Chapter 101: Funeral and Wedding (Part One)

Saladin was right: Amalric I’s death turned him into a hero, not a fool.

When he first invaded Egypt, he returned empty-handed. Though he paid all the knights’ wages with his own wealth, he was still criticized for being too gullible or too cowardly. For his second campaign, he had resolved to act—he borrowed from nobles, took loans from merchants, and seized the Byzantine princess’s dowry.

He had staked everything, and he was only one step from success. Had he lived, this expedition would have become an even more indelible stain than the first—where the first campaign could still be excused as inexperience, the failure of the second would have nailed him permanently to the pillar of shame.

But he died.

A knight who dies on crusade earns himself a saint’s place—the black funeral bier had barely left Gaza Rafah when crowds of pilgrims, drawn by the news, began following the king’s coffin, joining the knights who had been due to sail home from Gaza Rafah, all the way to Arasal.

The people of Arasal had already packed every street and alley, scrambling to weep and pray for their king, lighting countless candles and torches.

On the day of his formal burial, all you could see was a sea of dark, somber hues.

Not everyone could afford mourning clothes, but as soon as the sorrowful news spread, people began donating dye and black cloth. Poor residents and pilgrims might have only a single scrap of fabric, which they draped over their heads, clasped their hands, and watched as six men in black robes lifted the king’s coffin onto their shoulders, escorted by monks, clerics, and nobles, slowly moving toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The dark brown coffin was draped in two shrouds: purple silk and golden velvet. Gold belonged to the King of Christendom; purple came from the last garment the Byzantine princess had sewn for her husband.

When people learned that, in the king’s will, these two shrouds would be donated to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for any deceased to use, they could not help but weep.

To them, Amalric I had been a king neither particularly good nor particularly bad—he had not oppressed his people, nor had he shown cowardice in battle—but this ordinary impression changed utterly after his death on campaign.

People of this era held strange expectations of their monarchs: they did not expect him to be merciful, nor wise—mercy they could find among clerics, wisdom belonged to ministers and judges. A king was meant to lead his knights into battle. If he could win lands for the secular crown, that was good; but if he fought for God’s authority, punishing vile infidels and safeguarding the faithful, that was true glory.

Thus, whether the knights who came in endless procession to mourn the king, or the ordinary townsfolk and pilgrims, their grief and pain were genuine, with little pretense.

“Will His Majesty be canonized?” a pilgrim asked, watching the coffin recede, making the sign of the cross, as if murmuring to himself or praying.

“Probably,” his companion replied. Though they had not seized Saracen lands this time, Amalric I had indeed captured Bilbays and Mestra—expelled the Saracens, turned their temples into churches, and held Mass there. In fact, if Arasal were now a theocracy, Amalric I would already be hailed as “Saint,” awaiting only the formalities.

But Amalric I clearly had no intention of leaving Arasal to the Church—neither to Arasal’s nor Rome’s.

The two lead bearers were known to the people of Arasal: the young prince Baldwin—he would soon become the new King of Arasal—and beside him, Cesar. Most would think nothing of it, but those who understood power struggles could not help but grow pale.

Bearers were typically either the deceased’s close friend or his peer. Even if a grown son deeply loved his father and wished to carry the coffin, he would face fierce debate—how much more so when Baldwin had barely left childhood, and his companion even more so.

Though Cesar was already a Knight of Bethlehem, Prince Baldwin had not yet participated in any affairs of state, let alone Cesar.

Both Bohemond and Raymond thought this honor was far too great.

On the battlefield, with no close relatives to tend to Amalric I’s final rites, Baldwin’s choice of Cesar was understandable. But now they were in Arasal—by any tradition or law, Cesar had no place among the bearers. Yet Baldwin insisted, and Patriarch Heraclius, the Countess of Jaffa, and the Empress all supported him; the ministers finally yielded.

After all, in a funeral, the deceased’s family held the final word.

Almost everyone who came to bid farewell to the king was held back at the bottom of the Steps of the Passion. Heraclius sent over a hundred clerics, holding candles and holy water, moving through the crowd to guide them apart, preventing—as Cesar had warned—the possibility of chaos or trampling, whether accidental or deliberate.

Gerard’s family found the previous overseers. Ironically, these overseers were the very men Cesar had stood up for during his penance at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, to maintain order. Some had returned home; others stayed, each with a craft, and under Cesar’s protection, had become leaders among the pilgrim workers.

Under the calls and control of clerics and overseers, the crowd departed amid sighs and sobs—not gone for good, for by custom, after the funeral, large-scale alms would be distributed: money, food, at various locations, ensuring everyone received something.

