On the tombstone of Count Raimon VI. the following two lines, in Provençal, were engraved:—

that is—‘No man on earth, how great a lord he may be, can drive me from my land but for the Church.’ These lines are taken from a narrative of the crusade against the Albigenses, in the langue d’oc—a work equally interesting as a contemporary source of history, and as a literary document. In the latter respect alone it concerns us here, and the reader is asked to consider the preceding historic remarks mainly as a necessary elucidation of the following extracts. A few dates as to the genesis and character of the poem itself may perhaps be welcome.

The ‘Song of the Crusade against the Albigeois’ is evidently written by an eye-witness of many of the events described, and was, no doubt, at its first appearance, what we should call a most successful book. Its popularity is proved by the quotation already alluded to, as also by the fact that at an early date an abridgment of its contents in prose, for more popular use, was found necessary. In spite of this, only one manuscript⁠[27] of the poem has reached our time. It was edited amongst the ‘Documents inédits sur l’histoire de France,’ by the well-known scholar, M. Fauriel, in 1837. The author of the poem is by no means reticent as to his identity or merits. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ he opens his poem, after the manner of his time, ‘here begins the song which Master W(illiam) made; a clerk who was brought up at Tudela, in Navarra. He is wise and valorous, as the story says, and he was much cherished by clerks and laymen. Counts and viscounts loved him, and trusted his advice, owing to the destruction which he knew and foresaw by means of geomancy, which he had studied long. And he knew that the country would be burnt and laid waste, because of the foolish belief it had adopted.’

But in spite of this emphatic declaration, M. Fauriel saw reason to call in question not only the authorship, but the very existence of the wise clerk of Tudela. The pretension of proficiency in the black art boldly put forward, seemed to him a suspicious circumstance, and his doubt was confirmed by linguistic difficulties, into which we cannot enter here. These latter, however, have been conclusively solved by more recent scholars, and William’s posthumous fame would be securely established, but for another circumstance fatal to at least part of his claim. Fauriel already had pointed out that after about the first third of the poem—at verse 2769 later scholars have determined—a sudden change takes place in the author’s opinions. Hitherto he has been a warm defender of the crusaders; the French invaders are called ‘our French barons,’ and the author would be thankful to any one ‘who would hang those robbers and villains who kill the crusaders.’ Folquet, the zealous Bishop of Toulouse, seems to him to have ‘no equal in kindness’ (‘degus de bontat ab el no s’aparelha’); and Simon de Montfort, the great enemy of Provence, is described as a ‘good cavalier, liberal and brave and kindly, sweet-tempered and open-hearted, and of good understanding.’ The heretical creed the author calls, as has been said, a ‘fola crezensa,’ and the full measure of his wrath is emptied on its adherents. He complacently relates the cruelties committed against them, and objects only to the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent and guilty.

But all this is changed in the second portion of the poem. The French have now become ‘homicides’ and ‘men of the sword;’ sometimes even the uncomplimentary epithet of ‘taverners,’ or pothouse-keepers, is applied to them. Folquet is summarily alluded to as the ‘avesque felon,’ or ‘wicked bishop;’ and the Pope himself is reproached with his cruelty to Raimon. But the most striking contrast between the two portions of the poem becomes apparent in the judgment of Simon de Montfort’s character. The author’s hatred against him in the second part vents itself in bitterest invective, and is not appeased by death itself. The description of the great leader’s fall in our poem is extremely vivid; it is painted with the colours of hatred. At the same time the triumph at the enemy’s fall bears involuntary witness to his greatness. Simon is besieging Toulouse, the rebellious capital of the dominions lately granted to him by the Pope, and the author describes an assault made by the crusaders, and valiantly repelled by the inhabitants. Montfort, incensed at the little progress made by his troops, is complaining to his brother, who has just been hit by an arrow. There was in the city, the author continues, a machine for throwing stones, worked by women, both girls and matrons. A stone is thrown, and goes ‘straight where it ought to go.’ This ‘ought to go’ is an admirable trait of the fatalism of hatred. ‘It hits,’ the author continues, evidently gloating over the details, ‘Count Simon on his helmet, with such force that his eyes and brain, and the top of his head, and his forehead, and his jaws, are knocked to pieces. And the Count falls to the ground, dead, and bleeding, and black.’

The terror and grief caused by this sudden event amongst the crusaders are then briefly alluded to, but the author is again in his element when he describes the unbounded joy of the besieged, fully shared by himself. The suggestions of making a martyr and saint of Simon, in his epitaph, the author treats with the utmost scorn. ‘If by killing men,’ he says, ‘and shedding blood, by destroying souls and consenting to murder, by trusting in false counsels and by incendiarism, by ruining the barons and shaming nobility, by fostering evil and crushing good, by the massacre of women and children, one can gain Jesus Christ in this world, then Simon must wear a crown and shine in heaven.’

