Chapter 127: A Terrible Contrast

“What does Philip think? Doesn’t he realize he’s helping to forge a new enemy for the Knights Templar?” Raymond sat behind his desk, glanced up at the question, and showed no interest in answering Bohemond.

Compared to Baldwin, who was only fifteen and wouldn’t turn sixteen until next February, both Raymond and Bohemond were already men in their forties.

Before the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, Raymond had thought he could continue as regent for another ten, even twenty years. Although Amalric I had said the regent should return power when Baldwin turned sixteen, he had his own plans—so long as he kept the young Baldwin IV isolated from state affairs and warfare (through illness, or “mistakes”), who would trust him? Who would dare trust him?

Even after leaving Arasal, when he heard Baldwin intended to tour the frontier, inspecting defenses, troops, and fortresses, he paid it no mind—it was merely the whim of a child.

“We never should have left Philip in Arasal,” Raymond said. Compared to previous Grand Masters of the Templars, Philip’s character was clearly more idealistic; even when he opposed Amalric I, it was always out of public duty, not private interest.

“He’s already given away his own lands. What do you think?” Bohemond replied, rare in this remark for lacking mockery—more sorrow than scorn.

He understood Philip better than Raymond did. Yes, Philip was upright and devout—but so what? After we left, was he going to take a few hundred knights from Arasal and attack Damascus or Egypt?

Don’t joke.

Yet the cruel truth lay before them: Baldwin had defeated Nur ad-Din and his tens of thousands with only a few hundred knights and a thousand soldiers.

Worse, they captured Nur ad-Din himself. Even though he was near death and died shortly after entering Arasal, it made no difference—the Saracens would now be at a disadvantage in negotiations. He was their symbol of faith, their guiding leader. Even if Baldwin wasn’t the type to desecrate enemy corpses, they couldn’t possibly leave him lying in Arasal.

It was ironic: Nur ad-Din had once said more than once that he would die in Arasal. He never imagined it would come to pass this way.

Raymond mentioned Philip because both veteran commanders saw it at once: though Philip credited the victory at the Sea of Galilee entirely to their king, Baldwin IV, who else could have controlled the entire battle, directing knights to cut, drive, and confuse the Saracens with such calm precision?

Only Philip, with his decades of battlefield experience, could have done it—but he claimed no credit, even stepped back, letting the people of Arasal crown Baldwin with praise and flowers. How could he not know Baldwin might become the next Amalric I?

The Knights Templar, as an independent military order, could never coexist peacefully with the King of Arasal. The glorious image he built for Baldwin IV would become a spear aimed at the Templars in the future.

That’s the flaw of idealists. He joined the Templars not for their current status or wealth, but because he still upheld the order’s original vow—to defend the Holy City, protect the weak.

If he believed Baldwin could fulfill those two duties, he would Haobuyouyu turn to the king without a second thought, caring nothing for the Templars’ future development—the Order wasn’t his life’s work; fighting for God was.

Bohemond felt a surge of irritation. He walked to the window, gazing out at the scene beyond the city walls—and then something worse came: he saw several commoners or pilgrims—he couldn’t tell which—wandering near the walls, praying and pleading before the towering keep—they were kneeling before the King of Arasal, as if…

One saintly figure beside Baldwin was already enough to trouble him. Now the people of Arasal had raised Baldwin to the level of the First Godfrey. Who didn’t call Godfrey an impeccable holy knight? If Amalric I were still alive, he’d laugh uncontrollably at this sight.

This was exactly what he and Heraclius had wanted—but he never imagined it would come so fast.

“Snap!” A quill pen landed at Bohemond’s feet.

The ink had stained the carpet and his duke’s robe. Bohemond sighed, picked it up, and placed it neatly on the desk. “What good does throwing a quill do?”

Then he swept aside the papers on the desk—of course, more troubling matters: the Crusader casualty list.

In the previous Battle of the Sea of Galilee, Baldwin had done something nearly insane—charging a camp of tens of thousands with only hundreds—but the knightly casualties were negligible, especially among the hundred-odd knights who stormed the camp. Their greatest injury might have been Nur ad-Din suddenly falling from his horse—sending their glory tumbling into the earth.

Meanwhile, the Crusaders under Raymond and Bohemond? It was as if God Himself punished them for their contempt of the king. First, they encountered a storm, marching for days and nights through freezing rain until every man was exhausted. When the skies cleared, their vile guide led them into a swamp. By the time they dragged themselves out, Mamluk archers had been waiting.

The frozen, starving, exhausted Crusaders were slaughtered by the thousands, utterly defenseless. Only then did they regret it. Only then did Raymond receive the plea for aid—Nur ad-Din and his army were advancing on Arasal. It was, admittedly, a convenient excuse to retreat, though they still resented it.

But then, as they prepared to return to Arasal, Mamluk Turkic cavalry kept harassing them—and their master, Toghrul II, moved too. Mamluk and Toghrul were like two vicious hounds, snapping at their heels.

