Vol. 167: A haunting medieval tale

What Pete Hegseth didn’t tell us about the Crusades

I was a ten-year-old camper at Camp MacJannet in the French Alps, summer of 1952, when I first heard the haunting tale of the Lady of Angon, whose idyllic marriage on the incomparably beautiful shores of Lake Annecy was shattered by a Satanic force that neither she nor her devoted Crusader husband could comprehend. That legend had been passed down among Savoyards for centuries.

In one version, the Lady’s husband roamed the four corners of the Earth to retrieve a shooting star that she coveted; in another, he abandoned her to join the Crusades. In the 20^th Century, the legend was most prominently sustained by our camp’s co-director, Charlotte MacJannet, a master storyteller whose camp was situated in the village of Angon itself, and who unfailingly dressed for her performances in the Savoyard costume— a long black dress, topped by a black-and-gold headdress with a high crown— presumably worn by the Lady of Angon. (Below, Charlotte in costume, c. 1975.)

The moral of the story, Charlotte sometimes suggested, was: “Be careful what you seek; you may already have your heart’s desire.” For the most part, however, she left her audiences to draw their own conclusions.

The following story, first published in 1985, represents my own attempt to derive meaning from this seemingly inexplicable legend. I concluded that the Crusader’s real transgression lay in the original Crusade itself. It seems relevant now, if only because Pete Hegseth, the U.S. secretary of War, has a history of defending the Crusades. Those who enjoy Western civilization, he wrote in 2020, should “thank a Crusader.” But you can decide for yourself. (First of two parts.)

Above: The southern end of Lake Annecy. In the background on the left, jutting into the lake, is the village of Angon, once home of Robert of Savoie and his wife Bernoline, Lady of Angon (and also, centuries later, of Camp MacJannet). On the far side, also jutting into the water, is the Chateau of Duingt, where Robert found himself stranded on the night of December 31, 1099.

AN APPOINTMENT AT ANGON: Part I

More than 900 years have passed since Bernoline, the beautiful Lady of Angon, sold her worldly goods, left her castle by the bucolic shores of Lake Annecy, and set off across Western Europe in search of her beloved husband, Robert of Savoie, who sold his soul to the Devil on the last night of the 11th Century and vanished ten years later, never to be seen or heard from again.

To say that Bernoline’s quest consumed a lifetime would be an understatement, for in fact it consumed several lifetimes: Toward the end of what should have been her natural days— her delicate face now gaunt and wrinkled, her last gown reduced to tatters— the Lady of Angon sat huddled on the steps of Strasbourg Cathedral, cold and hungry. Yet when, with a final shrug of resignation, she surrendered her last crust of bread to a beggar woman, the beggar revealed herself as an angel of God, empowered to reward the Lady for her selflessness.

“1 cannot find your husband for you,” said the angel, “but I can grant you the gift of eternal life with which to continue your search.”

And so Bernoline’s quest persisted for hundreds of years, sustained by nothing more than her love for her lost husband. Such was her purity and determination that ultimately— sometime in the 14^th Century, at Regensburg, I believe— the Devil himself was moved to compassion for her plight. He bade her return to her decaying castle at Angon; there, he said, on the first day of spring, one of the travelers passing along the road by her front door would be her husband, albeit in a different physical form.

“If you can recognize him,” said the Devil, “then you may have him.”

Bernoline did as he said and awaited the appointed day with great anticipation. From the moment the sun rose on that day, she was outside her front door, rushing up to each passerby, gripping him by the shoulders, examining him meticulously for some sign— the eyes, the hair, the nose, the touch of skin, the aroma, the sound of voice— that would reveal him as her dear Robert. But to no avail.

When the last traveler had vanished into the sunset that evening, the Lady was forced to acknowledge that her centuries of sacrifice had been in vain— and, worse, that on this day she had actually beheld her husband without knowing him. For hundreds of years, she had lived on nothing but hope; now, bereft even of that, Bernoline threw herself from the Roc de Chère, intending to drown in Lake Annecy.

But of course, she could do no such thing, having been granted immortality by the angel in Strasbourg. So from that time forward the Lady remained in a grotto beneath the Roc de Chère, where it is said that even today, in the evening stillness, you can hear her weeping— a woman suspended for eternity between heaven and Earth within her own personal hell.

How could a just Providence permit such a fate to befall such a saintly woman? Even more perplexing, how could her husband— the equally virtuous Robert— have been enticed into the service of the Devil?

Robert was, by all accounts, a devoted and loving husband. a dutiful knight and a devout Christian who asked nothing of life but the opportunity to serve his Lady, to protect his community, and to fight the Devil for the greater glory of the Lord. In those days, it was assumed that every living soul, at some point, would be tested by the Devil; the greatest challenge of life was to prepare for that moment in order to recognize the Devil and resist his blandishments. Those who passed the test would gain entry not merely to the kingdom of Heaven, but to serenity on Earth as well.

