Chapter 103: Funeral and Wedding (Part 2)

Bohemond hurriedly arrived.

He and Count Raymond of Tripoli, along with several other lords, were not constantly at Arazalu. Though they were vassals and ministers of Amalric I, they each had their own lands to govern.

Only when Amalric I mustered his army and summoned them to jointly confront the Saracen enemies of the Christians did they bring their knights under Amalric I’s banner, fulfilling the duty inherent to them and exercising the power they held until death.

Or when something major occurred in Arazalu—such as the earlier prince’s misfortune, the king’s recent death, or this marriage linking the Principality of Antioch to the Kingdom of Arazalu.

Bohemond had long grown accustomed to being disappointed by his son.

Sometimes he felt this son had inherited neither his blood nor the part from his mother. After all, his mother was a Byzantine princess—“Byzantine intrigue” had long become a common adjective, widely known among the nobles of the Holy Land.

He also knew well how much trouble and danger a fool could cause. So when Count Étienne fell ill and was proven connected to Abigail, he did not hesitate to beat Abigail severely and sent him back to the principality.

Even though Amalric I had forgiven Abigail and allowed him entry into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to complete his selection ceremony, Bohemond had never relented—Abigail’s selection ceremony was held in the Cathedral of Saint Paul in Antioch, a church far less sacred and orthodox than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, even less so than the Church of the Nativity or the Temple Church, but so what?

If Bohemond had a second child—even a daughter—he might have disposed of this useless little bastard. Abigail had repeatedly disappointed him, especially as his peers his own age grew increasingly outstanding.

When the prince entered this hall, the feeling became even more pronounced.

For he saw Cesar standing at the right side of the throne—a position of utmost trust, second only to the king. As people approached to bow before Baldwin, they seemed also to be paying respect to this knight of Bethlehem.

Bohemond needed only to nod slightly, yet when he saw that dazzling youth, an indescribable emotion stirred within him.

He still clearly remembered when this Ismaelite slave first replaced Baldwin to receive communion, and how Abigail had grown jealous because he stood beside Princess Sibylla.

At the time, he had only found it amusing, and his anger stemmed from his son’s short-sightedness.

So what if he stood beside Princess Sibylla during communion? He was merely a trivial gift Amalric I had tossed out to comfort Baldwin—like a parent pulling a sweet from a jar to quiet a crying child.

No matter how much Baldwin favored him, could he be accepted by the other servants and knights in the castle? Could he learn from his father or elders, absorbing the lessons and experience required of a knight and minister?

Could he openly appear in Amalric I’s retinue, carrying his banner or holding his cloak?

By the time they grew up, this black-haired boy might still be a servant, perhaps rising only to the rank of attendant. Abigail and David, however, might already have become true knights, even standing beside Amalric I on court and battlefield—why should he care about such a minor figure?

Now, recalling it, Bohemond felt a faint regret—yes, very faint. For even now, he did not believe the ailing Baldwin could achieve any remarkable feat, as Amalric I had hoped. He was merely a placeholder.

As long as he held on for ten or fifteen years, until Abigail and Sibylla’s child came of age, he could then, as God or Death called, peacefully yield the throne of Arazalu to the latter.

And during those fifteen years, he, Raymond, and the others would never allow this young king to act recklessly or tyrannically, granting excessive power to an Ismaelite slave. Bohemond believed he could ensure it.

He was Prince of Antioch, future grandfather of the king of Arazalu. If he could persuade Raymond, Baldwin’s regent, if that stubborn ox would obey his arrangements, he could guarantee that Arazalu would belong to them throughout this long period.

Yet now, this cunning old fox would show no sign of his thoughts. He even bowed respectfully to Baldwin, then turned to his son.

When he saw Abigail dressed in a crimson velvet coat, dark blue tight breeches, and a silver belt, his face darkened further—Amalric I had been dead less than a week; every night, the clergy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre still held penitential masses, the city’s mourning rituals would last fifty days, and children were to observe four months of mourning.

There were no strict mourning requirements for those outside the bloodline, yet all who appeared before Baldwin wisely wore black or dark garments, dressed plainly, wearing no jewelry except rings, to avoid wounding Baldwin’s heart.

Baldwin wore only a simple linen tunic and wool cloak, with a brown leather belt around his waist, no embroidery or adornments on collar or hem; beside him stood Cesar, clad entirely in black, solemn as if ready for ascetic retreat.

He knew Abigail dressed this way to see Sibylla.

Bohemond felt a surge of relief—he even thought he should thank the two knights who had beaten his son black and blue. If Abigail had returned to the Holy Cross Castle and gone straight to Princess Sibylla instead of paying respects to Baldwin or the Empress—perhaps even making witty remarks or bringing gifts—that would have been a deadly, laughable disaster.

“Since you’re here,” Baldwin sighed, “tell us what happened.”

The two knights, tall and broad-shouldered, still bore the marks of grief from Amalric I’s death. They eagerly recounted the events. To be honest, Abigail was not so foolish as to commit such a reckless act of slander against Amalric I and Baldwin during such a heavy and painful time.

He was not mad.

He had simply entered the hall as the two knights waited for guards to inspect documents. His flamboyant attire drew their attention, and then he said that though he too regretted Amalric I’s passing, he could not help but note that had the king not been near death, he might not have decided on the princess’s marriage so soon.

