Chapter 100: The Death of the King (8)

The king let out a long sigh, then died.

As soon as Baldwin saw the candle fall from Amalric I’s hand and go out, he knew his father had left him forever; he opened his mouth to cry, but collapsed the next moment—luckily, Cesar was always beside him, catching him in his arms, holding his shoulders tightly, as if pouring his own courage and strength into his friend to spare him unbearable suffering.

The priest beside him had already rushed out to announce the bad news to those outside the tent, but there was no need for them to speak: Tripoli’s Count Raymond and Antioch’s Prince Bohemond, two towering figures and most vital vassals in Arazal, immediately fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the familiar yet alien body, weeping loudly.

Their sobs were like bells that could not ring—though prepared, Heraclius still felt dizzy; his priest hurried to support him as he staggered into the tent, candle in hand, to look upon the king’s face.

Amalric I’s face was serene, even peaceful—he had done all a Christian, a king, and a father was meant to do; henceforth, all earthly matters were no longer his, as if he had entrusted them to God, waiting only for divine guidance to show those still struggling on earth their path.

As a virtuous monk once said, when a man leaves this world, regret is natural—but he must remain calm and pure, as he was at birth.

People often called the dead “the newly departed,” as if they had not died but merely journeyed to a new place.

Baldwin, with Cesar’s aid, had now regained consciousness; as Amalric I’s only son, every next step required his leadership and participation. Raymond rose, took the boy from Cesar’s arms, and embraced him; Bohemond was a moment slower.

Clearly, the latter’s sincerity was less than the former’s—his expression betrayed it; though Raymond had once harbored resentment toward Amalric I’s distrust, his grief at the loss of his closest friend and sovereign was unquestionable, and his embrace of Baldwin came from a senior’s compassion for a youth.

Bohemond, though genuinely moved, his wary eyes revealed he had regained his reason—he now feared Raymond might seize power while Prince Baldwin was most vulnerable.

Heraclius saw all this, and felt only exhaustion.

If Amalric I had died in Arazal, professional mourners would have gone through the city to announce the tragedy; now, six knights temporarily filled the role, wearing deep-blue cloaks embroidered with the Virgin’s image (hastily prepared beforehand), carrying crosses, mounting horses, and riding to every camp to announce the death.

Even the Saracen encampment was included; Hilku and Saladin heard the news, their faces solemn, they conveyed their respect for the deceased and condolences to his heirs and friends, and presented a large box of frankincense.

Frankincense was indeed used in both Saracen and Christian funerals; when they brought this gift back to the king’s tent, fires had already been lit, and spices thrown upon them—just as incense burned during Mass or worship, people believed these fragrant vapors would guide the soul to heaven.

The king’s earthly body had been carried from the tent and laid upon a flat, large stone; two knightly ladies, arriving with the mourners, would now perform a vital duty: washing the king’s body.

But before that, Baldwin insisted on shaving and cutting the king’s hair himself—this duty, traditionally, belonged to a male relative; though his hands had been treated, they still could not perform delicate motions. Raymond stepped forward without hesitation, but Baldwin politely refused, for custom dictated that the male relative’s status must be lower than the deceased’s.

The Count of Tripoli was a vassal of the King of Arazal, but Raymond was Amalric I’s cousin.

“Let Cesar take my place,” he said. “He is my brother.”

Raymond’s cheek twitched violently; his son David had been in the campaign, but on the first day of the siege, he had broken his leg from reckless haste and been sent back to Gaza—now not here. If David were present, Raymond might have contested it; but now, he could not argue with Baldwin, and stepped back.

Bohemond, by contrast, remained composed; not only was Abigail still in Antioch, but even if he were here, Bohemond would never let him humiliate himself—he knew his son too well: a coward. He could kill, but to touch a dead man’s face, trim and tidy him—how could he avoid blundering?

Cesar brushed Baldwin’s back, then stepped forward. Heraclius offered a sharp little knife: “Is this acceptable?” he whispered low. If Cesar failed here, countless eyes would gleam with amusement—even Baldwin might harbor resentment.

Cesar nodded—he was no longer a boy of ten or so.

He carefully shaved away the dark stubble, trimmed the sideburns, and neatly cut the hair at the nape, behind the ears, and along the forehead—not a single strand uneven or out of place. He borrowed linen from the ladies and wiped the king’s face clean—he gave not a single moment’s distraction until all was done.

Cesar felt the king deserved this respect; no matter the cause, no matter what followed, without Amalric I, he himself would now be nothing but anonymous bones in the Judaean hills.

The two ladies bowed to Cesar and took over the next tasks: they cut open the king’s original garments, then washed him from head to toe, finally plugging his natural orifices with cotton soaked in balm, and dressed him in the prepared clothes—the king had already instructed Heraclius: he would not go so far as to be buried in nothing but linen like a hermit, but neither did he need three shirts and two robes.

