Chapter 114: Defeat

Baldwin sat alone quietly on the floor of the small chapel.

Cesar walked over slowly and sat beside him; their shoulders touched, and they said nothing for a long time, until Baldwin finally let out a heavy sigh.

“I may have to move into the main tower.”

Cesar grunted. Before he left Saint Cross Castle, Baldwin had insisted on staying in the left tower, preserving his father Amalric I’s room in the main tower—but today’s events had shown both Baldwin and him that such thinking was still too naive. Baldwin must abandon this precious yet fragile sentiment and quickly confront his true identity: King, not the King’s son.

Baldwin turned his head to look at Cesar. Everything left by Amalric I was rapidly fading—the horse, the room, the weapons and clothes. When people spoke of the Lord of the Holy Land, the Grand Master of the Knights of the Sepulchre, and the Commander of the Crusaders, they no longer meant Amalric I, but Baldwin IV.

Even though his memorial mass would still be held on the last day of every month until December of next year, to the generals and ministers of Arasal, and to the people here, he was already a figure of the past.

But they didn’t seem to expect much from a new king either.

Cesar knew Baldwin still needed time to adapt to his new identity—or to decide the path he would take. He gazed at the altar laid with white linen—on it rested the priceless chest, behind which stood a towering golden cross inlaid with gems, mother-of-pearl, and pearls. It stood nearly twice a man’s height and as wide as a man’s outstretched arms; even under dim candlelight, it shimmered brilliantly, breathtakingly beautiful.

But it was merely a vessel. The true fragment of the Cross was stored inside that chest. When grand ceremonies were held in the castle, or when the Crusaders prepared to march, they would take the True Cross fragment from the chest, dip it in holy water, and distribute it among the people—or place the fragment inside the golden cross and carry it onto the battlefield.

Now, Baldwin himself was like that golden cross.

Placed in the most honored position, splendid and glorious, revered by all—but they revered not him, but his bloodline and surname: the descendant of Charlemagne, the heir of the Keepers of the Sepulchre, even a second spiritual emblem of Arasal.

Even though he had received God’s blessing and demonstrated his abilities, his youth and inexperience still led the seasoned elders of court and battlefield to see him as a symbol—and symbols must not have their own thoughts or will.

“Perhaps we moved too hastily,” Baldwin whispered.

“They think we moved too hastily,” Cesar cut straight to the point.

Even though Cesar had presented evidence proving that Nurdin in Aleppo might soon die—his death could cause even greater turmoil than Amalric I’s—the ruler hailed as the “Light of Faith” was the sole pillar holding up a vast structure; once he fell, all of Syria, even Egypt, would shake violently.

“Did you see Raymond’s eyes?” Baldwin turned his head to look at Cesar, his gaze devoid of strong emotion: “He isn’t looking at a king, nor a commander—he’s looking at a spoiled child. He can’t do anything to me because he swore loyalty to me, but that doesn’t change his deep-rooted perception of me—as a child.”

He was angry, but more than that, he was helpless, and a little contemptuous. Perhaps he thinks I can’t even wait a year before seizing power and asserting authority—under the guise of ‘Holy War’—how frivolous, how blind to the bigger picture.

No one is willing to support us.

They may share Raymond’s thoughts, or perhaps they simply seek practical gain—compared to Nurdin, they’d rather deal with Mule in Tarsus first.

He paused. “I remember you told me that when you and Templar Geoffrey went to aid Count Etienne, on your way back you encountered Mule—I was terrified for a long while then, even though you had already returned to me by then, but I can imagine how dire the situation must have been.”

If Mule had known that Count Etienne was Louis VII’s envoy to the Holy Land and a guest of honor to King Amalric I and his vassals, he would have unhesitatingly invited the count to his castle and then demanded a hefty ransom from both Louis VII and Amalric I.

If that had happened, it would have been fortunate. But if Mule had learned that Count Etienne had fled Saint Cross Castle in haste and been lured to his territory by a guide for a specific reason—his price might have been even higher, because he knew Amalric I could never allow such a scandal to become public.

Fortunately, Cesar reacted quickly, pretending to be Abigail, the Duchess of Antioch, and tricked Mule into letting go of this big fish that had swum straight to him.

“And fortunately you insisted I wear your cloak and the golden cross.”

“I thought that if anything happened, they might buy you a life.”

“They did buy a life—not just mine,” Cesar said with a sigh. At the time, he hadn’t been certain—what if Mule had seen Abigail? But he had to do it. Count Etienne still had a chance to survive; as a valuable hostage, even if he didn’t receive proper treatment, he wouldn’t be killed immediately.

But Templar Geoffrey and Cesar himself? Not so lucky.

Mule had once been a member of the Templar Order—he had sworn an oath before the Cross—but that oath was as worthless as his farts. He joined the Order only to use its power to kill his brother. When the Order discovered his true intent, they refused him without hesitation.