So when, as a young knight from Duingt, Robert was betrothed to the Lady of Angon just across the lake, he could hardly believe his good fortune. He had not yet confronted the Devil, but he found himself living with a kind and beautiful young, orphaned wife in her splendid chateau in what must certainly be the most beautiful spot on Earth. And therein lay Robert’s problem: As a man of conscience, he felt undeserving of all this happiness.

His unworthiness gnawed at him as the years passed. Bernoline asked nothing of him other than his love and companionship, but Robert demanded more of himself. He was convinced that he did not deserve Bernoline’s love because he had not yet earned it.

So, in the year 1095, when Pope Urban II issued his call for a great Crusade to recapture Jerusalem from the Turks, it seemed the answer to Robert’s prayers. The young knight who felt he had served no useful purpose would now serve the greatest cause of all: that of the Lord.

Bernoline begged Robcrt not to abandon her. The Holy Land was thousands of miles away, she said; the Crusaders would be gone for years— if indeed they returned at all— and she might never see him again. But Robert had made up his mind: There could be no pleasure on Earth without pain, he told her; no joy without sorrow; no salvation without sacrifice.

Thus in the spring of 1096 Robert left Angon and rode off to join the army of Godfrey of Bouillon, and that army was joined outside Cologne by vast armies from all over Western Europe, led by Raymond of Toulouse, Robert Curthose of Normandy, Stephen Henry of Blois, Count Hugh of Vermandois, Bohemund of Apulia, and the German Count Emich of Leisingen, as well as thousands of peasants drawn there solely by the magnetism of the charismatic preacher Peter the Hermit, a small dark man who went barefoot and traveled on an ass, in imitation of Jesus.

Robert, who had never ventured beyond the Savoie, could not help but be awed by the sight of these legions, all gathered in common cause on a hill overlooking the Rhine in April of 1096 to receive Peter the Hermit’s benediction. This remarkable holy man— who appeared to Robert as a mere pinprick on the horizon, yet whose voice rang out with a power and clarity that could have come only from God Himself— explained that the Crusade was no ordinary military expedition, but a final confrontation between the forces of God and the Devil. Its goal was neither territory nor earthly goods, but salvation.

Not every Crusader would reach Jerusalem, Peter warned, but every Crusader could assure his salvation by stamping out nonbelievers wherever they flourished— not only the Muslim Turks at the gates of Jerusalem but infidels throughout the world, including the Jews who lived openly and unashamedly right here along the Rhine. Indeed, said Peter, it would be an affront to God to set out on any holy mission without first avenging he Crucifixion by spilling the blood of the Jews. Nor should any Crusader be deceived by the apparent harmlessness and helplessness of these Jews, for that was precisely the Devil’s way of disguising his agents so as to play on the natural sympathies of soldiers of God.

As Peter’s words wafted out over the assembled throng, as tens of thousands of armored knees bent in dedication to the task ahead, a strange feeling of wonder coursed through Robert’s veins. He, who had thought himself a mere reed of grass in the mind of God, powerless and meaningless, was now an instrument of an immense machine armed with holy might!

Robert had never spilled human blood, but when the killing began, he had the reassurance of Peter the Hermit to sustain him. Outside the synagogue of Speyer, which the Crusaders surrounded on May 3^rd, Robert found himself running his sword through an old Jew who had attempted to flee. In the days that followed, his initial horror faded with each new victim, for it was just as Peter the Hermit had said: The Jews appeared harmless on the surface, yet on the critical question— conversion to Christianity— they invariably refused, preferring death instead, and thus one could stamp them out with as little compunc­tion as one felt upon squashing a cockroach.

And yet in the weeks to come Robert was to reflect that the Devil was, if anything, even more devious than Peter the Hermit had suggested. ln Worms, the Bishop himself had sheltered the Jews in his castle until the Crusaders rooted them out and slaughtered them. In Cologne, the Bishop had dispersed the Jews to hide in neighbor­ing communities. At Trier, the Bishop had gone into hiding with the Jews of his city. It had seemed inconceivable to Robert that princes of the Church could be agents of the Devil. But this evidence of the Devil’s power and cleverness merely reinforced Robert’s determination to eliminate Satan’s agents from the face of the Earth.

And so the slaughter of nonbelievers— as well as Christians who appeared to sympathize with nonbelievers— continued through Bohemia, through Hungary, through Turkey and all the way to the Holy Land.

Unlike some of his comrades, Robert never came to enjoy this task, never became inured to the screams of women and children being flung into the Rhine, the Moldau, and the Danube. On the contrary, the killing sickened him. But he rejoiced at the knowledge that he was sparing others from this unpleasant but necessary duty and, indeed, cleansing the world for all time to come.

For three years— until the Crusaders stood within the shadow of the walls of Jerusalem itself— this conviction sustained Robert and served to allay the doubts festering beneath his consciousness. But then, in the heat of battle at the siege of Jerusalem in June of 1099, some force far more powerful than a sword or rock struck Robert in the back of the head, knocking him from his horse. In that moment— as swords and limbs flew about him and blood splattered his face— an angel appeared before Robert, and through her he clearly heard the voice of the Lord.