It is difficult to believe that the same hand which thus heaped shame on Simon’s grave should have penned the eulogistic lines of the first part of the poem, particularly if one considers that the change of opinion from the particular point formerly alluded to coincides with certain metrical and dialectical variations totally overlooked by Fauriel, but since pointed out by M. Paul Meyer. The theory of there being only one author, however, has by no means been totally abandoned. Its champions explain the revolution in the poet’s feeling partly from the impression made on him by the cruelties of the invaders, partly from a change in his situation during the interval of several years, which undoubtedly lies between the end of the first and the commencement of the second part of his work. Into the philological details of this interesting controversy this is not the place to enter. Suffice it to say that, all things considered, the dualistic supposition seems to be decidedly the more probable of the two, both on external and internal grounds.

One or two specimens from the interesting poem must serve the reader to judge of the poetic gift of William, or whoever the author or authors may have been. It has already been said that in his dealings with Count Raimon the conduct of Innocent III. himself was marked by greater leniency than that of his legates. This feature in the Pope’s character has suggested to our author a most curious scene, which he introduces into his elaborate account of the Council of the Lateran in 1215. Raimon of Toulouse, the Count of Foix, and several others of the threatened nobles of Provence, attended personally to plead their cause before the Holy Father. The legates and many of the local clergy of the south of France—the implacable Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, foremost amongst them—upheld the claims of Simon de Montfort. A long and passionate dispute on the subject between the Count of Foix and the Bishop of Toulouse is given verbatim. The Pope tries to quiet them. ‘Friends, justice shall be done,’ he exclaims. At last he retires for a few minutes to his orchard. But the zealous prelates will not let him rest. The Pope asks for a few minutes of reflection. He opens a book, and concludes from the passage that first meets his eye that the Count of Toulouse may yet hold his own. ‘My lords,’ he says to the prelates, ‘I cannot agree with you. How can I disinherit the Count, who is a true Catholic?’ But the prelates do not, it appears, believe in book messages. They clamour against the sentence, and Folquet, the most dangerous of all, unites his sweet persuasion with their violent remonstrance. The Archbishop of Auch and—awful to relate—three hundred cardinals follow suit. No wonder that the poor Pope at last grants the decree in Simon’s favour. ‘My lords,’ he finally exclaims, ‘the cause is decided. The Count (Raimon) is a Catholic, and of loyal conduct; but let Simon hold the lands.’

These speeches cannot be accepted in their literal meaning, any more than those found in the pages of Xenophon or Thucydides. The circumstance also of the Pope deciding clearly and confessedly against his own conscience is evidently the high-coloured statement of a partisan of the oppressed Count. (The scene, it must be remembered, occurs in the second and anti-clerical division of the poem.) But the incidents are related with so much freshness of individual characterisation that the author’s intimate acquaintance with the persons and events described cannot be doubted for a moment. At any rate it is a quaint picture, and not without historic significance, to see the great Pontiff, the breaker of thrones and the umpire of nations, quailing under the storm of fanaticism raised by himself. Moreover, the idea which suggested the situation to the poet is not without its grain of sober truth. For, as has already been said, it is an historic fact that Innocent III. on several occasions showed an unfortunately abortive desire to protect Raimon against the unfettered rage of legates and monks.

From the council-chamber we follow our author to the battle-field. Here, also, he is perfectly at home, and his descriptions, although naturally less attractive as regards psychological observation, are none the less vigorous and interesting. There is the true ring of the ‘chanson de geste,’ the genuine popular epic, in his lines. A few historic remarks must precede our quotation. The reader will remember the name of Peter II., the valiant king of Aragon, whose sister was the wife of Raimon of Toulouse. Although by no means favourably inclined towards the heretics, Peter could not calmly look on while his brother-in-law was despoiled of his heritage. His attempts at mediation between Raimon and Simon de Montfort were many. He appealed to the Pope and the King of France. At last, when his peaceful efforts proved in vain, he resolved to brave temporal and eternal perils rather than forsake his friend. He assembled a large army, and in September 1213 joined his forces with those of the Count of Toulouse. The immediate object of the allies was the siege of Muret, a small fortified town, not far from Toulouse, into which Simon had thrown himself. I now leave the word to the old chronicler.