In the end, they had to abandon most of their supplies, some horses and weapons, and… some soldiers, before finally breaking through and returning to Arasal.

Defeat wasn’t Kepa —Amalric I himself had once led an expedition to Egypt and returned empty-handed. But even the beggars by Arasal’s walls knew this war wasn’t just Crusaders versus infidels and rebels—it was also them versus the king.

They were utterly crushed.

The bitter aftermath would take time to digest: fallen soldiers needed compensation, wounded knights needed healing, and the deaths of the chaplains demanded explanation to the Patriarch. Compared to these, material losses were trivial—these costs might require the treasuries of Tripoli and Antioch to cover, since they had no spoils to offset the deficit.

And Mamluk still had to be fought. Why did the Crusaders exist, if not to secure the safety of pilgrims and the Holy Land? The news hadn’t reached Rome yet—but once it did, the Pope would surely send a letter of condemnation.

Especially when a king one-third their age had so perfectly fulfilled his duty: securing an undeniable victory over the Saracens, capturing their ruler, and leaving the Christians’ “most holy of holy places” untouched and unprofaned.

As for the Patriarch of Arasal, Heraclius had been Baldwin’s tutor. His position came entirely from the support of the former king and the trust of the current one.

He would never side with them. Bohemond glanced at Raymond and silently cursed him as useless—but he had to remind him: “Don’t forget—the Syrian envoys are coming today.”

When he was regent, no one could negotiate with the Saracens without passing through him. This might be his last chance to seize power.

“Treasure it,” he finally sneered at Raymond.

Of course, he needed to be present—Bohemond returned to his room to change out of his soiled robes. In the corridor, he met his son, Abigail.

Abigail had undergone the Knighthood Ceremony, but when he saw his father, he looked like a puppy suddenly thrown into an ice pit. He lowered his head until his chin touched his chest, nearly skirting the wall to pass—but Bohemond’s icy glance froze him in place.

The duke sized him up, especially between his legs: “Has the princess not conceived yet?”

His blunt, unvarnished question flushed Abigail’s face—not with shame, but rage.

Strangely, the princess had shown no signs of pregnancy these past months. In a normal marriage, if no child came, people blamed the woman—accusing her of illness or divine punishment for sacrilege.

But in Abigail’s marriage to Princess Sibylla, suspicion fell squarely on Abigail. After all, the princess had always been robust—so healthy, some even said, if only her vitality could be transferred to her brother Baldwin.

She was tall, with full breasts and hips, her complexion ruddy, her voice strong. From every angle, she looked perfectly capable of bearing children.

Abigail, by contrast—even without comparing him to Baldwin or Cesar—just looking at David, he was unnaturally thin, pale-faced, lips purple. He looked like a stallion incapable of producing good seed.

Though his build inherited his father Bohemond’s, his pallor and purple lips might also stem from overwhelming stress. His marriage to Sibylla wasn’t about love, nor mere political exchange—his child meant the continuation of the bloodline beloved and revered by the people.

Especially after Baldwin’s glorious victory, everyone eagerly awaited the princess bearing a son—someone who, over Baldwin’s decades of rule, might be raised as another holy king of Arasal.

Bohemond took a deep breath, telling himself to grow accustomed: “What are you doing here?”

Baldwin had moved back into the keep, into his father Amalric I’s chambers. His servants followed. The left tower was thus empty. After purification and blessing, Princess Sibylla and Abigail took residence there—though they still had separate rooms, both on the same floor.

Raymond and Bohemond remained in their familiar right tower. “I—I came to find your father,” Abigail stammered, slowly clenching his fists. “I want to join the upcoming negotiations.”

Bohemond gave him a strange look. “You? What could you possibly do?”

His father’s merciless contempt whitened Abigail’s face further. He steadied his trembling body, then, as if shedding something, knelt before Bohemond. “Let me go. Father, please—let me go!”

He begged—but after a long silence, he looked up to find Bohemond’s face barely inches from his own. He recoiled in terror, nearly toppling down the steep stairs.

“Your stupidity always amazes me,” Bohemond said with a smile. “It’s Sibylla, isn’t it? She told you—if you don’t secure a place in the post-battle negotiations, don’t come back to her. That way, you can’t sleep with her, can’t have a child—and we can’t wait. Perhaps in a few years, they’ll declare your marriage invalid. You’re afraid of that, aren’t you?”

Each word struck Abigail’s face like an invisible hand, one blow after another. He reeled, speechless.

“You came to me because you—you damn it, everyone knows where my weakness lies,” Bohemond’s cold voice came from above. “You know I need a child—your child with Sibylla, preferably a son. So you act recklessly, knowing I must do this.” He uttered a rare curse. “I’d rather go back to Antioch and try to fuck your mother again—see if I can sire another son. That might have a better chance.”

Abigail knelt on the floor, numb—but he… he wanted Sibylla. He had only Sibylla.

“Stand up. I’ll give you a place.”

Abigail smiled. He got what he wanted.

(End of Chapter)