THE KING WHO WAS A SAINT

When Prince Louis was only twelve years old, the death of his father made him King Louis IX. Fortunately for the boy, his mother, Queen Blanche, was a very wise woman. She knew that the barons would be likely to refuse to support her son, but they were scattered over the kingdom, and before they could come together and make any definite plots, she had him firmly seated on the throne and the government going on in his name.

Within two weeks after the funeral of his father, Louis was made a knight. There was a long ceremony, of course, but on the same day the court moved to Rheims for the coronation; and that night the young king kept vigil before the altar in the great lonely cathedral. On the following day, although he must have been a very tired and sleepy boy, he walked up to the altar barefooted before a great company of knights, bishops, peers, and peeresses, and there took a solemn oath to be faithful to God and the Church, and to deal justly with his people. He was anointed with the holy oil, the royal scepter of power was placed in his right hand, and the small rod of mercy in his left, and then the crown of France was laid upon his head.

Louis was King of France, and everything was done in his name, but the queen was the real ruler and guardian of her son. In those days people believed that children should be brought up with the greatest severity, and although Queen Blanche loved her son with all her heart, she would have thought herself a weak and foolish woman if she had not treated him with sternness. When he was fourteen, she put him into the hands of a tutor who believed that the upright, obedient boy ought to be whipped every day because it would be good discipline for him. Kings cannot run away, so the boy had to bear it as best he could, and somehow he never lost his kind, gentle disposition and his love of making the people around him happy.

Queen Blanche ruled the land wisely and managed to subdue the turbulent barons. In spite of her strictness, Louis loved her, and even after he came of age to rule by himself, he always set the highest value upon her advice. Kind and thoughtful of others as he was, he would never yield when he was sure that he was in the right. He gave careful consideration to the question whether he ought not to return Normandy to England; but when some of the French barons tried to get possession of portions of the land properly belonging to the crown, he would not give up a single inch. To his own brother he said, “Charles, there must be only one king in France.”

Although Louis stood so resolutely for his rights, he was full of sympathy for all in need. With his own hands he cared for lepers too loathsome for others to touch. In remembrance of Jesus’ washing the feet of his disciples, this humble sovereign washed the feet of poor beggars one day of each week. He even bore it patiently when one of the beggars found fault with him for not doing the work more thoroughly. It is no wonder that even during his lifetime he was known as “Saint Louis.”

But this royal saint had a keen sense of humor, and was never at a loss for a witty reply. At festivals and on all public occasions he always dressed handsomely, but aside from this he wore such simple clothes that his wife objected. “You wish me to wear costly stuffs,” he said to her; “but since the wedding law holds that the wife must please the husband and the husband the wife, you must, in your turn, be kind enough to put off all your fine attire. You conform to my ways and I to yours.” When some one ventured to hint that he was giving too much time to prayer, he said, “But no one would criticize me for giving as much time to hunting or to dice; why, then, should I be blamed for spending the time in praying?”

Of course King Louis was deeply interested in the crusades, and he must have often longed earnestly but vainly to take part in them. He was never strong, and after a while the time came when he was dangerously ill. Throughout the whole land the churches were crowded with people praying for his recovery. His subjects fasted, they gave alms, they made long processions, they did everything that they hoped would win the favor of Heaven to spare the life of their beloved king; but Louis grew worse and worse. The day came when, in spite of doctors and the holiest relics of Saint Denis, the king, who had long been unconscious, was apparently dead, and one of the nurses drew a cloth over his face. Suddenly from under the cloth there came a feeble voice, “God hath brought me back from the shadow of death,” and the weeping was changed to rejoicing.

It was but a little while before Louis sent for the Bishop of Paris. “Bring me the cross of a crusader,” he commanded. The bishop tried his best to dissuade him, but Louis insisted, and finally the cross was laid upon his breast. After he had recovered, Queen Blanche, bishops, and courtiers all told him in what danger he would leave his kingdom if he went on a crusade. They reminded him that when he took the cross he was too feeble to be responsible for what he was doing. Louis quietly handed the cross back to the bishop. Then he said, “I lack now neither sense nor reason; I am not weak, and I am not at the point of death; and now I demand my cross back again.”

Of course many knights followed his example and put on the cross, but more were needed, and to induce them to go he played a little trick upon them. It was his custom to give each of his nobles a handsome cloak at the door of the church when they came to Mass at dawn on Christmas morning. Behold, when they had come through the darkness into the candlelight of the church and knelt in prayer, every man saw on the shoulder of each of his neighbors an embroidered cross. They took the trick good-naturedly, however, and called the king a new hunter of pilgrims and fisher of men.

King and nobles made their wills, said their farewells, and set sail to cross the Mediterranean. It was a gorgeous display. The sails of the ships were of scarlet, gold, green, or purple, and the ships themselves were painted in all the colors of the rainbow. When at length they reached Egypt, the eager king sprang ashore into water breast-high, the first of the band of crusaders. “Montjoie Saint Denis!” they shouted as they pushed on against the Saracens.

So brave a beginning ought to have led to success, but there was trouble almost from the first. They were besieged by the Saracens; pestilence and starvation were upon them. The king himself was terribly ill. Thousands of the crusaders were shut into a court with a single door. Through this door they were led out one by one. “Will you become a follower of Mohammed?” was asked of each. Those who refused were beheaded on the instant. King Louis would willingly have been among the martyrs, but he was a king, and his captors could get an enormous ransom for him; surely they were not so foolish as to let harm befall him. Handsome clothes were provided, and a friar who knew both French and Arabic was allowed to attend him; but before they discovered what was going on, the earnest prisoner was trying his best to convert his jailers to Christianity by means of this interpreter. Some of the wild Saracens demanded that he should make them knights; but he steadfastly refused to give the blessing of Christ to heathen arms, even though refusing this request endangered his life. At last a treaty was made, the ransom was paid, and the king and his followers were allowed to go free. One of them reported with great glee that the Saracens had gone off with only part of the promised ransom. The king overheard this. “Go after them,” he commanded, “and see to it that the amount is paid in full.” Those who had not died either in battle or in prison sailed for home. The crusade was a failure.

The power of the Saracens increased. The Christians had a strip of coast land, but they were being rapidly driven from even that. “The cross is conquered. God sleeps!” was the wail that came to the king’s ears. Seventeen years after his first crusade Louis prepared for a second. He was so feeble that he had to be carried in the arms of a man to church and convent to make his farewells. All knew that the king would never return, but he went away happily, less in the hope of conquest than in the longing to win his enemies for Christ. Pestilence and the hot winds of the desert overcame what little strength remained to him. By his orders sacking was spread over a bed of cinders, and there the beloved king was laid to die. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem!” he murmured. “Lord, have pity on Thy people whom I have led here. Send them to their homes in safety. Let them not fall into the hands of Thy enemies, nor let them be forced to deny Thy Holy Name.”

So died Saint Louis, the blameless king, and so ended the crusades. Jerusalem remained in the hands of the Turks until, in 1917, it was captured by General Allenby of the British army.