Chapter 104: Wedding

The tall knight helped Sibylle to her feet, his movements light and composed, as if picking up a flower or a small bird from the ground. At first, Sibylle felt only unfamiliarity, wondering when a servant she didn’t recognize had appeared beside Baldwin—until the maids entered in a stream, lighting candles, and she recognized in his green eyes the same calm and indifference she knew.

But he was no longer the little slave she remembered. Like Baldwin, he was one of the chosen, nourished with ample meat and subjected to intense training and combat; his height and shoulder width far surpassed those of his peers—she had once described him, surrounded by maids, as a puppy encircled by kittens.

Now, the maids nearly lost control, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet; even if reason held them back, some of the boldest would surely cross that line without hesitation. Sibylle knew several of her maids were more skilled at hunting knights than waiting to be hunted by them.

Yet surprisingly, these maids stood at a distance, merely watching with keen interest, doing nothing.

“How so?” When Baldwin and Cesar had both left, Sibylle asked as if casually: “Hasn’t he become anyone’s yet?”

The maids exchanged glances. “He is Damara’s knight,” one said.

“Do you care about Damara?” Sibylle said. Since Damara returned to Alasal, she had never come back to Sibylle’s side, nor was she in the Holy Cross Castle; among her maids, many had turned against each other over a knight. She did not believe Damara’s bond with them ran so deep.

“It’s not quite that,” another maid mused.

“Besides, Damara may marry soon. If her husband isn’t one of our knights, she ought to break her vow to Cesar,” said the third maid.

“Indeed, that would be proper,” Sibylle lowered her head, thinking a moment: “Then when Cesar is free, who will claim him as her knight?”

She expected the maids to quarrel over him—but they exchanged glances, none answering.

“Is it because of his status? He is already a Bethlehem knight, and my brother will soon place him in a fitting position.”

“It’s… not that,” one maid stammered: “Though… I’m a little afraid of him…”

Sibylle showed just the right expression of surprise: “Why say that? Has he done anything vile to you?”

“No, no, no,” the maid hurried to say: “It’s just… don’t you think he’s… majestic?”

The maids immediately nodded. Cesar was indeed gentle—especially toward women, respectful and protective, like the holy knights in their picture books or poems: pure, fearless, steadfast—but precisely this near-perfect conduct made him seem less like a real man, more like a statue of silver or marble.

“You’re afraid of him too?” Sibylle looked at the other maids, each from powerful families, who paid little heed to the Church’s or society’s rules imposed on women—they even dared to seduce priests and monks.

“You could say that,” one maid replied with a smile, though their “fear” meant something different from the others’.

If it were only for fleeting pleasure, who wouldn’t do?

But Cesar was the only knight—and perhaps the only man—who truly respected and cherished them. This was clear from Gerard’s Damara: when Sibylle chose Damara, it was because she was young, naive, easily manipulated, and wouldn’t resent being given to a slave-born attendant.

Yet Sibylle never considered Damara’s welfare. Damara was still a child, and an older man could easily deceive her. But Cesar was only nine then—even if he hadn’t yet understood love and desire, what of later? He and Damara saw each other often in the castle.

If he had wished to take her, Damara had no power to resist.

And they had seen: over these years, not just Damara’s body, but her mind remained that of a child—still pure, sweet, untouched by any stain or shadow.

If Cesar disliked Damara and refused to serve her, he still, at her plea, captured and killed an entire band of vicious Saracens—against overwhelming odds—and kept his promise, leaving not a single criminal alive.

He was so good that even they were moved. Several maids lowered their heads, smiling. They had sensed Sibylle’s ill will toward Cesar, and would not give him trouble.

Unless they could truly wed him, they would gladly choose him—if they could choose. But their marriages, like Princess Sibylle’s, tied families, lands, or even nations together; their families would never allow it.

“If I could make him fall in love with me,” one maid had once dreamed aloud, “but I could never be his wife—then this love would shatter his heart and wither his soul. It wouldn’t be unjust—it would be an unimaginable, monstrous sin.”

She was laughed at by her companions: “Only Princess Sibylle could make a man like Cesar abandon his piety and duty.”

The maids fell silent.

