Chapter 166: Isaac's New Year (3) (Combined Bonus Chapter)

Cesar, usually quick-witted, barely understood the meaning of those words.

Hibilah was pregnant—of course, that was good news—but what did it have to do with Baldwin? He had not yet connected Baldwin’s sudden arrival in Bethlehem with Hibilah’s pregnancy, but his sister Natiya let out a soft gasp beside him.

When Cesar turned to look at her, he saw Natiya watching them with concern—what did she pity? What did she rage against? Cesar understood.

Baldwin saw the crimson flush rise on Cesar’s cheeks—not from fever, but from anger—and quickly seized his hands, forcing him to stay by his side. “It’s Abigail. Perhaps he’s become too attached to this hard-won child.”

Though ordinary couples might wait years, even decades, without children before speaking such words, everyone had long assumed Baldwin would never have his own. Hibilah and Abigail’s child would be his heir, the future king of Arasaluh; even after only a few months without news, some had already tossed and turned, praying through the night.

Now that the good news had finally come, they certainly did not wish anyone to ruin it—not even the king.

“You are king.” You are the master of the Holy Cross Fortress.

As a physician, he knew that whether the fetus still in its mother’s womb or a newborn just born, both were extremely fragile. Baldwin’s condition had been contained and eased, but the poison still lingered in his body; no one could say whether it might affect this vital infant.

But if that were so, Hibilah and Abigail could simply leave the Holy Cross Fortress. If they did, even Cesar would thank them—and feel a pang of guilt.

Their current behavior, turning the tables like this, could only be called arrogance born of misplaced favor—though the favor itself was merely imagined, or existed only in their own lips.

Even when Baldwin was merely the heir, when Amalric I’s queen Maria was pregnant and giving birth, no one suggested removing Baldwin from the Holy Cross Fortress. During that time, Baldwin merely reduced his visits to her, and whenever they gathered in the small chapel for Mass and communion, he simply kept his distance, using a different cup.

Why, back then, did no one rise up to condemn him, demanding he step aside for that unborn child?

The joy of seeing Baldwin had vanished. Cesar had thought this was merely a playful, happy visit—but now he saw the ugly truth hidden beneath it.

“I too want a healthy heir.”

Baldwin could only grasp Cesar in his anger—not tightly, for Cesar’s body was still weak—and he held him as one might try to hold a furious cat, gently enclosing his companion, afraid to hurt him, yet moved by his preciousness.

“Enough, enough,” this time it was he who calmed Cesar—a strange feeling indeed. “I am not a pitiful wanderer without a home. I am king of Arasaluh. I may go anywhere in the Holy Land—including here—to a friend and kin’s domain, staying for months is no great matter.”

Not good. Not good at all. Baldwin could hold Cesar’s hands, grip his shoulders—but he could not reach out a third hand to silence his mouth.

Cesar turned his head without hesitation and shouted: “Bring back Bishop Andrew!” Outside, Longinus immediately entered. His young master stared coldly at him and ordered: “Fetch Bishop Andrew.”

Bishop Andrew had now, for the third time that night, crossed his lord’s threshold. He did not understand why Cesar had suddenly summoned him back. Had the youths quarreled? Did he need to act as a fair judge? Was it over chess, gambling, or some idea or policy?

He even thought of Isaac’s New Year—but never the Holy Cross Fortress. When he saw Bishop Andrew step into the room, Baldwin helplessly released his grip.

Bishop Andrew bowed to the king, then nodded to Cesar. Longinus brought a chair; he sat, smiling, and asked the two youths what had happened.

His eyes still scanned the room, searching for a chessboard or dice.

When he heard Cesar say Hibilah was pregnant, Bishop Andrew’s first reaction was the same as his: “That is good news.”

Since Hibilah and Abigail had shared a bed, everyone had awaited this joy. If she bore a son, they would no longer fear Arasaluh falling into another succession crisis.

And past kings, including Baldwin IV, had proven this bloodline had the right to continue in this most sacred land. But then he looked sharply at Baldwin and saw his face held more than the joy of reunion with a friend.

