There weren’t many police officers in the medieval world. And, when you see what they got up to, that is perhaps just as well.
The bailli, or chief of police, of Arras in the late thirteenth century, for instance, was an infamous individual by the name of Jehan de Beauquesne. He was so notoriously corrupt that he was eventually arraigned by the count of Artois for his offences. The scale of his wrongdoing was impressive—no less than fifty criminal cases with which he had been involved were retrospectively investigated for possible bribery, extortion, and other illegal practices. Almost everything he touched was corrupt.
Rat in the Arras
One example of his activities was the murder of a certain Jehan de Feuchi in 1294. On an otherwise quiet night in Arras, Jehan de Beauquesne and his sidekicks were summoned to the scene of a violent crime. A corpse—that of the late Mr de Feuchi—lay on the ground. The fight which had culminated in his murder had been watched by many bystanders, eight of whom were still there when the police arrived—ostensibly, this was an open and shut case.
Except that it wasn’t. The murderer, a man named Robert de Cans, was allowed to leave the scene—and the police decided not to press charges, even though the crime was of the most serious kind. It was later established that the murderer had paid them off. Presumably, the witnesses were Robert’s friends, who could be relied upon to give false testimony—or perhaps they too had been bribed to stay quiet. Most said, entirely implausibly given the presence of a dead body, that the alleged crime had never taken place.
An Open and Shut Case?
Another example was just as shocking. Two men—Wauteron Li Buriers and Sousse Soumillons—raped a woman just outside the city walls of Arras. The incident had taken place in broad daylight and in front of witnesses. Again, one might imagine, this was an open and shut case. But no. Bailli Beauquesne opened up discussions with the rapists’ friends and dropped all charges in return for a suitable cash payment.
Sometimes, when the case was less serious, or when he knew that there was less money to extort, he would not even charge much to pervert the course of justice—Jehan had his own sliding scale of corruption. In the aftermath of a drunken fight in 1294, for example, which ended in what we might call today ‘wounding with intent,’ Beauquesne asked the assailants’ friends to pay for it all to go away—but, when no money was forthcoming, he said he was prepared to drop the matter altogether in return for some wine. ‘Justice’ could be cheap.
The count of Arras did his best to root out the problem—his investigators found that Beauquesne had a crude, and consistently corrupt, business model. His standard approach was to draw up charges verbally, put the consequences to the guilty men and their friends—and then offer to drop all charges in return for a cash sum or, where that was not possible, as we have seen, for goods or services in lieu.
Happy Ever After?
The bailli was found guilty of taking massive bribes, over a period of several years, in order to pervert the course of justice. He was dismissed from his office. So far, so good—medieval justice, one might think, was admittedly slow to stop his corrupt ways, but at least it had eventually brought him to justice.
It was not such a clear-cut, happy ending, however. Within three years, we find the irrepressible Beauquesne back working in the senior ranks of law enforcement, this time as bailli of nearby St Omer. Money and contacts had presumably allowed him to jump back into the upper echelons of the moneymaking scam that passed for policing in thirteenth-century France.
The crusader states’ Muslim neighbours had their own equivalent experiences and anecdotes—the role of ‘chief of police’ was closely associated with criminality, but not always in the way one might expect.
The Mean Streets of Aleppo
18th-century vew of the city and castle of Aleppo – British Library 457.e.2, between 184-185
Taking a single Muslim city as an example, in this case Aleppo at the beginning of the twelfth century, we get a sense of the complex and infinitely corrupt world of the medieval police chiefs of Syria. In 1097, the chief of police in Aleppo was a man named Boukat.
Boukat was, by the standards of the time, almost over-qualified for his post. His nickname was ‘the Madman’ and, as if that was not enough, Kemal ed-Din, a local chronicler, described him as one who was used to associating with “good-for-nothings, rogues, highway robbers and debauched people.” Ironically, of course, it was this intimate knowledge of the local underworld which had helped him get the job in the first place.
Boukat served under three of the lords of Aleppo, during which time he created a one-man crime wave of his own—at one point he even had the Vizier Abou Nasr strangled to death because of a trivial dispute about the price of some rugs. Foolishly, he eventually over-reached himself—he felt strong enough to start a rebellion of his own against Ridwan, the ruler of Aleppo (r. 1095-1113), and hoped to use the urban militia as his own army.
