Chapter 116: The Lady of Love and Beauty (Bonus Chapter!)

“They really treat me like a child,” Baldwin said softly, his tone more weary than angry.

Over these past months, he had come to understand: even if another few months passed and he turned sixteen—according to Amalric I’s will, from that day forward he would possess all the rights and status of a king.

But in truth, even Amalric I himself had failed to win universal devotion— at least the Grand Master and members of the Knights Templar frequently opposed him. Now they still oppose him, but it’s Raymond and Bohemond they target—and for Baldwin, this is no better, for it means the Templars still do not regard this young monarch as worthy of respect.

Even today, they continue debating how to campaign against Myle, though Baldwin and Cesar have already presented evidence that Nureddin may launch war at any moment—they remain unmoved, or rather, maintaining the safety of the pilgrimage route remains their paramount concern.

No, more accurately, they may have believed the merchants’ intelligence, but their analysis and judgment diverged sharply from Baldwin’s and Cesar’s—after years of fighting the Saracens, they were no longer strangers to their political and military systems; if not fully familiar, they were at least well-acquainted.

In the Turkic Seljuk court, there was only one master; all others were slaves. Once the master died, and before a new one emerged, chaos and disorder awaited. Nureddin had three sons and a nephew; if he died, the Saracens would instantly descend into civil strife.

Given this, knowing his days were numbered, Nureddin dared not even leave Aleppo, let alone launch an expedition to Arasal. Even if he suddenly went mad, how long could he possibly endure?

Whether Nureddin or Amalric I, preparing for an expedition required at least one or two years, and sieges lasted weeks to months. Yet they had already made an agreement with Emperor Manuel I of Byzantium: when they attacked Myle, the Byzantine fleet would simultaneously arrive at Tarsus (a Byzantine city near Myle’s territory), forming a pincer attack with the Crusaders.

If so, they could finish this war within three months—ensuring the pilgrimage route remained open, and using it as a base to strike against the Turkic Seljuk sultans.

Even if the Saracens dared attack Arasal, they could reinforce in time. Arasal was no low-walled village; the Crusaders had once stormed it with relentless force for a month and a half before capturing it. Over these decades, every king of Arasal had continuously strengthened its walls and added fortresses, making it ever more majestic and impregnable. As one cleric put it: “Only divine wrath from God Himself could destroy it.”

Yet Raymond and the others did not consider this a grave error. After all, the new king was still an impulsive youth. Though he had participated in battles and campaigns, his experience remained insufficient.

But occasionally, Raymond asked himself: would he willingly surrender his power in a few years?

Five years, he thought. Perhaps even ten—until King Baldwin IV and his children grew up.

Judging by Baldwin’s current condition, his health was still tolerable, but no one knew when it might suddenly collapse. Raymond had consulted several clerics: lepers could remain well for years, yet one day, without warning, their bodies might erupt in sores, burn with fever, lapse into unconsciousness, then collapse entirely—needing ointment and confession. The entire process might last only one or two months, at most half a year…

Thinking of this, he grew anxious. If Baldwin never matured, remained frivolous, or placed too much trust in that mysterious boy by his side, his regency might stretch to fifteen or even twenty years—until Bohemond’s son Abigail and the princess’s child came of age, only then might he find rest.

In other words, his war with Bohemond might last until the grave.

Their rivalry began when they both became squires to Baldwin III, continued through Amalric I’s reign, and now, after Baldwin’s generation, it was destined to extend to his descendants.

He had full confidence in himself. He was experienced, shrewd, and—though he admitted he was not always upright or fair—he at least fulfilled his duties diligently and conscientiously.

Bohemond? Pfft!

Loud cheers shattered Raymond’s sweet fantasy. He snapped back to reality, realizing he sat atop a towering grandstand. He remembered: to ease the young king’s unease and vexation, he and Bohemond had organized a small tournament.

Though called “small,” the preparations—announcements, construction of stands, walls, fences, lodging for distant knights, servants, stables, tents, camps—were all meticulously arranged. To make the tournament more spectacular, they hired musicians, minstrels, and flamboyant courtesans and dancers.

And dozens of dwarves and jesters from various castles.

They even requested the former queen, now dowager empress and Byzantine princess, to lend her animal trainer and beasts. Before the tournament, the spectacle was dazzling. Moreover, Raymond and Bohemond each pledged generous prizes.

“Is that your son?” A minor noble, seizing the crowd’s surge, slipped close with agile grace and flattered: “What a valiant, handsome young man! In my view, not just in this castle, nor even in all of Arasal—but across the entire Holy Land—no knight could surpass him.”