Since the farcical marriage pact between Louis VII and Amalric I had collapsed, Sibylle had become far more restrained—and correspondingly, more beautiful. All who saw her said she had finally shed her childishness and grown into a proper woman, worthy of education and social norms.

Especially before knights, she grew gentler, more melancholy.

She often lowered her lashes, hiding her blue eyes like ocean vortices. Her face was pale, sometimes flushed faintly from morning or evening fevers. She no longer pressed aggressively or blazed with arrogance—even David, who knew her role in the attack on Count Etienne, could not help but pity her.

Who does not make mistakes? Especially when she was only thirteen.

And now, people viewed women as children still growing; since they used this as reason to strip them of power, they could not now harshly condemn them—even Amalric I, years later, set aside his resentment toward Sibylle and began seriously considering her marriage.

The king had originally intended to marry Sibylle to a foreign knight, so that if Baldwin had no heir, her husband would not, as queen’s husband and future king’s father, lay claim to Alasal—he still favored Sibylle, for his daughter by the Byzantine princess was still an infant, while his eldest was sixteen, ripe and ready to bear a healthy seed.

But Amalric I never imagined his death would come so suddenly.

Abigail was certainly no good choice. He had a gloomy, cunning, fickle father—Bohemond, who in youth suffered cruelly at the hands of his mother and stepfather. After reclaiming power, he soon fell into a Saracen prison. Had not Emperor Manuel I of Byzantium intervened, he might have remained imprisoned far longer.

But he paid a price: he was forced to let Byzantine influence penetrate his kingdom and family. He married Manuel’s daughter, and together they bore Abigail, this fool.

Yet precisely because Abigail was so foolish, he was chosen. His existence ensured Raymond could never dominate the court alone, nor easily ally with Bohemond.

Should Bohemond gain greater influence, as the future king’s maternal grandfather, he might strip Raymond of power overnight—and perhaps become the unnamed, yet real king of Alasal.

If Abigail were a man like Baldwin or Cesar—no, even if he were merely like David—Raymond would struggle to handle Bohemond. But as if cursed by the devil, Abigail was a fool who failed utterly in court and on the battlefield.

He was God’s inescapable chain, or blemish, upon Bohemond.

Look at what he had done: before even entering the Holy Cross Castle, he offended Baldwin, disgraced his father, and spread a terrible reputation among the knights.

Bohemond would never be so naive as to think the knights would keep silent—not just the castle knights, but the two foreign ones too. They would not shield such a vile man. He knew this affair would soon spread its wings: Alasal, Acre, Jaffa, Gaza… even to Apennine or Francia.

What a spectacle! Perhaps people would hear of Abigail before they ever heard of Baldwin, Raymond, or Bohemond.

Yet no matter how much people loathed this frivolous fool, his marriage to Sibylle remained unshakable.

It was the decree of King Amalric I, and Baldwin would carry out the king’s will without compromise.

To fulfill this marriage, he even postponed his own coronation.

Thus, on the feast day of Saint John the Baptist (June 24), they held the wedding of Abigail and Sibylle.

In the days before the wedding, Sibylle fasted and bathed; on the wedding day, the maids filled the tubs with vast quantities of fresh and dried flowers, and smeared her with a mixture of powder and vinegar. This mixture made her skin appear whiter, though prolonged use caused lead poisoning.

In Alasal, women also used rosewater and olive oil—both far superior to the lead mixture.

But Sibylle cared little for either, perhaps because Abigail had visited her with excessive eagerness these past days.

Sometimes Sibylle longed to shout at him: Go achieve glory! Kill Saracens! Even enter a tournament, or serve my brother or your father—see if they can give you a decent post!

Instead of clinging to me like a fat, buzzing bee, so annoying!

Of course, she said nothing. Abigail, though madly infatuated with her, was still a man, born with inherent disdain for women. If she spoke thus, it would be useless—and risk losing her last useful hound.

“Look at this,” one maid exclaimed joyfully, “how beautiful it is…”

Though Sibylle’s wedding gown had been made long ago, when the deep blue robe—identical to the Virgin’s garment—was unveiled, all gasped in awe. Even though it was simple: deep blue silk, with no excessive embroidery or adornment, only silver thread and pearls tracing the cuffs and hem, like waves upon the sea.