He added that though he had received many gifts from the king, none had been better than this.

At first glance, these words seemed harmless. But to the two knights, who had just left Baldwin and witnessed the frail prince’s profound, genuine grief for his father and sovereign, they were deeply offensive.

They immediately spurred their horses forward and rebuked the young man for uttering such vile words.

Abigail had no regard for these two foreign knights—he had seen countless such men in the Holy Land, and more importantly, he was here to marry Princess Sibylla; in a few years, he might share the crown of Arazalu with her and become its king. These men should kneel before him, begging his forgiveness and offering loyalty.

He did not believe he had said anything wrong. He felt deeply wronged and unafraid—even if Baldwin unjustly punished him, in a few months he would marry Sibylla. Could they imprison the princess’s husband?

“I am willing to apologize,” Abigail said stiffly, “but not for my words—I spoke them with complete sincerity. I meant no disrespect to the king.”

He argued, “Your Majesty was almost my father. I grew up under your care; you often stroked my head, praised me, encouraged me. I am to marry your daughter. I swear, I came here with sorrow and grief.”

Perhaps these two gentlemen were too eager for merit—they had sworn oaths to His Highness, and that caused this misunderstanding…”

His tone was hostile. Everyone present understood: he felt no guilt and intended to shift blame onto the two knights, subtly suggesting they had deliberately provoked the incident to impress Baldwin and falsely accuse an innocent man.

Baldwin did not look at him. One more glance at Abigail would make him sick. He looked only at Bohemond, and from those blue eyes shone the same cold, unyielding light as Amalric I’s: “Thirty lashes.”

Bohemond bowed silently. Abigail, for an instant, did not realize the punishment was meant for him. The impatient knights immediately seized his arms—he then understood and began screaming.

The knights were furious. Even their mortal enemies, the Saracens, had paused negotiations and warfare upon Amalric I’s death, allowing them to bid farewell to their king so he might peacefully journey to heaven.

Yet here was this man—a Christian, under Amalric I’s protection, even his future son-in-law, whose child might one day rule Arazalu.

He showed no proper grief or sorrow. Instead, he seemed delighted, behaving worse than their enemies.

A maid rushed up the tower to report the incident to Princess Sibylla. She assumed the princess would plead for mercy, but Sibylla only placed her hands on her knees. “Leave.”

The maids dared not speak. They quickly rose and exited the room. When only Sibylla remained, she rose and walked to the window. This was their small sewing room, well-lit, overlooking the square below.

The knights dragged Abigail straight to the dusty center of the square. Curious onlookers gathered—his attire clearly marked him as noble. Soon, someone recognized him, though he had been away from the Holy Cross Castle for years.

“Isn’t that Abigail, the only son of the Prince of Antioch?”

“How did he—didn’t he hear the king is dead?”

“He’s betrothed to the princess, as the king promised… but… ha!”

Sibylla stood at the window, coldly gazing down.

The knights treated Abigail like a criminal or a pig. They stripped off his crimson velvet coat and white silk shirt, bound him to a crude rack, and carried out Baldwin’s order precisely—thirty lashes.

This whipping was not done haphazardly, like beating an animal. One knight served as executioner—his arms thick, clearly strong and powerful. He swung the whip with the skill of a cleric reciting scripture: slow, deliberate, each crack echoing only after a pause, striking Abigail’s bare back.

Abigail was a chosen one, but clearly unaccustomed to hardship. He could not endure it. His saint seemed unwilling to help him. By the third lash, he was screaming, begging for divine protection—but nothing came.

Funny enough, the executioner raised his head, glanced around, confirmed no unusual signs, then grinned and continued.

The other knight stood beside him, counting aloud. Abigail fainted around the seventeenth or eighteenth lash.

The knight seemed about to ask Baldwin whether to continue—but Bohemond, arms crossed, watching coldly, stopped him. The prince looked as if he wanted to deliver the remaining lashes himself, but he merely ordered the knight to finish.

Sibylla watched as Abigail, like a pile of filthy trash, was cut down from the rack and carried away by two servants. Her heart filled with fury and despair.

She had long known she would marry—not to Abigail, but to someone else: David, or a nobleman from distant Francia.

The princess had never fantasized about marriage like other noblewomen. She had prepared herself, indifferent to whether her future husband was old, cruel, or ambitious—but she could not bear that her husband would be this useless coward.

She sat numbly back on her chair. Outside, the sky darkened rapidly. Without her order, the maids dared not enter to light candles. She sat like that for a long while, until the cold night wind pierced her thin garments. She bent forward, coughing violently, nearly missing the sound at the door.

The maids gasped and bowed. In this castle, few received such honors. But she guessed it was Baldwin—he had come to comfort her, after punishing her future husband.

“Sister?”

Sibylla grabbed a cup and drank a large gulp of cold water, then spoke in her softest voice: “Come in, brother.”

The door opened. Baldwin entered. Sibylla rose to bow, but her knees, stiff from prolonged stillness, went numb. She stood easily, but as she knelt toward Baldwin, a sharp pain shot through her, and she collapsed forward uncontrollably.

Amid the maids’ cries, someone caught her firmly.

(End of chapter)