Chapter 135: The Countess of Jaffa

Empress Dowager Maria felt a pang of pity.

“Moreover, when Joscelin III was five, he became a captive of Zengi, then of Nureddin—we do not know how he fared in his enemy’s fortress; though according to the Saracens, he was treated no differently than Nureddin’s sons, yet if that were true, he would never have risked angering the Sultan by sending his two children away… He did this for only one reason: he did not want his children to suffer the same torment and humiliation he endured.”

And when he returned to the Holy Cross Fortress, to Arasal, and saw Cesar standing beside you, would he not feel envy and resentment in his heart? He and Cesar had been separated for over a decade; between these father and son, there was no bond at all—only strangers. Men are not like women; their children do not spend ten months within their wombs, and the initial joy has long since faded in color and form with time.

He may have once loved Cesar, but he could also withdraw or alter that feeling… and we cannot do anything about it.”

Maria opened her hands and shook her head slightly.

In fact, in Byzantium, there was a simple solution to such a situation: a vial of poison.

But just as Baldwin could not command Cesar to turn against his father, Maria would never mention anything about poison.

“Yet this contradiction is not without a remedy—such as sending him to greet his own father.”

When a man is rescued from the edge of an enemy’s blade, the thundering hooves of horses, and collapsing rocks, he will kneel before his savior, weep uncontrollably, and regard him as an angel sent by God—even if he later learns the savior is his own son, he will still instinctively see him as his refuge—this period may not last long.

But if during this time you can persuade Joscelin III to make concessions for his son and savior—say, by sending him to a monastery—then the very things we feared may never come to pass.

But if you insist on keeping Cesar by your side and send someone else to greet Joscelin III, do you have even one person you can trust? Even if you do, are you certain that during this time, he will not, under someone else’s instruction, say something to Joscelin III?”

Baldwin fell silent; he truly had no such trustworthy person.

Maria smiled, without a trace of mockery—Baldwin was too young. Until now, apart from his illness, he had suffered no setbacks; and by God’s grace, he was the Lord of the Spear of Saint George, and at barely sixteen, he had won a great victory, capturing the Saracen Sultan Nureddin—a feat his own father had never achieved. His arrogance was not surprising.

But this young king had not yet realized that his adversaries were not merely bees and ants, but also hyenas and lions; even if they could not accomplish much together, they could certainly prevent him from accomplishing anything—this was the challenge every new monarch must face.

They were like newly forged swords, sharp and keen, yet forced to retreat again and again in political struggles; each retreat made them rounder, gentler—even if only on the surface. He must learn moderation, yielding, patience, appeasing all factions, ensuring everyone was placed where they belonged, including himself.

A single foot can never bear the weight of an entire throne, whether it be of bronze, iron, or even gold.

“Abigail is a fool,” Empress Dowager Maria said bluntly. “But when Cesar leaves, you can elevate David to your side. David is a good boy—honest, simple-minded. His father is your regent; even after you turn sixteen and he returns power to you, he will remain one of the most influential figures in your court. You must support him, let him contend with Bohemond—no matter which heir you ultimately choose—”

This was golden advice.

Baldwin listened in silence, his inner turmoil gradually calming; he was deep in thought.

The Countess of Jaffa arrived early the next morning.

Though some advised that as the king’s biological mother, she should reside in the Holy Cross Fortress, she declined; she did not wish to become the castle’s second mistress and vie for power with Empress Dowager Maria.

After all, the Empress Dowager had already taken her son’s side, squabbling with allies while leaving the true enemy unattended, allowing him to grow unchecked—that would be foolish.

She had originally been informed of Cesar’s identity—immediately after he was confirmed as Joscelin III’s sole heir, she should have come at once. But after the battle by the Sea of Galilee, to thank God for His protection over Baldwin, she had vowed to observe a month of asceticism; when the news arrived, her penance was still ongoing.

As soon as her asceticism ended, she rode into Arasal, and upon entering Jaffa Gate, learned from her knights left behind in the Holy Cross Fortress that the young king and the Patriarch had quarreled over Cesar. She was startled, and immediately sought out the Patriarch, only to discover that her foolish son had done a great many foolish things lately.

Compared to Empress Dowager Maria, the Countess of Jaffa’s attitude toward Baldwin was more direct and fierce. When the room was finally alone with him and Cesar, she even gave the King of Arasal a light slap across the face. “That’s to wake you up,” she rebuked.

Then she turned to Cesar, her expression filled with complex emotions—but she gave him the same light slap, the reprimand unmistakable: “Even if you are not my nephew, nor of Baldwin’s blood, as his friend, you should have reminded him, stopped him. If you could not, you should have sent someone to find me.”

“But, my lady…” Cesar still found it difficult to say “aunt”: “Baldwin is only fifteen.”

He did not finish, but the Countess of Jaffa understood his meaning: “You are his brother, not his grandfather.” What strange indulgence was this?

“He will assume full rule next year; such moments will grow fewer and fewer.” Cesar had to add.

“That sounds like a curse,” Baldwin muttered beside her.

The Countess of Jaffa sighed. The way these two children interacted was simply… She leaned forward slightly, cupping Cesar’s face, carefully inspecting the spot she had slapped. “I once thought you looked alike, but I never imagined you were truly bound by an unbreakable tie.”