Had he praised anything else, Raymond might have smiled in reply. But when he spoke of “most valiant” and “most handsome,” Raymond’s smile vanished. “Don’t forget our king,” he said coldly.

The noble hesitated, but his face was impenetrable. He immediately added: “Except the king.”

Raymond snorted. “No, not just the king. You must add one more: the Knight of Bethlehem.”

Indeed, the next moment, the crowd erupted. A crimson banner unfurled across the field. The herald rose and loudly proclaimed the Knight of Bethlehem’s name.

“Still sounds odd—Cesar of Bethlehem,” Baldwin muttered.

In this era, the Franks did not place much value on surnames; names were typically given name + territory or birthplace. Cesar had long been criticized for lacking a surname—that was the point. But now, as the Knight of Bethlehem, he could be called Cesar of Bethlehem.

Cesar’s opponent was David. The outcome needed no explanation. Though both sides had agreed not to use divine powers granted by saints, when Cesar first arrived at the Holy Cross Castle, he had already defeated David in a target-hitting contest—David had already trained as a knight for three years, while Cesar had only trained in horsemanship and lance for two months.

Even David admitted he felt fear—and a touch of shame—when facing Cesar. He believed he would one day become a fearless knight, but Cesar had endured far more brutal battles. On the first day of the siege, he had fallen from a scaling ladder. Though blessed by God, he escaped permanent disability, but could no longer participate in later battles.

He was sent back to Arasal.

If Cesar was a sword forged repeatedly in war, David was merely a decorative piece hanging in a hall. He might achieve greater glory in time, but now, he was no match for Cesar.

Cesar struck once—David tumbled from his horse. The prearranged cheers burst forth. Raymond’s face darkened, yet he forced himself to clap.

Poor was the noble who had flattered him. He likely knew little of the Knight of Bethlehem—or misunderstood him, thinking Cesar had risen solely through favor with the new king. He stood frozen, helpless. Raymond almost pitied him. “Go,” he said, then turned to watch his son.

“It doesn’t matter,” Raymond murmured to himself. “David, you will be Count of Tripoli.”

Perhaps—even… A thought surfaced unbidden in his mind. Sybilla and Abigail had shared a bed for months, yet the princess’s belly remained unchanged. He knew pregnancy was not instantaneous—a newlywed couple might see a swollen belly in one or two months, or wait years, even decades, with no sign. It was God’s will; their marriage was not blessed.

Like Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Louis VII of France.

But if they truly could not bear children—or only daughters? A daughter’s inheritance always came after male heirs. And as Bohemond said, he was Amalric I’s cousin; his son was also Baldwin’s blood relative. Years later, when Baldwin IV’s body failed and he could no longer rule—if Abigail and the princess still had no child…

Of course, there was Princess Isabella. But then she would barely be of age, while David would be a grown man of thirty, a knight, a noble. If he could earn some merit in these years—capturing a city, reclaiming lands—Raymond had confidence he could secure support from the Hospitallers and Templars.

At that point, perhaps his struggle with Bohemond could finally reach a true conclusion.

When he looked at David again, his irritation had vanished. He even removed his son’s helmet himself and wiped his sweat. David, however, was gloomy—he had once again disappointed his father.

“It’s nothing,” Raymond said. “Everyone has their own strengths. Yours may be one none of them can match.”

David could not grasp his father’s meaning. He opened his mouth to ask further, when a clear, joyful cry rang out, followed by the thudding of shoes on the wooden grandstand. The tournament’s champion—the Knight of Bethlehem—was, according to tradition, hanging a wreath on his lance.

He was to offer this wreath to the most beautiful and noble woman present.

Usually, such ceremonial homage and gift—unless the knight had already sworn an oath to a noble lady, kneeling before her and pledging to defend her honor—was presented to the highest-ranking woman in the field.

The highest-ranking woman here today was the Countess of Jaffa.

Since Amalric I’s death, she had frequently traveled between Jaffa and Arasal. After losing her father, she naturally wished to offer her children more maternal comfort. Yet in her view, the only one needing her soothing was Baldwin—Sybilla had grown increasingly stubborn, arrogant, and capricious.

The Countess of Jaffa smiled. She saw the boy instructing his squire to hang a wreath of forget-me-nots, dotted with tiny white roses and tied with crimson ribbons. She considered, then removed one of her bracelets—a noblewoman’s customary gift to a knight.