“’This is not my work,” said the voice. “These soldiers are not my people. My ways are the paths of peace and love. Leave this place at once and hasten to the side of the one you love. Do not tarry here another minute. For if you fail to reach your loved one before the end of the year, you will never see her again.”

At this moment— dismounted from his horse— Robert stood in imminent peril of his life, yet this vision rendered him impervious to danger, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. Suddenly the Lord’s mysterious ways were clear at last. The Lord had brought Robert through all that butchery to the gates of Jerusalem but no farther in order to teach him a lesson: The kingdom of God is no walled fortress to be breached by the forces of death; on the contrary, God’s kingdom is all about us, but it can be reached only through the forces of love that we release within ourselves.

A wave of nausea passed through Robert as he contemplated the terrible acts he had committed over the past three years. But when his vomiting was finished, he felt purged of all sin. As if in a trance, he arose, threw down his sword and shield, flung off his helmet and armor, mounted his steed and fled from the battle.

It had taken three years to reach the Holy Land; now the Lord had given him barely six months in which to return. But that did not matter to Robert: The power of love would carry him forward. Now he was a soldier no longer; unencumbered by hatred, threatening no man and consequently fearing none, he could fly to his Lady if he so chose.

To be sure, the power of love and determination can carry a man just so far, especially traveling alone on primitive roads through dark forests and muddy marshes. Nevertheless, by December Robert had reached the foot of the Alps; by the first day of Christmas he had crossed the Col de la Forclaz into Savoie, and by sundown on the 31st of December Robert had arrived triumphantly at the base of Lake Annecy, only two hours’ ride from Angon when some six hours still remained before the Lord’s appointed deadline.

But darkness having already set in on this shortest day of the year, Robert failed to perceive the familiar outline of the lake before him; and so, relying in his haste on the stars to guide him, he committed a fatal mistake. For the outline of Lake Annecy resembles the print of a boot pointed north; Angon sits on the eastern side of this boot. Robert, thinking only of the need to head north, accidentally followed the North Star up the western shore of the lake. Thus, in the chilling final hours of this final day of the 11th Century, as Robert exuberantly urged his horse onward, he was actually galloping away from Angon and from the woman he loved.

In the dead dark of night, arriving hours later at a castle which he took for his own, Robert knocked on the front door. only to be mystified when he was greeted not by his Lady but by his own father: Guillaume of Duingt, master of the Chateau de Duingt.

“My father!” Robert exclaimed. “What brings you to my home?”

“Nearly four years you have been gone,” Guillaume replied. “Your journey has disoriented you. This is my home. Yours is across the lake.”

We can imagine the blood draining from Robert’s handsome face at this moment and the knot tightening in his stomach as this guileless young knight— so ecstatic only a moment before— now grasped the enormity of his mistake.

“No!” he cried, sagging against the wall. “It cannot be!” Then, desperately, still hoping to correct his error: “What time is it?”

Clocks as we know them did not exist in those days, but it happened that the Chateau de Duingt housed a water clock whose toothed wheel turned a pointer that gradually moved from one hour-mark to the next.

“It lacks a few minutes of ten o’clock,” Guillaume replied. “But come— you have been gone nearly four years; your l.ady will forgive you one more night. Rest here now, my son, and you can continue on to Angon and your Lady in the morning.”

“No!” Robert shouted, flailing his arms wildly about. “I must arrive at Angon by midnight!”

ln a blind frenzy, he ran from the castle to the lake shore, oblivious to the thorns and branches scraping his face in the pitch darkness. It was even as his father had said: Here was the lake, and there, just a few hundred yards on the other side, was the Castle of Angon. A boat could cross the lake at that point within the hour, but there would be no boat on such a dark and frozen night as this. And to circle the lake on horseback would consume the better part of a day.

Across the lake Robert saw a light burning in the Castle of Angon. He even believed that he saw the Lady of Angon herself, waiting for him at the window. Then the light went out and all about him was blackness. Robert put his face in his hands. All hope, all strength. all of the exhilaration he had felt just a few minutes before had left him. All is lost, he told himself. My life is over, for I will never see my Lady again. And he collapsed at the water’s edge.

***
When Robert awoke, he became vaguely aware of something stirring out on the lake. The sound on the lake grew closer now— the splish of wooden oars dipping into water, the groan of a wooden hull scraping against rock and soil, only a few feet from the spot where Robert was sitting.

In the darkness Robert could see nothing, but now he heard a footstep and felt a branch quiver. Robert stood deathly still. Some presence, whether human or animal, was hovering scant inches from him.

Then he saw the glowing eyes and heard the voice, and in that millisecond— even before the voice had uttered its first syllable— Robert understood why he was here, understood how the disparate pieces of his life had conspired to bring him to this time and place, to the ultimate test for which every living mortal must prepare, and from which no living mortal can escape.

“My friend,” said the voice, “perhaps I can offer some assistance.”

(To be concluded next week.)

Enjoy Dan Rottenberg’s newest book, The Price We Paid: An Oral History of Penn’s Struggle to Join the Ivy League, 1950-55. You can also visit his website at www.danrottenberg.com