The Crime Wave Continues
His successor as police chief, however, a man named Ibn-Bedi, was still in control of the local military forces, and he persuaded the militia to desert their old boss. ‘The Madman’ was captured by Ridwan’s troops, placed in one of his old prisons, and, inevitably, “condemned to the most appalling cruelties.”
Ibn-Bedi, the police chief who had arrested Boukat, came to an equally bloodthirsty end. While on his duties, he and his sons boarded a small boat so that they could cross the river just outside their castle. While they were thus distracted and confined, two Assassins “attacked him and rained many blows upon him.” The assailants were killed by Ibn-Bedi’s sons, who started to carry their father back to the castle in order to get him to medical attention.
While they were doing so, however, they were attacked by yet another Assassin, who was determined to complete the job—he finished off the old chief of police and killed one of his sons for good measure. This last Assassin escaped by jumping into the river but appears to have drowned while attempting to evade arrest.
Soon after, in 1121, yet another Aleppan police chief, this time a man called Rais Mekki, had a similarly violent end to his term of office. The new ruler, Il-Ghazi of Mardin, decided to depose Mekki, ostensibly (and entirely plausibly given the context) because “the people had made great complaints against him.” Il-Ghazi had Mekki’s eyes burned out, his tongue cut off and, probably more to the point, confiscated all his goods. Mekki’s brother, who also seems to have benefited corruptly from his relationship with the chief of police, was tortured and had all his property confiscated.
Holding high office in the Aleppan police force was a lucrative but extremely high-risk career option.
Want to learn more about crime during the Crusades? Check out Steve Tibble’s new book Crusader Criminals: The Knights Who Went Rogue in the Holy Land.
Dr Steve Tibble is a graduate of Jesus College, Cambridge and London University. He is an Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway College, University of London. Steve is a leading authority on warfare and violence in the crusading era.
By Steve Tibble
There weren’t many police officers in the medieval world. And, when you see what they got up to, that is perhaps just as well.
The bailli, or chief of police, of Arras in the late thirteenth century, for instance, was an infamous individual by the name of Jehan de Beauquesne. He was so notoriously corrupt that he was eventually arraigned by the count of Artois for his offences. The scale of his wrongdoing was impressive—no less than fifty criminal cases with which he had been involved were retrospectively investigated for possible bribery, extortion, and other illegal practices. Almost everything he touched was corrupt.
Rat in the Arras
One example of his activities was the murder of a certain Jehan de Feuchi in 1294. On an otherwise quiet night in Arras, Jehan de Beauquesne and his sidekicks were summoned to the scene of a violent crime. A corpse—that of the late Mr de Feuchi—lay on the ground. The fight which had culminated in his murder had been watched by many bystanders, eight of whom were still there when the police arrived—ostensibly, this was an open and shut case.
Except that it wasn’t. The murderer, a man named Robert de Cans, was allowed to leave the scene—and the police decided not to press charges, even though the crime was of the most serious kind. It was later established that the murderer had paid them off. Presumably, the witnesses were Robert’s friends, who could be relied upon to give false testimony—or perhaps they too had been bribed to stay quiet. Most said, entirely implausibly given the presence of a dead body, that the alleged crime had never taken place.
An Open and Shut Case?
Another example was just as shocking. Two men—Wauteron Li Buriers and Sousse Soumillons—raped a woman just outside the city walls of Arras. The incident had taken place in broad daylight and in front of witnesses. Again, one might imagine, this was an open and shut case. But no. Bailli Beauquesne opened up discussions with the rapists’ friends and dropped all charges in return for a suitable cash payment.
Sometimes, when the case was less serious, or when he knew that there was less money to extort, he would not even charge much to pervert the course of justice—Jehan had his own sliding scale of corruption. In the aftermath of a drunken fight in 1294, for example, which ended in what we might call today ‘wounding with intent,’ Beauquesne asked the assailants’ friends to pay for it all to go away—but, when no money was forthcoming, he said he was prepared to drop the matter altogether in return for some wine. ‘Justice’ could be cheap.