As usual, the king wore only a long undergarment, over it a silvered chainmail, then the cloak of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre; they crossed his hands upon his chest, placed his sword beside him, crowned him, slipped on short boots, and laid him in a bier of cedarwood, freshly repainted black.

This bier had once belonged to a noblewoman, who offered it with unbounded honor: “To be the resting place of such a saint,” she said, “is worth more than ten years of my asceticism.” The priests agreed, and all vouched for her.

This was a mercy amid misfortune: the king had launched his campaign in September; now it was December, the weather cold. Otherwise, they would have been forced to boil the body—literally boil it; no good preservation method existed then. To prevent the corpse from swelling and rotting, they would have had to cut it open, soak it in wine, boil it, and carry only the bones in a chest.

According to tradition, they found four pure black horses, fastened the bier between them, and prepared to carry the king back to Arazal.

But before that, they would keep vigil through the night—not only to mourn, but to prevent anyone from daring to steal a part of the king’s body.

Some might wonder: why steal it? Christians did not value bodily integrity—otherwise, they would not have resorted to boiling. But Amalric I was Lord of the Holy Land, and died fighting infidels; his sanctity was nearly certain. Moderns might find this absurd, but men of this time knew well: strike first.

Baldwin remained dazed, overcome by grief and unable to accept the truth; he leaned against Cesar, gripping his arm, never letting him out of sight—not even Heraclius or Raymond could make him move away. Cesar shook his head slightly to his teacher, asked for a cup of wine mixed with honey and salt, and half-forced Baldwin to drink it.

“Tomorrow we leave,” he whispered. “Your father would not wish to see you like this.”

Baldwin drank the wine, then forced himself to swallow a few pieces of cheese and fat.

——————

The Saracens had watched the Christians’ movements closely; at dawn the next day, they saw the black bier and the four black horses, like messengers of death: “They’re leaving,” Hilku said.

Saladin merely nodded.

Their negotiations with the Christians had ended, and no longer needed to continue; the Christians had lowered the ransom for Bilebes to fifty thousand gold coins—a sum Hilku could afford, let alone the vast fortune left by Shawal—and the Christians’ swift agreement came because Baldwin had renounced his father’s share.

The fifty thousand gold coins would be distributed in full to every Crusader knight.

At first, Hilku had not been willing; though he had taken his nephew’s advice, any army that had endured a long siege, then been driven out by fire, stripped of armor, covered in soot, with their king and commander dead—anyone would have tried to keep them here.

Then he saw the army surrounding the black bier begin to move.

The first to cry out was now lost to history—perhaps Raymond, perhaps Richard—but the first they saw cutting his hair with a dagger, severing his shoulder-length brown locks and casting them to the ground, was unquestionably Prince Baldwin; Baldwin had wanted to carve blood-tracks into his arms and face, but Cesar stopped him—he took the blade himself, cutting his own face, arms, and chest; the blood that flowed was like Baldwin’s tears.

One by one, the knights rode forward: some, like the prince, cut off their hair; others, like Cesar, slashed their flesh to let blood flow; some did both. Richard threw his priceless ermine cloak beneath the hooves to be trampled; Raymond and Bohemond cast down their silk robes—only thus could others know the depth of their grief.

Hilku watched this scene; though Saracens had similar customs, none were so numerous. He counted to ninety-some, then fell silent; Saladin took over: his math was far better than his uncle’s. “Seven hundred sixteen,” he said, only stopping when the procession finally began its slow advance.

Hilku drew a deep breath: seven hundred sixteen—even discounting nobles and royal kin, seven hundred knights willing to forsake what they prized most proved they were equally willing to die for Amalric I—for these things were nearly all won at great risk in tournaments or duels.

“This is the Christians’ fortune,” Saladin said.

Indeed, had Shawal not gambled everything to kill the Christian king, such a defeat might have shattered their morale. But Amalric I had died.

And he did not die ignobly, laughably, contemptibly; even as he walked into the Saracen trap, he led his vassals and attendants out alive from the flames.

Though death was certain, before it came, he fully fulfilled his duty as king and commander: he declared his will, fairly distributed all spoils and rewards from the campaign, completed the negotiations (though he did not appear), and ensured the living could return home safely.

Though his son—the youth rumored to have leprosy yet blessed by God—seemed to gain nothing from this campaign, Amalric I’s final acts were already a vast inheritance: his father died like an unfulfilled hero, and as his sole heir, no one could question the courage and piety he inherited from him!

“What a pity,” Hilku said. “Have you seen the boy? Do you think he will be a second Artid, or a second Aziz (a ruler of the Fatimid golden age)?”

“The latter,” Saladin said. “After all, he has that man beside him.”

(End of Chapter)