A king suddenly visiting a subject’s home was rash, but not unheard of. Kings leaving their castles to tour their lands was common. The Frankish kings did so often—to observe whether their lords harbored ill intentions and suppress them in time; to understand the true state of their realm, rather than remain trapped in their castles as hollow puppets.

As for forcing disloyal lords to pay the king’s exorbitant lodging costs—that was merely another trivial matter.

So when Baldwin, under Cesar’s care, toured Arasaluh’s borders, no one objected. Now, if he stayed in Bethlehem, the officials and people there might even welcome him—after all, he had come without his army or court, lightly attended, like a friend.

But whichever the case, the greatest precondition was that it must stem from the king’s own will, not coercion.

Bishop Andrew was a member of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre. He felt not only an elder’s hope for the young man, but a subject’s loyalty to the king, and a knight’s devotion and affection for the Grand Master of the Order.

Cesar’s choice was right. Bishop Andrew could never tolerate this. “Have you told anyone else?” he asked at once.

Baldwin hesitated. Abigail had come to greet him on Hibilah’s behalf; the room had been empty. Abigail had knelt before him, making an impudent request—and he had felt little anger, only irritation. At that moment, he had been thinking of Cesar, so without thought, he had taken two attendants, thrown on his cloak, and left the Holy Cross Fortress as a knight of the Order.

“So most people in the Holy Cross Fortress still do not know you have left.”

“It’s Bohemond,” Bishop Andrew immediately seized the old fox’s tail. He had no proof—but some things needed no proof.

“It was… Abigail who suggested it.”

“But Bohemond must have instigated it. Perhaps Raymond and other ministers too,” Bishop Andrew mused. “They are pressuring you—they know you love your sister… so they use this as an excuse—ha! To make a king leave his castle? To make way for an unborn child?”

“Do they think he is Hercules? (The demigod of Greek myth, son of Zeus, who strangled two serpents in his cradle)”

“Perhaps because of that earlier time… it left them a little…”

Baldwin said, drawing a disapproving glance from Bishop Andrew. Then Baldwin glared at Cesar. Cesar sighed helplessly—he knew why the bishop glared at him. He must think Cesar had corrupted Baldwin, making him now reflect on his own faults.

A young man had just become king, and when his seasoned generals and ministers had committed an irreversible mistake, he stepped forward to turn the tide—back then, the Holy Land had indeed been as precarious as a pile of eggs. Had he not defeated a ten-thousand-man army in the first battle and captured their old enemy, Sultan Nur ad-Din, by the time Raymond and Bohemond returned with their armies, the Holy Land might already have fallen.

The cost of that great victory? Only dozens of casualties. The result was so astonishing people claimed God had sent angels to help the king and Arasaluh win.

Baldwin IV thus became not just Amalric I’s heir, but the heir of Saint George. All eyes watched him; people believed he could fulfill the duties of king and Crusade commander, and accomplish what no previous king of Arasaluh had done—lead the Crusaders into Syria or Egypt to seize more land and cities for Christians.

Now it seemed Baldwin was too calm—like a good-natured child who, after crossing a line, immediately recognized his error and felt profound shame. But what right did those people have to condemn him?

When Baldwin IV lifted Arasaluh from crisis and returned victorious, they had still been fleeing through muddy ground, chased by Turks.

The damage they had inflicted on the Order and the Crusaders was so great that Bishop Andrew could hardly bear to count or recall it—this was why he felt such gratitude toward Cesar. Back then, he had not approved of Baldwin’s actions; the Order had already suffered heavy losses, and he still had to assign thirty knights as Cesar’s guards.

Even though this mission carried little danger, another blow to the Order might plunge it into dire straits. So when he saw those thirty knights return intact to his side, back in Arasaluh, his joy was unimaginable.

And before he could even punish the culprits, they had the audacity to blame the one who cleaned up after them…

Too bad they were not before him now—he would have thrown his glove in their faces. The bishop rose and walked to the window. The room held few luxuries—only the essentials: a water clock, ink, and parchment. The only other thing was the glass set into the wooden window, which always filled his room with bright, warm light, making one feel comfortable, never oppressed.

Now, through the glass, Bishop Andrew saw only dark, heavy skies. All scenery looked as if scorched by charcoal—blackened, with no trace of other color.

“It seems you must rest here tonight. Tomorrow, my knights and I will escort you back to the Holy Cross Fortress.”