Mule’s plan failed, and he harbored resentment. When one mission went wrong, he defected without a moment’s thought—from Christian ranks to the Saracen side, becoming a sharp-toothed hound under the Turkic Seljuk Sultan.

The Templar Order was furious at his betrayal and issued a decree: every Templar must kill Mule on sight.

Mule did not back down. He controlled every road, leading bands of pagan cavalry to plunder pilgrims—Christians, Jews, even Saracens—all fell into his net. If any Templar served as escort, they were hanged or beheaded after unspeakable torture.

Templar Geoffrey likely would not have escaped this fate. And Cesar, merely a squire, would have been lucky to be sold to the Caliph’s court.

“What did Mule look like when you saw him?”

“A dangerously dangerous man—he reminded me of those splendidly furred beasts.”

“My master also said he was a terrifying presence—a devil unconstrained by law, morality, or faith. He was once a prince of Armenia, but he rebelled against his brother for the throne. After the rebellion failed, he fled Armenia without hesitation and came to Arasal.

He begged my uncle and my father for shelter. Meanwhile, his brother sent envoys demanding the return of this shameless traitor, this cruel kin.

Later, to save his life, he vowed to join the Templar Order.”

The Templar Order was an armed monastic order. Once admitted, all worldly matters were severed—he lost his right of inheritance, lands, and private property.

That was why Armenia had finally ceased its demands. No one expected him to betray the Order after only a few years. Worse, he fled to the Saracens. But then again, no Christian kingdom would accept a Templar who broke his oath.

“I heard he not only received God’s blessing, but also divine revelations from the Prophet among the Saracens.”

Baldwin spoke very softly: “We all know that among the Caliphs and Sultans, there are occasionally Christian knights, and among our ranks, there are Turks—but they don’t convert. Our knights still receive the grace of the Saints; their soldiers hear only the Prophet’s revelations.

But I heard Mule truly received both blessing and revelation. No one knows how he did it. Our clerics say he is a disciple of the Devil—that his blessing is false, that the Devil impersonates the Saint.”

“Has anyone else had this condition?”

“As far as I know, no,” Baldwin whispered even softer. “Perhaps there have been others, but they kept silent.” This could shake people’s faith—they might wonder: what exactly is “grace” and “revelation”?

Someone like Wit—never baptized, vile in character, a sinner—received “revelation.” Of course, he was still a Christian. But if a traitor, an infidel, could retain that same power… it was truly… troubling.

“Still, they want to campaign against Mule because he has severely damaged the Order’s and the cities’ revenues,” Baldwin said.

Cesar immediately visualized a rough map—in their journey to rescue Count Etienne, they had followed the route of the Second Crusade. Mule’s territory lay precisely between Byzantium and Armenia, the very path all land-bound pilgrims must take.

He also kept pirates. They hid near unknown islands, surrounding ships carrying pilgrims like sharks hunting seals.

Pilgrims were vital to the Holy Land. More importantly, one of the Templars’ chief sources of funding was protecting pilgrims from harm and ensuring their safe passage.

The Templar Order was originally founded to rescue pilgrims from deceitful merchants (who promised to take them to the Holy Land but sold them to infidels), brutal bandits, and ferocious beasts—this was how they built their credibility. People trusted them, and so entrusted their lives, wealth, and lands to them, transforming them from a pitiful group of two knights sharing one horse into the massive force they are today.

Mule’s actions and threats were indeed a thorn in their side, but whether that alone was their motive was uncertain.

After all, for seasoned ministers and generals like Raymond, even if Nurdin truly collapsed suddenly as merchants claimed, his three sons and emirs would fight over his power and lands—Saracen civil war might last years, and even if settled, the realm would remain divided.

This was good for the Crusaders and the Holy Land states. Why rush to war now, uniting them against a common enemy?

Better to seize this golden opportunity and quickly remove Mule—the nail—ensuring pilgrim safety and preserving the prosperity of Arasal and other Holy Land cities and ports.

If two ordinary children stood here, they might have been convinced.

But after all they had endured, and after Amalric I and Heraclius’s earnest teachings, Baldwin and Cesar both arrived at the same possibility. Though Nurdin might soon die, he was still alive—and only recently had he summoned Shirkuh and Saladin from Egypt under the banner of Holy War.

But what if this “banner” was more than just a banner?

Amalric I, even as he died, stubbornly struggled to pave the way for his only son. What of Nurdin? Would he choose to die silently?

What if this aging lion, in his final moments, used every last ounce of his strength and remaining prestige?

Everyone knew that once Nurdin died, his Zengid dynasty and lands would swiftly descend into chaos and weakness. But before that, another place was already struggling in chaos and decline: Arasal.

Amalric I’s sudden death had drained the Holy City’s wealth and resources. The new king was only fourteen, a boy afflicted with leprosy. His ministers and generals each had their own agendas; some even eyed his throne with greed and hunger…

Anything they could conceive, Nurdin could not have missed. And what he waited for might be precisely their moment of complacency.

(End of Chapter)