This color, in this age, signified purity and the Virgin’s protection: she would bless the bride with a life free of sorrow, joy and health, and grant her a healthy son soon.

The maids helped Sibylle into the gown, styled her hair, and placed upon her head the exquisite golden crown—a gift from Baldwin. Heavy with gold, precious sapphires and rubies, even veiled by a thin veil, they still gleamed brilliantly—yet could not rival the princess’s beauty.

Since Amalric I had died, the duty of giving away the princess fell to Baldwin alone. He was Sibylle’s guardian—age mattered not; as long as he was male, he held authority and obligation over all his sisters. He could arrange their marriages, regardless of their consent.

Today, the most splendidly adorned were surely the bride and groom; among women, the most beautiful was unquestionably Sibylle. No matter her inner state, her appearance was as poets praised: a flower wrought of jewels.

Abigail was a handsome young man: slender eyebrows, bright eyes, a narrow but high nose, thin lips—very like his father. Even the harshest critic could not call him ugly.

But the problem was: here was Cesar. Everyone looked only at him.

Even at this grand occasion, he wore dark clothes: a pure black velvet coat and matching tight breeches, even his boots and gloves black, with only slight golden embroidery here and there, and a single silver cross hanging at his chest.

Baldwin wore white today. Unlike later custom, white was then a color of nobility and mourning—he still grieved for his father. Their attire, amid the gaudy guests, was unremarkable, yet drew every eye.

Clothing was merely ornament.

When the silk itself was already magnificent, flowers became unnecessary.

Even though Cesar had done his best to be plain without disrupting the ceremony, like a jewel on a plain background, his simple attire only heightened his beauty and bearing.

All—yes, every single woman—was watching him. They stared at his black hair, his green eyes, his crimson lips, unblinking, smiling, heedless of their husbands or brothers beside them.

To be honest, some of their husbands and brothers were also secretly watching the boy—not due to preference, but because the pursuit of beauty was innate. Only the elderly, those who had seen enough, would cough lightly, warning the young not to lose themselves.

After all, today’s stars were Sibylle and Abigail.

Abigail’s face was grim. He stared nervously at Sibylle, fearing she too would gaze at Cesar as the maids did. But she did not. She remained as cold as ever—toward him, and toward Cesar.

Though comparing himself to Cesar brought him no joy, at least her demeanor proved she was no frivolous woman.

He smiled, took Sibylle’s hand. Seeing the bright gold ring, he was filled with tenderness. Unlike later times, couples exchanged rings not during the wedding, but at betrothal; each ring bore their names and the wedding date—proof of the union.

Before all, they swore their vows and received the crowd’s blessings.

Then they were led into a room. Though women no longer needed dozens of nobles to witness childbirth, as centuries later, to prevent baby-swapping or harm to the mother—

In the bedding ceremony, they were far more extreme than later generations: Sibylle and Abigail, each dressed only in a loose, thin linen tunic (the only garment they wore), were placed upon a large bed, surrounded by a dozen witnesses: Baldwin, Cesar, Bohemond, Raymond, Balian, Humphrey… Heraclius stood before them, chanting spells to dispel evil and bestow blessings.

Then the crowd pulled a large sheet over them. By tradition, they were to consummate the marriage beneath it—truly become husband and wife—and all must watch, so the marriage was deemed complete.

For Church law stipulated: if the wife failed her duties, or the husband his, the marriage was void. To the Church, marriage existed not for love, but for procreation. If either failed, the union had no purpose.

Usually, the onlookers were lenient. The newlyweds merely needed to lift their tunics and entwine their legs—this sufficed as consummation.

Sibylle closed her eyes, extended her legs. Though she expected it, the cold, rough touch of Abigail made her shudder. She also smelled an indescribable odor—not foul, but worse than foul.

She trembled uncontrollably. Abigail mistook it for maidenly shyness and nervousness. He drew her arm to kiss it, trying to soothe her. But Sibylle nearly fainted—his embrace filled her with nausea. She bit the inside of her lip, forcing herself not to cry out or scream.

Light shifted before her eyes. Unconsciously, she opened them—and saw the tall, dark-haired attendant beside her brother extinguishing a candle. It was a signal. The crowd erupted in good-natured laughter, one by one leaving.

“The ceremony is complete!” they cheered.

(End of chapter)