Baldwin wanted to refuse, but he heard Cesar beside him let out a sigh of relief.

Bishop Andrew’s strong reaction and Cesar’s rare stubbornness made him hesitate—perhaps he had done another foolish thing, Baldwin thought to himself.

The bishop was a straightforward man. After bidding farewell to the king, he left the room at once. Before the door even closed, Baldwin and Cesar heard him loudly ordering his attendants to summon the knights. Clearly, the old man would not sleep tonight. Cesar felt a flicker of guilt.

But this was clearly a test—or a counterattack. “Do you know—how long has this child likely existed?” When he left, Abigail had been driven nearly mad by his father’s pressure.

“Perhaps… less than two months,” Baldwin whispered. “Hibilah’s condition was poor. In the first month she bled, but in the second she did not… then the priests examined her. They used Christian, Isaacite, Saracen, and Egyptian methods—all confirmed she was pregnant, and the child is likely a boy—the barley has sprouted.”

After news reached Cesar that he was trapped in Damascus, Hibilah publicly announced her condition. While he anxiously waited for Cesar’s return, Abigail repeatedly hinted to him, subtly, that he should distance himself for Hibilah and the child’s health.

Recently, he had made the suggestion openly.

Though he knelt at Baldwin’s feet, pleading with tears, his eyes overflowed with blame and impatience. Baldwin understood his anxiety—it was the greatest gamble of his life. Win, and his future was boundless. Lose—and if Hibilah bore no son, or a stillborn, or the child died soon after birth—he would endure the same torment once more.

If he failed again and again, even his father might propose annulling his marriage to Hibilah. To find Hibilah another husband, the blame for this failed union would fall entirely on him—he would become a laughingstock, a eunuch.

He had lost his last usefulness: unable to ride the battlefield, unable to scheme in court, and now, unable to satisfy a woman in bed. One could imagine that, in the future, he had nowhere to go except a monastery. His father might even prefer to give Antioch to a stranger rather than to this son who had produced worse than nothing.

But did Baldwin not feel anger? Of course he did. He had nearly whipped Abigail, ordering him out of his room.

But he thought of Hibilah—she was his own sister, one of the few remaining kin after Amalric I’s death, enduring the pain of pregnancy only to bear him and Arasaluh an heir. Perhaps he should not be so selfish.

So he disguised himself as a knight, took two attendants, and left the Holy Cross Fortress that very night.

His reasoning was simple—not entirely forced. He truly wished to be with his blood and companion at this moment, not face those false, hateful faces. Cesar’s body was weak; his soul was weaker.

When he heard Cesar was trapped in Damascus, he had nearly believed he would lose him.

Thankfully, the Saracens had kept their promise. But the cost was Cesar’s body, now extremely frail. Yet to them, this was good—it meant he could stay by Cesar’s side, endure these hard days together. When Hibilah bore a son, he would return to the Holy Cross Fortress—and perhaps bring Cesar with him. Would that not be better?

Unfortunately, neither Cesar nor Bishop Andrew thought so. “No need to prepare other rooms,” Cesar said. “Let Baldwin sleep with me.”

His house in Bethlehem was not newly built. It had once belonged to a merchant, who willingly offered it—though Cesar insisted on paying market price. In return, the merchant left all the furniture behind.

This bedroom required only glass in the wooden windows; otherwise, little had changed. Some furniture and decorations had even been removed—but the sitting couch by the window and the bed at the room’s rear remained. The bed was enormous, nearly half the room.

Once, Natiya had asked Cesar whether he wanted to remove the bed.

At the time, nobles did not favor overly large beds—perhaps because such beds reminded them of the furniture used by poor peasants. If wooden planks could even be called furniture.

To save materials and retain heat, these barely ground-insulating wooden beds were made large, so that everyone—parents, siblings, even sheep and pigs—might crowd together, huddling for warmth through the winter.

Moreover, according to Church law, marriage existed only for procreation, not pleasure. Thus noble couples often slept in separate rooms; if not, they should at least sleep in separate beds, each with their own small one.

