Chapter 167: The Isaacians

Go to Nablus.

Upon hearing these words, Sibylla instantly lost the composure she had been forcing, staring at Baldwin as if he were a monster wearing her brother’s face.

She had always been fearless, for she knew Baldwin was a soft-hearted man; she had even joked privately with Abigail that although her brother bore the noble title of Little Saint George on the battlefield, he was as weak as a woman when facing family—weeping in his mother’s arms, yielding again and again to his sister’s pleading words.

And until today, that had been true.

Baldwin sat behind his desk, hands clasped, watching her calmly.

Even now, even though he realized his sister might not love him as he once believed, he was still willing to grant her some leniency, for the sake of sharing the same father and mother—yet…

Why must you stay in the Holy Cross Castle?

He asked, puzzled, “Would I deny this child his place as heir to the kingdom if he were born outside the Holy Cross Castle? As a pregnant woman, you need quiet rest above all else—do not trouble yourself with such matters. Nablus is a prosperous and beautiful city; I have already promised its bishop that I will donate a small chapel.

You may spend the coming months in his residence; when the child is born, he will be brought back to Arasal, and I will have Patriarch Heraclius baptize him.” He paused, offering no promise as to when he would publicly declare the child his heir.

After all, infant mortality was common in this age; he did not wish to announce the birth of an heir to Arasal only to lose him next month—or next year—casting an ill omen over Arasal and their family.

Sibylla fell silent; she could not plainly reveal their scheme. This was because Baldwin had grown up in Arasal and knew nothing of the poison brewing in Frankish or Apennine courts.

It was a simple plot—but once successful, it would strike three birds with one stone.

In Arasal, perhaps, it was not obvious. But in the Frankish court, to gauge how high a man might rise, one looked to how much favor he received from the king—or from the highest-ranking person.

And the latter did not need to show favor as bluntly as Baldwin; their signals were always subtle: perhaps speaking the first word to someone that day, allowing him to be the first to accompany them, and—demanding that another (usually the former favorite) yield their path or vacate their chamber.

The rise of a new star often began with these smallest details; you might call it a tool kings used to control their subjects, but it was far simpler than leaving ministers and generals to guess the monarch’s will.

If Baldwin, as they hoped, left the Holy Cross Castle—whether out of guilt or anger—they could make the ignorant believe that Baldwin valued this unborn child more than himself.

This would create an illusion—that Baldwin IV, no matter how glorious or accomplished, would shine only briefly like a comet across the sky, while only this child could carry that radiance forward.

They would revere the king, and therefore must revere the child the king cherished, for—the king himself knelt and schemed for him.

But what could a newborn infant do? Of course, it would be the child’s father, mother, even grandfather who would manage affairs—within a few years, they could seize most of the court’s power, rather than wait helplessly for ten years until the child grew up, or until Baldwin IV was laid to rest in the Holy Sepulchre.

Second, even a healthy person, let alone a leper, could fall ill from extreme emotional upheaval—the clergy often said intense emotion generated heat within the body, stirring bodily fluids and disrupting the fragile balance.

Rage drove blood from the heart to the limbs, swelling vessels and boiling the blood; black bile, when heated, would vaporize to the brain, triggering hysteria; phlegm arose from melancholy and sorrow; too much phlegm made one depressed, anxious, easily discouraged, even suicidal.

And all these conditions accelerated the spread of evil through the body—meaning the illness worsened.

Bohemond did not intend to bring another royal funeral to Arasal so soon, but Baldwin was too good—yes, too good.

He was not yet sixteen, had not assumed rule, had never led an army on campaign, yet he had shone with such brilliance on his first battlefield that none dared scorn his talent or gift; such feats rivaled only those of Baldwin I.

And his character—even though young, people said he was like the pious and just Godfrey.

Worse still, when he was first diagnosed with leprosy, his servants fled out of fear or his father’s orders; though he later recalled them, a careful count revealed that from age nine to fourteen—the most crucial period for forming bonds, when he most needed affection—there was nothing: not David, not Abigail, not anyone.

Even if they did their utmost, they could only become his ministers; his true confidant was only Cesar—and Cesar was a man who constantly surprised them.

He was more perfect than Baldwin, so much so that Amalric I once considered killing him. And not long ago, his final weakness was remedied: his lineage.

He was now Count of Edessa, one of the four Christian kingdoms. You might say Edessa no longer exists—it is now Saracen territory.

But that does not mean he has forfeited his claim to the land; as previously noted, he could even use it to seek aid from Tripoli, Antioch, and Arasal, organize a counterattack, and reclaim Edessa.

The kings of the four Christian kingdoms had all sworn oaths to stand united, shoulder to shoulder. If one betrayed his ally, not only would the already fragile Crusader Kingdom alliance collapse, but even their own subjects would question whether they should continue their loyalty.

With him, the young king gained a powerful arm; and they were all young, while Raymond and the others were old, and their heirs were utterly inadequate.

David might barely hold the line, but Abigail and the rest? Forget it.

Lastly, there was Sibylla’s own small ambition.

She had heard that Byzantine emperors were always born in the Porphyra—the Purple Chamber, so named because its ceiling and walls were hung with purple curtains; every prince and princess was born there, until later generations came to call those born in the Purple Chamber “emperors.”

The Holy Cross Castle had no Purple Chamber, but she could create one—perhaps give birth in the chapel where the True Cross was kept—she wished that when her child was born, people would say: this is a child born beneath the True Cross, destined from birth to be king of Arasal.

