Chapter 20: Hibilé Suffers Humiliation (Part One)

According to Amalric I’s plan, before Epiphany on January 6, the Holy Cross Castle would hold no banquets except those absolutely necessary; all were to devote their energy to the upcoming “Selection Ceremony.”

The castle had become noticeably desolate; dust flew across the square, while meditation and training grew ever more intense, food quality and quantity increased significantly, and the monks… they came in an unending stream before Baldwin and Cesar, praying for them, touching their heads—some monks whispered words of encouragement, others wore expressions of pity.

From their cloaks, it was clear they did not all come from churches or monasteries; a large portion were “clerics” from the military orders—the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller, or smaller orders in the Holy Land such as the Knights of Saint Lazarus and the Knights of Domme.

They shared only one trait—they were all the “Chosen Ones,” their prayers and touches carried divine power, making Baldwin and Cesar stronger, swifter, and more focused, especially in the last quality; after each monk’s ministrations, Heraclius would produce an image of a saint and demand they fix their gaze upon it while straining their ears to listen with all their might.

He said: “Prayer during the ceremony is of course most important, but daily accumulation cannot be overlooked—just as a frightened lamb will flee toward its familiar shepherd, the shepherd will reach out to his own lamb among hundreds of indistinguishable white fleeces.”

Here he looked at Cesar—that was the child’s greatest difficulty: he had forgotten all his past, and they could not glimpse his former life… they could not tell which saint was more likely to notice him. Heraclius found it absurd that the boy was not particularly “devout”; he only hoped his past asceticism, even if it failed to move the saints, might at least convince mortals—if he was not chosen, people would merely say it was God’s test and trial for him, not that the gem bore an irreparable crack.

Cesar too hesitated; he still was not certain, for in his previous world, no power existed beyond science. Baldwin showed signs of worry—he, as Amalric I’s son, had no reason to doubt; his room had always hung the icon of Saint George; typically, if the father felt drawn to a saint, the son would very likely follow the same saint.

Heraclius sighed and placed three icons before Cesar—Saint Blaise, Saint Mark, and Saint Ambrose—these three had been carefully selected by the monks; given past events, the saint Cesar felt drawn to should be as humble as possible—Saint George, often chosen by kings, was out of the question; even the Pope or the Twelve Apostles were best avoided.

Saint Blaise was the bishop of Sebaste in Armenia; persecuted for his faith, he fled into the mountains, where he tamed wild beasts as if they were sheep, sang hymns to them, combed their fur, and lived with them like family—a woman’s pig was carried off by a wolf, and the saint commanded the wolf to return it; a child choked on a fishbone, and the saint ordered the bone to emerge on its own—all these miracles had been proven.

Saint Mark was one of the seventy disciples sent by Jesus to preach in Judea; it was said he once abandoned Jesus, later repented, became Saint Peter’s assistant, and wrote the famous Gospel of Mark.

Saint Ambrose was the governor of Milan in the fourth century; before his appointment, an angel disguised as a man told him: “Rule the people as a bishop, not as an ordinary governor.” The prophecy came true: when the people of Milan erupted in chaos over electing a bishop, Ambrose stepped in to mediate, and someone cried out, “Why not elect Ambrose as bishop?”

People thought: this upright, gentle young man was indeed the perfect choice—and so they elected him bishop.

But that was not why Heraclius chose him—the young governor, after his consecration as bishop of Milan, immediately gave away all his furniture and wealth to the poor, donated his lands and property to the Church, kept only a small sum for his sister, and passed his title to his younger brother.

This selfless conduct subtly aligned with Cesar’s prior deeds; if he felt drawn to Saint Ambrose, it was possible people might one day regard Cesar as the saint’s disciple—far more reliable than any king’s or bishop’s guarantee.

Heraclius was about to give Cesar a hint when a knock came at the door; a servant stood outside, saying the king needed to see him at once. The monk had to leave the two boys and hurried off—but soon another servant ran over to tell Baldwin that the king had no urgent matter; the French king Louis VII’s envoy to the Holy Land, Count Étienne of Sancerre, had arrived at Jaffa and was preparing to enter the city; Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, had been ordered by Amalric I to welcome him.

“Quick!” Baldwin grabbed Cesar’s hand, “Let’s go to the ramparts!”

They ran out swiftly, left the tower, crossed the bailey, passed through the inner wall, and reached the twin towers before the gate… as they waited for soldiers to open the tower doors, David arrived with another group of children—all people Baldwin knew, his former companions and attendants; clearly, they too had come for the spectacle.

In the twelfth century, entertainment was generally restricted and despised; people had pitifully few sources of amusement, so asceticism, executions, and masses could all be seen as rare performances, and the arrival of kings, lords, or envoys was likewise regarded as an uncommon event—if lucky enough to witness it, a common peasant could recount the details for thirty or forty years, savoring every nuance.

David and Baldwin exchanged only a brief glance, then recoiled as if burned; David lowered his eyes, breathed rapidly, unsure what to say. Fortunately, Baldwin raised his hand and pointed toward the other side of the bridgehead fort: “Go there.”

Of course, no prince should yield to the son of a minister.

“I used to come here often with them—sometimes to welcome my father, sometimes just to enjoy the evening breeze.”

Baldwin held Cesar’s hand; he always wore gloves, so even when gripping tightly, there was no skin-to-skin warmth. Yet Cesar felt the hand trembling slightly—only two or three months had passed since Baldwin’s leprosy was confirmed… Baldwin could not help missing his friends…

He withdrew his hand and, in Baldwin’s slightly incredulous gaze, slipped his arm around his shoulder.