Baldwin and Cesar’s group continued deeper into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where all past Kings of Arasal were buried—no, “buried” was not quite right; people of this time still used tomb-chambers with lead coffins, much like the Romans, except the bodies were not cremated.

The oak coffin was placed into the stone sarcophagus—normally, for commoners, the lid required poles and levers to seal; here, the six bearers were all “graced” knights. Together, they lifted gently, and the lid slid into place without a sound—“Wait,” Baldwin said: “Let me see… Father.”

Raymond sighed. Baldwin leaned down and kissed his father’s cheek, then placed a reliquary into Amalric I’s clasped hands—the reliquary held strands of hair cut from himself, his sister Sibylla, and his sister Isabella.

“Enough,” Baldwin said. Before the lid sealed completely, he took one last look at the king: surrounded by fragrant dried flowers, his face serene, lips slightly upturned where an ancient Roman gold coin had been pressed upon them.

“Bless us, Father,” he silently prayed: “As you once did.”

————

When they returned to the Holy Cross Castle, Baldwin’s first act after washing up was to visit the women’s quarters.

Beyond the imagination of later generations, women—especially noblewomen—were forbidden from joining the funeral procession. Some women were permitted to walk at the very rear, but they were all “funeral women” of disreputable status—professional mourners, hired in families lacking heirs merely to heighten the atmosphere.

In the Empress’s chamber—the large room where Maria, the Byzantine princess, sat by the window in white robes—other noblewomen, dressed in black, surrounded her. Princess Sibylla, the eldest, sat subtly opposite her, on an intricately carved grape-patterned chair. Her younger sister Isabella, Baldwin’s little sister, was held in the Countess of Jaffa’s arms, appearing perfectly accustomed to the embrace, neither crying nor fussing.

The Countess of Jaffa watched Baldwin with concern. Had he still been merely a prince, she would have rushed to embrace him. But he would soon be king! Fourteen-year-old kings had existed before, yet she could not help fearing whether this burden would further weaken his already frail body.

The Empress rose at once upon seeing Baldwin, took his hands, and made him sit beside her. She had borne only a daughter before the king’s campaign—a great disappointment to many. Now that Amalric I was dead, her hope of bearing another heir had vanished. Yet from another angle, Baldwin himself could hardly produce an heir—

This meant that if Princess Sibylla bore a son, he would naturally become king after Baldwin. But… who could say what fate held? If her daughter Isabella bore a son, that son too would hold the right of succession to Arasal! No—more precisely, if Sibylla died before Baldwin and left no children, then her daughter Isabella would become queen!

Even if that queen must share Arasal’s throne with her husband, her blood would forever flow through this holy land!

The Empress told herself there was time. Isabella was too young—but youth had its advantages: she would certainly not choose a fool like Antioch’s Abigail as her daughter’s husband.

Yet outwardly, the Empress’s conduct was flawless: her eyes swollen, her face sorrowful, she listened intently to every word Baldwin spoke, and repeatedly inquired into the funeral’s every detail—especially whether he had placed the reliquary containing each of the king’s children’s hair inside the coffin.

“Though I know this is improper,” the Empress asked, “could you ask your Knight of Bethlehem to paint a portrait of the king?”

She meant Cesar—Cesar could paint. Even in the monastery, the clerics had discovered his talent and had him restore frescoes and panel paintings. Since arriving at the castle, he had been too busy to show it—except recently, when copying maps, his skill had briefly surfaced. After all, painting techniques of the time were still crude and childish; even his modest, self-taught skill was enough to astonish people.

“My Isabella has never seen her father,” the Empress said.

Baldwin’s heart softened immediately. Amalric I had never cared for this daughter—in truth, he had shown little interest in any of his daughters. He even disliked them, especially after Baldwin fell ill; seeing them reminded him that his kingdom and army would one day pass into the hands of a stranger… for a man of ambition, it was little better than a curse.

“Of course,” Baldwin immediately called Cesar over. Cesar bowed to the Empress, then sat at her feet as she indicated—a position of great intimacy. Little Princess Isabella, seeing him, immediately abandoned the Countess of Jaffa and wobbled toward Cesar. He caught her up, spun her gently, and settled her comfortably against his chest.

The noblewomen could not help smiling, but loud laughter was inappropriate now. The Empress’s smile was like a sliver of sunlight breaking through thick clouds—fleeting. She pointed to Baldwin: “This is your brother,” then paused slightly: “This one… can be called your brother too.”

All eyes turned to Prince Baldwin. He offered only a gentle, melancholy smile: “Yes, Isabella,” he whispered. “This is Cesar. He will love you and protect you always.”

(End of Chapter)