‘The good King of Aragon, on his good charger, is come to Muret, and has raised his banner and laid siege to the town with many rich vassals whom he has called from their fiefs. He has brought with him the flower of Catalonia, and many great knights from Aragon. They think that no one will offer resistance to them, or dare to attack them. He sends a message to the husband of his sister at Toulouse to join him with his barons and his army and his warlike men. He (the king) is ready to restore their fiefs to the Count of Cominges and all his relations; after that he will go to Beziers, and from Montpelier to Rocamador he will not leave a single crusader in castle or tower. All shall die a miserable death. The brave Count, when he hears the message, is well pleased, and goes straight to the Capitol.’

The next tirade⁠[28] relates to the deliberations of the Count of Toulouse with the chief magistrates of his city, whom, in accordance with the freedom enjoyed by the burgesses of Provence, he has to consult on this important occasion. It further describes the departure of the army, and winds up with a truly epical prognostication of their tragic fate. ‘They arrive before Muret, where they were to lose all their own; so much beautiful armour and so many valiant men. Great pity it was, so help me God, and the whole world felt the loss.’

‘The whole world felt the loss, believe me I speak truth. Paradise itself was shaken and damaged and all Christendom shamed and downcast. But listen, sirs, how the thing came to pass. Assembled are at Muret the good King of Aragon and the Count of St. Giles, with his barons, and all the citizens and commonalty of Toulouse. They mount their stone-throwing machines, and batter the walls of Muret on all sides. They enter the new town all together, and the French who are there are so hard pressed that they have all to seek shelter in the castle. At once a messenger is sent to the king. “Sir King of Aragon, know for true that the men of Toulouse have done so well that, by your leave, they have taken the city. They have destroyed the houses, and driven the French into the castle.” When the king hears this he is not well pleased. He goes to the consuls of Toulouse and admonishes them to leave the men of Muret in peace. “We should be foolish,” he says, “in taking the town, for I have had a letter—a sealed message—to say that Simon de Montfort will to-morrow enter the town, and when he is once enclosed in it, and when my cousin Nunos has arrived, we will attack the town on all sides, and take all the French and crusaders captive.”’

The troops vacate Muret accordingly, and retire to their tents. They have hardly sat down to dinner when Simon, with a band of chosen knights, appears and at once enters the city. ‘The river was shining with their helmets and their blades as if it were made of crystal. Never, by St. Martial, were so many brave vassals seen among so small a band.’

The night is passed by the two armies in preparations for the morrow’s combat. Disagreement reigns in the camp of the allies. In the council of war the Count of Toulouse, who does not wish to risk a pitched battle with his army of citizens, and advises the fortification of the camp, is cried down by hot-headed fools, and no plan is finally agreed upon. The confusion of the leaders naturally grows worse confounded amongst the motley crowd of soldiers and ill-trained citizens. Simon de Montfort’s scheme, on the other hand, is devised with masterly skill. He desires what Count Raimon tries to avoid—a pitched battle in the open country. Bishop Folquet gives his blessing to the departing army. The catastrophe foreshadowed in the manner alluded to is told briefly, in accordance with the rapidity of the actual disaster.

‘They (the French) march straight to the tents across the fens, their banners floating in the air. The whole meadow is resplendent with their gilt armour. When the good King of Aragon sees them he awaits them with a small number of followers. But the people of Toulouse come running by. They listen neither to king nor count. They never hear a word till the French are come, who all rush to where they know the king to be. He cries out, “I am the king,” but they hear him not, and so cruelly is he wounded, that his blood is shed over the land, and there he fell down, at full length, dead. The others who behold him give themselves over for lost. Every one flies. No one defends himself. The French follow at their heels and kill them all. And so roughly have they handled them that those who escape with their lives think themselves delivered indeed.’ A general stampede of the men of Toulouse, who had remained in the camp, and many of whom are now drowned in the swollen waves of the Garonne, forms the closing scene of this wild battle piece. ‘All their goods,’ the poet once more complains, ‘remained in the camp, and the loss was greatly felt all the world over. For many a man there remained lying on the ground quite dead. Great is the pity!’

Such is the description of the battle of Muret by a contemporary, most likely an eye-witness. For here again the characters of the different leaders, their speeches, and their demeanour, are sketched with a boldness of individualisation which can have been derived from personal knowledge alone. As a historic source, the work under discussion is absolutely invaluable. English students especially ought to give it every attention. For the struggle which it describes involved questions of the utmost importance to the continental dependencies of the English crown.

It ought to be added, that the battle of Muret was a fatal blow to Raimon’s cause, from which it never recovered. For years he continued the fight; but it was a struggle against fate, a hope against hope. A different issue of that day might have changed the development of France. It might also have given new and lasting vitality to the Reformation of the thirteenth century.