The count of Arras did his best to root out the problem—his investigators found that Beauquesne had a crude, and consistently corrupt, business model. His standard approach was to draw up charges verbally, put the consequences to the guilty men and their friends—and then offer to drop all charges in return for a cash sum or, where that was not possible, as we have seen, for goods or services in lieu.
Happy Ever After?
The bailli was found guilty of taking massive bribes, over a period of several years, in order to pervert the course of justice. He was dismissed from his office. So far, so good—medieval justice, one might think, was admittedly slow to stop his corrupt ways, but at least it had eventually brought him to justice.
It was not such a clear-cut, happy ending, however. Within three years, we find the irrepressible Beauquesne back working in the senior ranks of law enforcement, this time as bailli of nearby St Omer. Money and contacts had presumably allowed him to jump back into the upper echelons of the moneymaking scam that passed for policing in thirteenth-century France.
The crusader states’ Muslim neighbours had their own equivalent experiences and anecdotes—the role of ‘chief of police’ was closely associated with criminality, but not always in the way one might expect.
The Mean Streets of Aleppo
Taking a single Muslim city as an example, in this case Aleppo at the beginning of the twelfth century, we get a sense of the complex and infinitely corrupt world of the medieval police chiefs of Syria. In 1097, the chief of police in Aleppo was a man named Boukat.
Boukat was, by the standards of the time, almost over-qualified for his post. His nickname was ‘the Madman’ and, as if that was not enough, Kemal ed-Din, a local chronicler, described him as one who was used to associating with “good-for-nothings, rogues, highway robbers and debauched people.” Ironically, of course, it was this intimate knowledge of the local underworld which had helped him get the job in the first place.
Boukat served under three of the lords of Aleppo, during which time he created a one-man crime wave of his own—at one point he even had the Vizier Abou Nasr strangled to death because of a trivial dispute about the price of some rugs. Foolishly, he eventually over-reached himself—he felt strong enough to start a rebellion of his own against Ridwan, the ruler of Aleppo (r. 1095-1113), and hoped to use the urban militia as his own army.
The Crime Wave Continues
His successor as police chief, however, a man named Ibn-Bedi, was still in control of the local military forces, and he persuaded the militia to desert their old boss. ‘The Madman’ was captured by Ridwan’s troops, placed in one of his old prisons, and, inevitably, “condemned to the most appalling cruelties.”
Ibn-Bedi, the police chief who had arrested Boukat, came to an equally bloodthirsty end. While on his duties, he and his sons boarded a small boat so that they could cross the river just outside their castle. While they were thus distracted and confined, two Assassins “attacked him and rained many blows upon him.” The assailants were killed by Ibn-Bedi’s sons, who started to carry their father back to the castle in order to get him to medical attention.
While they were doing so, however, they were attacked by yet another Assassin, who was determined to complete the job—he finished off the old chief of police and killed one of his sons for good measure. This last Assassin escaped by jumping into the river but appears to have drowned while attempting to evade arrest.
Soon after, in 1121, yet another Aleppan police chief, this time a man called Rais Mekki, had a similarly violent end to his term of office. The new ruler, Il-Ghazi of Mardin, decided to depose Mekki, ostensibly (and entirely plausibly given the context) because “the people had made great complaints against him.” Il-Ghazi had Mekki’s eyes burned out, his tongue cut off and, probably more to the point, confiscated all his goods. Mekki’s brother, who also seems to have benefited corruptly from his relationship with the chief of police, was tortured and had all his property confiscated.
Holding high office in the Aleppan police force was a lucrative but extremely high-risk career option.
Want to learn more about crime during the Crusades? Check out Steve Tibble’s new book Crusader Criminals: The Knights Who Went Rogue in the Holy Land.
Please visit the publisher’s website or buy this book
on Amazon.com | Amazon.ca | Amazon.co.uk
Dr Steve Tibble is a graduate of Jesus College, Cambridge and London University. He is an Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway College, University of London. Steve is a leading authority on warfare and violence in the crusading era.
You can check out Steve’s other books: Templars: The Knights Who Made Britain, The Crusader Armies and The Crusader Strategy
Top Image: British Library – MS Yates Thompson 13, fol. 105v
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