschichte des ersten Kreuzzugs (Königsberg, 1892); Luigi Russo, (p.56) ‘Ricerche sull’ “Historia Iherosolimitana” di Roberto di Reims’, Studi medievali 43 (2002), 651–91.

(107) Peter Knoch, ‘Kreuzzug und Siedlung: Studien zum Aufruf der Magdeburger Kirche von 1108’, Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel und Ostdeutschlands 23 (1974), 1–33.

(109) Hincmar of Reims, Vita sanctii Remigii, PL 125, cols 1129–88. It is also possible that Ralph the Green was particularly upset that the Archbishop of Sens was responsible for the coronation of Louis, as the two bishoprics had been at odds over the right of coronation for several centuries by this point.

(112) As evidence of this, see a charter produced around 1100 at the abbey of Molesme in which a departing crusader describes his intention to follow Hugh to the East as part of the 1101 expedition. Cartulaires de l’abbaye de Molesme, ed. Jacques Laurent, 2 vols (Paris, 1907–11), Vol. II, p. 13, no. 7.

(118) Jay Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York, 2002), pp. 87–95.

(119) GN, p. 82. In fact, Guibert included several negative comments about Philip I and his relationship with the French Church. He was, for instance, the only one of the early-twelfth-century chroniclers to point out that Philip was excommunicated at the Council of Clermont, which certainly was not a move intended to ingratiate himself with the King. Guibert may well have disliked Philip, particularly his relationship with the Church, but the way that the monk treated members of the royal entourage shows that stories about these men were what people wanted to hear around 1108.

(120) Ibid., pp. 105–6.

(121) Ibid., p. 35.

(122) Ibid., p. 228.