And people then mostly slept half-sitting, believing it would deceive Death into thinking they rested, not slept—eternal sleep. But the more practical reason was that with sealed rooms, charcoal fires burning, and lighting from candles and torches, people’s respiratory and lung health was poor; half-sitting allowed easier breathing.

Of course, Cesar, blessed as he was, needed no such precautions. But moving this enormous bed out of the room had become impossible. The original owner must have had carpenters bring the parts inside and assemble them there, using plenty of strong resin and tree gum.

Now, to remove it, they would have to smash it apart—too bad. It was made of fine oak, with carved bedposts and exquisite details.

So Cesar simply left it. Well, he wouldn’t invite pigs or sheep to sleep with him. What harm was a larger bed? Now it was convenient for him and Baldwin.

When Baldwin bathed, he refused Cesar’s service: “You are now Count of Edessa. These tasks are beneath your station.”

The strange customs of “rising ceremony” or “bedtime ceremony” had not yet emerged. Cesar could only send Longinus in to serve.

Since it was late, Baldwin dressed quickly. When he emerged from the bathroom attached to Cesar’s bedroom, Cesar offered ointment. Baldwin glanced at it and quickly turned away. “I’ve already applied it.”

“Didn’t the Master say you must wait until your body is completely dry before applying ointment?”

Cesar sat on the bed’s edge, holding the ointment, watching him silently, unmoving.

Baldwin took a deep breath—he could not hide it anymore. “I didn’t want you to know this.” He unfastened the entire row of buttons on his long undergarment, pulled his arms free, and revealed half his back. Cesar’s face changed at once.

He rose and lit several more candles to see more clearly.

Indeed, Baldwin’s illness had worsened. The red spots and rashes had become oozing, hardened lesions. “The Master said… it’s not serious,” Baldwin croaked, swallowing dryly. This was also why he had not insisted on going to Damascus.

The suppressed illness had erupted suddenly in those few days. Heraclius had warned him seriously: if he persisted, he might fall ill on the road. Then he would not support Cesar—he would become his burden.

If he died on the road, Cesar would be blamed. Worst case—he would be executed for treason.

He had forcibly suppressed his anxiety. But since the flame could not be vented outward, it exploded inward.

He expected Cesar to scold him, to complain. He knew how much Cesar cared for his health—even more than his own. But when he turned, he saw only sorrowful eyes.

He tugged his lips to smile—but then tears fell. He could no longer hold back. He rushed toward Cesar. They embraced tightly. The ointment fell to the floor, but neither noticed.

All sorrow, anxiety, rage, unease, grief—burst forth at once.

He had once thought he had only Cesar. But Amalric I had told him: as king, he would have countless loyal souls ready to give their blood, flesh, and glory. But the king was wrong. To this day, he still had only Cesar.

Perhaps he always would.

Early the next morning, Bishop Andrew arrived with his knights, eager to welcome him. He was delighted to find that the young king, after spending one night there, looked better—not worse.

He was spirited, as if he had shed his past gloom. He did not refuse the service or escort of the Bethlehem knights. Bishop Andrew thought this right—after all, back at the fortress, the king might face difficult problems. Having the new Count of Edessa beside him was best.

No one spoke of how the people of the Holy Cross Fortress stared, dumbfounded, at their arrival.

Even Empress Maria and Patriarch Heraclius were stunned—as if struck by lightning. Only now did they learn the king had gone to Bethlehem overnight, to meet his dearest friend and blood kin. But such things happening between Baldwin and Cesar were not strange—indeed, they could be called a tale of virtue.

But the problem was: if the king had stayed in Bethlehem for days, even happily, they might only write letters to scold or urge him. But to stay just one night and return so swiftly? That was suspicious.

Empress Maria had once lived with Amalric I in the main tower. But when Baldwin finally emerged from grief and left his left tower, Maria had not hesitated a moment—she vacated her room and moved into the left tower.

She did not mind that the left tower had once housed a leper. She had heard the castle steward’s complaints—how strictly Cesar demanded cleanliness from servants, so much so that the left tower was cleaner and more comfortable than her current main tower.

Similarly, after their marriage, Sibylla and Agnes moved here, primarily because the right tower now had too few rooms left for them to use.