“I remember the last time I was ‘Lady of Love and Beauty’ was twenty years ago,” she said cheerfully to her companion. “Amalric I won that tournament and gave me the wreath. I never imagined I’d be ‘Lady of Love and Beauty’ again.”

Her companion, her lifelong friend, burst into laughter—but her expression froze instantly.

The Countess of Jaffa turned sharply—and her face turned cold. She saw her daughter—the Princess Sybilla.

The Countess of Jaffa had once been mistress of Arasal. But after Amalric I divorced her, she was merely a noblewoman. As Sybilla had screamed in anger, her status now lay beneath her daughter’s. Meaning: at this moment, Sybilla was the most noble woman present. This realization stirred a dread within her.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Sybilla stood before her, face icy. “You should bow to me.”

The Countess’s lips trembled, yet she knelt, lowering her head. But before she could rise fully, she seized Sybilla’s arm. “Have you spoken to your brother? Have you spoken to the Knight of Bethlehem?”

Cesar was no longer a mere servant. He was a knight, held land, was a close advisor to the king. Though Gerard’s Damara had written to dissolve their vow—when they returned to Arasal, Cesar had sworn anew to her, fulfilling his promise—though the vow lasted only briefly, everyone knew the Knight of Bethlehem was a man of honor.

When Damara made her demand in Bilebes, he was still a squire, not yet formally knighted. He could have refused.

But he did not. He accepted the arduous task. It was his courage, wisdom, and strength that saw him through. Another knight would have wasted his time—or lost his honor, even his life.

If he now offered the wreath to Princess Sybilla, he must swear an oath to become her knight. From then on, he would bear all the duties and responsibilities of any sworn knight.

The Countess of Jaffa knew well: Sybilla’s nature would never let such a useful tool slip away.

At that moment, the Knight of Bethlehem turned toward the grandstand. The previously noisy crowd fell silent. They exchanged glances, murmuring. Baldwin rose from his seat. For the first time, he looked at his sister with cold, sharp eyes. He loved Sybilla—but he would not allow anyone to exploit or humiliate his best friend and brother—especially not before his face. It was almost an insult.

He regretted it. Not long ago, Sybilla had hinted—she wanted Cesar to swear loyalty to her. Back then, he had simply refused outright, without further warning or reprimand.

If he had wanted Cesar to become Sybilla’s knight, he could have ordered it already. Uninformed people might think becoming a princess’s knight was no bad thing for Cesar.

But Baldwin, though often blinded by kinship, sensed Sybilla’s hidden malice toward Cesar. He had also seen how she “used” Abigail—ruthless, heedless, cold. Had Abigail not been the sole heir of the Prince of Antioch, Amalric I would have beheaded him on the spot.

And Cesar was a man of high virtue, unyielding and noble.

If he were Abigail, would he have agreed to Sybilla’s request? He would not only refuse—he would try to dissuade and stop her. But to Sybilla, that would be betrayal.

Yet if Cesar refused to give the wreath to Sybilla, that too would be betrayal—and he would face her endless revenge. He was not a count’s or prince’s son.

“Why are you all standing here?” A sweet voice suddenly pierced the silence.

When people saw who it was, a long sigh swept across grandstand and field. Everyone looked around, then fell silent, smiling. The sigh had come from them all. “God be praised,” someone whispered.

The voice belonged to none other than Maria, the dowager empress—she was not meant to be here. She wore a white robe, a black cloak, cradling the young Princess Isabella. No crown, only a simple headscarf, slightly askew—as if she had rushed here.

Her face was not beautiful, yet everyone (except Sybilla) now saw her as saintly.

Who was the most noble woman here now? Of course, Dowager Empress Maria.

Sybilla stood frozen, her face paling, then flushing crimson, then turning livid. The Countess of Jaffa called out loudly: “Bow, Princess.” Around them, noblewomen could not help laughing—even those who had come with Sybilla. After bowing, the Countess calmly returned to her seat, ignoring the princess.

Maria did not walk or ride in a carriage. She rode a tall Arabian horse—one of Amalric I’s relics. Her maids rode behind her. She entered the field directly, facing Cesar.

Cesar gave her a grateful smile, slowly turning his lance’s tip toward the dowager. She reached out calmly, took the wreath, and placed it on her young daughter Isabella’s head. She glanced down, realizing she had come in haste and had nothing to return to Cesar. So she plucked a ribbon from Isabella’s hair and tied it to the lance’s tip.

It looked absurd—a long, sharp lance bearing only a slender ribbon. But when Cesar raised it, the crowd’s cheers surpassed every previous moment.

(End of Chapter)