She gently traced Cesar’s brows and eyes—truly the finest creation of God. She sought to find traces of resemblance to her brother—there were some, but compared to Cesar, Joscelin III was nothing but a rough draft. Or perhaps she remembered wrongly; when she left Edessa, her brother had still been a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. She had no clear memory of him, only that many said he resembled a shy girl.

That shy girl could never have imagined that just a year later, he would suffer such a calamity; nor could the Countess of Jaffa imagine that the smile of the Goddess of Fate would one day return his child to her.

She had once hated her husband, for refusing to aid her homeland Edessa, and for refusing to pay the ransom to redeem her brother from Joscelin II.

Now she was at peace. No matter how cold and cruel Amalric I had once been to her, he had, unwittingly, saved her nephew—her brother’s sole heir.

Suddenly, she pulled Cesar into a tight embrace. Cesar froze—he had never before been so intimately embraced by a mature woman.

In another world, his father and mother were emotionally reserved; they never said “I love you.” Though he knew they loved him, he could recall no vivid memories of hugs or affection—yet now, he felt a burning body nearly enveloping him entirely, trembling slightly, or perhaps vibrating from an overly fierce heartbeat.

He placed his hands on the Countess of Jaffa’s sturdy back. “I’m fine,” he murmured, unsure to whom he spoke: “I’m fine.” He repeated it.

He was held for a long while before being released.

Regarding the Patriarch Heraclius’s suggestion and Empress Dowager Maria’s counsel, the Countess of Jaffa wholeheartedly agreed; she even openly expressed contempt for her son.

“What made you think Abigail was worth emulating?” The countess’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Why is Bohemond always so gloomy and unlikable? Precisely because he knows that after his death, the Principality of Antioch may not endure. In the future, it will either become part of Arasal or part of Damascus—everything he does will come to nothing.”

Some are so discouraged they give up entirely. Bohemond still struggles, for he is still in his prime. If Princess Sibylla could bear a child with Abigail soon, he might have a chance to raise that child to adulthood.

Then, even if Antioch still merges with Arasal, he will have no regrets.

But what is Abigail in all this? Calling him a clown is already generous—he is likely seen as nothing more than a stud. His sole duty is to sire a son, or more. She snorted: “Do you think Cesar should become such a man?”

When people speak of him, they will not say how wise, how insightful, how noble he is—they will say only that he holds his position purely because of his blood tie to the king, or worse—this fellow is merely a decent ornament standing in the hall.

Do you want them to say that?”

“But, Mother, he will fight beside me.”

“It makes no difference. People will remember only the invincible Spear of Saint George,” the countess said bluntly. “Even if you are willing to share your glory with Cesar, you will find that in people’s gossip, mockery outweighs praise.”

“Many people like Cesar.”

“They used to. Not necessarily now,” the countess said. “He is now the heir of Joscelin III of Edessa and the brother of the King of Arasal.”

“You don’t seem very happy,” Baldwin said, puzzled. The countess had once said Cesar’s only flaw was his birth.

“Of course I am happy. I had even believed my brother was dead—like my father, perished in a Saracen fortress. In this world, I had only you and your sister as kin. Now I know my brother lives, and has left me two children: my nephew and my niece.”

But you must understand: people are always wary of perfection. Originally, they could sincerely praise and support Cesar, because he carried a great flaw—one that would have haunted him until his death.

But now that flaw is gone. Do you understand? His only weakness has vanished, yet his enemies remain. They will not stop. They will continue to strike, searching for weaknesses and faults in him. And compared to the known flaw of his unknown origin, we have no idea where they will strike next.

So from this perspective, I must say this matter is not at all good.”

She sighed helplessly, watching Baldwin finally show a flicker of regret. “It seems you understand now. For a while, you’ve been like an Isaac merchant parading about with a jewel box—bestowing honors, privileges, seating him beside you, even defending him when he quarreled with your teacher, the Patriarch Heraclius. Already, some are discontented.”

The Patriarch made this suggestion because he hoped you would take a moment to calm down, to reflect on how you and Cesar should relate going forward. You may trust him, grow closer to him. You are indeed brothers—but you must not show it. He is not the King of Arasal—you are. And on the day you assume full rule, countless men will rush forward to serve you.

But if you act as though you trust only Cesar, he becomes the sole barrier between them and you. What do you think they will do?”

If you persist in your stubbornness, they may even turn into enemies of both you and Cesar. It is dangerous.”

Baldwin lowered his head. Now he no longer looked like a king, but like a child his age: “I… I know I was wrong… Mother, I will apologize to my teacher.”

The Countess of Jaffa sighed, placing her hands on the heads of both children. Baldwin’s hair looked soft, but was in fact coarse and stiff, curling rebelliously. Cesar’s hair, though as dark as night, was fine, fluffy, and smooth.

“There is one more person you should apologize to,” the countess said. Baldwin paused only a moment before understanding. He turned to Cesar: “I’m sorry, Cesar.”

He spoke dejectedly, looking utterly pitiful.

Cesar was touched—but that feeling vanished by the day of departure.

Baldwin drew thirty knights each from the three Orders—the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the Holy Sepulchre—ninety in total.

“Hey, isn’t that our count?”

Geoffrey called out, then blew a loud whistle.

(End of Chapter)