And she—she was his mother, like the Virgin Mary giving birth to the Son of God; his flesh came from her, and so she could rightfully claim, even monopolize, the king’s authority.

But now, that once-beautiful fantasy had been shattered by Baldwin’s single sentence: “Don’t you love me anymore?” The words slipped from her unconsciously.

Baldwin looked at her and realized—he did not understand his sister at all. As a boy, he had received an education utterly different from that of a girl.

Sibylla’s beauty had been unmistakable since childhood; women unanimously declared she would one day become a noblewoman capable of making knights, nobles, even kings bow before her.

From that moment, Sibylla became aware of her uniqueness, and thus treated everyone with coldness; no matter how much attention she received, she considered it her due.

As for her brother—when they were young, she may have loved him; even after he contracted leprosy, she had defied the clergy to visit him, brought him gifts, comforted him, saying that even if he went to a monastery, she would come often.

That tender scene, now recalled by Baldwin, felt filled with discordant noise and gray static.

Was that truly the love of a sister for her brother—or did she simply realize that without Baldwin, she would become the heiress of Arasal?

At that time, Sibylla was nearing adulthood; her marriage had already been arranged; she could marry and bear children.

Before her, Arasal had once had a female heir.

No, Baldwin immediately told himself—he could not believe it. He knew his sister had always harbored irrational fantasies. But he also knew women, like men, desired power; that was natural, a sin of origin, impossible to escape.

Only fanatical ascetics, unwilling to spend their lives in sin, could abandon all worldly things.

No one did not desire power; even if one wished to do good, one needed power and wealth to achieve it.

“You cannot treat me this way! Father told you to care for me well!”

Facing Sibylla’s accusation, Baldwin hesitated, pressing his lips together.

His next answer nearly made Patriarch Heraclius laugh aloud beside him. “No,” Baldwin answered seriously, “No, Sibylla. Father never told me to care for you.”

This slap was far louder than Queen Mother Mary’s; but the truth was this: Amalric I was a true political creature; his life was devoted not to God, but to Arasal, its people, its nation, and finally, its family.

He fought the Church at all costs to preserve Baldwin; he rushed to marry a Byzantine princess, making Baldwin a stepping stone for his second son—all for this reason.

As for his daughter, Amalric I did not care for her—or rather, he had always ignored her.

Though female heirs were permitted, a female heir must place the crown of Arasal upon her husband’s head, meaning the kingdom would ultimately be seized by an outsider.

If someone proposed trading Sibylla for his second son, he would have accepted the deal without hesitation—even with the devil.

When he died outside Fostat, his only thoughts were his kingdom and God; Baldwin was kept in mind only because he was the sole heir, the future king of Arasal, and thus worthy of elaborate planning.

Sibylla—her only purpose was to bear a child for Arasal, preferably a son; nothing else could leave a trace in Amalric I’s heart.

But Baldwin’s blunt answer pierced Sibylla’s heart like a blade. She did not believe he would lie on this matter—there was no reason to, and no matter how much she despised her brother, she knew he was not a man who lied about such things.

Everything she had done now seemed a joke. And she realized: all her scheming crumbled before true legitimacy.

They might have struck Baldwin, forcing the young man to relinquish his position in a moment of impulse—but what good did it do? He had so many allies; even without Cesar, when Queen Mother Mary and Patriarch Heraclius discovered it, they would have urged him back to the castle.

Once Baldwin awoke and realized he should no longer tolerate her, the result would be exactly as now—she was banished, and everyone rejoiced.

Baldwin was not a man of fine sensibilities; he saw only that his sister’s face had turned ashen. Though he had just been cruelly wounded by her emotional weapon, he now felt a flicker of pity.

“Sister.” He stepped forward, wanting to speak—but Heraclius seized his arm. “Accept the king’s kindness,” he said coldly. “Nablus may suit you well.”

Sibylla trembled. She stared at Baldwin—and for the first time, she saw a king, not a boy. Fear rose in her heart, yet she dared not ask the terrible question: would she now be confined to Nablus forever?

Would she never again enter Arasal—even if her child returned to the Holy Cross Castle?

The thought left her hollow, broken; she said nothing more until Abigail, worried, led her away.

Cesar leaned against the window, watching Sibylla and Abigail depart the Holy Cross Castle with their retinue, his heart heavy with reflection.

He remembered the first time he saw Sibylla—she was perfect, radiant, like the sun; back then, not just he, but even Baldwin seemed dimmed, like a star overshadowed by daylight.

But now, that sun had fallen. She still had beauty, status, the title of mother to a future king—but…

Cesar shook his head, casting aside these tangled thoughts. He had not known Sibylla harbored such venomous intentions; had he known, he would have felt no pity at all.

What truly troubled him was Baldwin’s worsening condition.

Though he had returned to the Holy Cross Castle and taken up residence in his own chambers, both Heraclius and Baldwin wished him to remain here for a time—at least to recover from the weakness caused by his hasty journey, and to aid the clergy in his treatment, for the Holy Cross Castle housed the greatest number of blessed priests.

He stepped away from the window to find Longinus bringing up a steaming cup of mulled wine—a medicinal draught, foul-tasting.

Cesar drank it down in one gulp, as if facing death; as he hastily rinsed his mouth with water, Longinus delivered news: “A woman wishes to see you, my lord.”

“Who?”

“She says you should remember her—you once gave her a date, then later gave her justice.”

(End of Chapter)