Queen Mother Maria thus gained a minor annoyance: she almost every night heard the newlyweds quarreling and brawling, clattering like thunder; Sibylla had moved back to her own room multiple times, refusing to share a bed with Agnes.

But last night, she had indeed slept better than ever before, thinking perhaps the couple, now with child, had finally settled down.

Yet now—Queen Mother Maria’s face turned ashen as she watched Agnes and Sibylla emerge from the main tower—“How dare you come out from there?”

“I simply wish to live with my brother. Is that forbidden?” Of course, it was Sibylla who answered.

But as Sibylla herself had said, she was mistress of the castle, and Queen Mother Maria had the right to discipline any child within its walls—even now that she was married and soon to be a mother.

But to her surprise, before she could speak or act, Agnes charged forward violently, blocking Sibylla with his body. Queen Mother Maria nearly laughed in disbelief—not from anger, but from sheer absurdity: what was there to be angry about?

Agnes failed to realize that once Sibylla bore a son—or more sons—his own significance would vanish, like Fulcrum I, a knight who had ridden the battlefield for years only to break his neck falling from his horse during a hunt—a fate laughable enough already.

Now someone still hadn’t learned from it. The King of Arasal was no easy role, and he was even less capable than Fulcrum I—he was useless both on the battlefield and in court. Sibylla felt little affection for him, and the one she had always sought to emulate was none other than her grandmother Melisende (Fulcrum I’s wife).

Agnes was oblivious to this. His face flushed with excitement, believing he had finally found a chance to prove himself to the princess and earn her admiration. He lunged at the maids and servants, punching them, shouting curses at them—for disturbing his wife and her unborn child.

A knight, stunned into delayed reaction, rushed over to intervene; the chaos that followed need not be described. Queen Mother Maria, however, immediately sensed the truth: outside, the uproar was deafening, yet Baldwin, ever an early riser, had not emerged to investigate, nor had he sent a servant to inquire…

This former Byzantine princess had seen too many conspiracies hidden behind curtains; she instantly sensed something amiss. “Where is His Majesty the King?”

“I don’t know,” Sibylla replied swiftly. “He is King now, no longer my brother. He owes me no account of his movements, and I have no right to demand one.”

Her words brimmed with bitterness, yet Queen Mother Maria merely smiled faintly. In her view, perhaps because Sibylla was his only sister, the young King had been more than generous to her. After all, Sibylla had practically carved on her face the words: “Only I can bear your heir,” treating it as her greatest achievement and honor—even surpassing Baldwin IV’s great victory at the Sea of Galilee.

Flattery had stripped her of the composure and caution befitting a princess. Though after the Count Etienne affair she had learned to feign, to Queen Mother Maria, Sibylla’s acting was so crude it was painful. She seemed to have forgotten that she did not merely have a brother, but also a sister—and a girl grows from infant to woman in little more than a decade.

Perhaps she believed Baldwin could not wait that long.

Compared to such a fool, Queen Mother Maria naturally preferred to cooperate with Baldwin IV. Years of living with him had shown him to be not only an excellent King, but also an excellent son and elder brother—if Baldwin IV truly died prematurely, and Sibylla and Agnes took the throne, Maria feared they would be crowned today and she and her daughter would be dead by tomorrow.

Soon after, Patriarch Heraclius arrived in haste. Only then did he learn that this foolish woman had incited her husband to speak deceitful nonsense before the King, causing him to fly into a rage and leave the Holy Cross Castle.

“What do you think the King of Arasal is?”

He dropped these words and joined the others to welcome the King. Fortunately, the King had a beloved brother and friend—he was not without refuge. Cesar reacted swiftly: upon hearing the King had come in disguise with few attendants, he found it suspicious, quickly uncovered the truth, and immediately returned Baldwin IV.

Among those who came out to greet him, Raymond, Count of Tripoli, wore an expression of surprise that seemed insincere; David’s shock was genuine, yet he avoided Sibylla’s gaze. Bohemond’s face held a faint, knowing smile—clearly, the plan had failed, but to him, it mattered little; what truly mattered was the child growing in Sibylla’s womb.

Queen Mother Maria saw him too. She turned away with loathing, as if confronted by a venomous serpent. She could not yet oppose a great noble like Bohemond, but she was not without means of retaliation.

(End of Chapter)