“Look, they’re coming.”

The Holy Land envoy’s procession was indeed impressive.

Along the way, hundreds marched in a long column. At the front and flanking the procession were ragged pilgrims; upon seeing such nobles, they immediately rushed forward to beg. Those at the front cleared the path and swept the ground; those on the sides shouted, praised, and glorified—this practice dated back to ancient Rome, though then the attendants beside the sedan were not pilgrims but clients and slaves.

Around the pilgrims walked mercenaries, wielding clubs to drive away any vagrants or suspicious individuals who came too close, intentionally or not. Further inward were the envoy’s and Prince of Antioch’s retinue and servants, and the monks, who held their heads high, bearing crosses, relics, and banners—you could see Charlemagne’s golden flame battle standard, the Capetian crown banner with blue field and golden fleurs-de-lis, the banner of Blois, and their matching great coats of arms—these shield-sized emblems were carried on the arms of attendants, their vivid pigments unmistakable in the sunset glow.

Among the banners and standards moved a small orchestra of about seven or eight musicians, beating drums, blowing flutes and trumpets, while clowns in colorful garb darted among them.

Knights clad in armor, draped in splendid cloaks, their horses no less splendid—like four-legged peacocks—surrounded at the center the familiar Prince of Antioch, Bohemond, and today’s most honored guest, Count Étienne of Sancerre, envoy of King Louis VII of France.

From afar, Count Étienne’s figure resembled Bohemond’s—tall and slender. When speaking with Bohemond, he leaned slightly forward, making frequent gestures of deference; he looked more like a scholar than a knight. But if you thought him truly gentle and kind, you would be utterly mistaken.

This count was not only bold but also remarkably valiant.

“You mean he stole another man’s wife?!”

“Not exactly—this marriage never reached its final stage.” Baldwin felt slightly embarrassed, but he desperately wanted to share gossip with his companion—he himself had been stunned and baffled when he first heard it.

The man was the third son of the Count of Blois; as we know, under Salic law, the eldest inherited everything, the second was merely a backup, and the third… even if Blois was an ancient noble house, after his father Thibaut IV’s death, Étienne received only the poorest and smallest portion: Sancerre.

But he was deeply in love with Adela, the daughter of a neighboring lord; Adela, however, had already been betrothed to another lord, Anseau II. To most, this would mean sighing and quietly giving up—but not our Étienne!

He burst into the church during the wedding, forcibly took the bride away, returned to his domain, married her immediately, and publicly announced it.

Anseau II went mad with rage, but since both were vassals of King Louis VII, they could not wage private war; he appealed to Louis VII, who summoned the head of the Blois family—Étienne’s elder brother, the Count of Champagne. The Count of Champagne could do nothing about his younger brother, so he joined Louis VII and Anseau II in attacking Sancerre.

If they won, everyone would mock Count Étienne of Sancerre for his folly. But the problem was… they failed to take it!

In the end, the Papacy mediated: “Since the marriage has already taken place,” why waste knights’ blood and the king’s gold? Louis VII was delighted; the Count of Champagne had little desire to attack his own brother; Anseau II was unwilling, but alone, he could not bear the heavy cost—and so the matter was dropped.

He did this at age twenty; now the man was thirty-seven, yet still looked young—slender, but clearly never slackened in his pursuit of martial skill.

At this point, Baldwin and Cesar could clearly see his face: Count Étienne’s complexion was a somewhat unhealthy grayish-white, but his lips were crimson, his eyes bright, his hair thick and tousled; he wore a crimson velvet tunic with a fitted waist, a sapphire-blue cloak, and a silver belt. Though his attire matched that of contemporary nobles, he appeared unusually relaxed, elegant, and dashing.

Meanwhile, Count Étienne sensed the gaze above; he looked up and saw Baldwin in white robes, instantly guessing him to be the only son of King of Jerusalem, rumored to have contracted leprosy. The count paused briefly—after all, in his experience, even if not expelled from the city, lepers usually hid themselves indoors, for the fear and revulsion in people’s eyes pierced like knives.

But he only hesitated a moment, then bowed his head and saluted from horseback, hand over heart.

Cesar heard Baldwin sigh softly—not with sorrow, but with relief; before his leprosy was discovered, Baldwin, like all boys, had been mischievous and full of energy, often climbing the battlements at dusk to gaze into the distance. But since… that time, Baldwin had preferred to stay alone in his room. Cesar understood—but seeing Baldwin no longer isolate himself, and succeeding on his first attempt without setback…

It was truly wonderful.

“He bowed to Baldwin?”

“Yes,” the maid said, gently combing Princess Hibilé’s long hair with a golden comb, “he seems like a humble, good man.”

“And very generous—he scattered several pounds of Frankish copper coins among the pilgrims.” Another maid brought the Xinan hat; this Xinan hat was even more exquisite than the one Cesar had first seen on the princess, its white veils not one layer but several, cascading in overlapping folds like snowdrifts tumbling down mountains. But Hibilé glanced at it and said, “No, not today. Bring me the headcloth.”

The headcloth she meant was the Wampal headcloth: simply put, a white linen cloth covering the hair and neck, leaving only the face exposed. Unmarried maidens could wear flower crowns; royal daughters like Hibilé could wear crowns. Hibilé’s crown was simple, adorned only with a sapphire at the top of the cross.

The maids exchanged glances behind Hibilé; before the envoy’s arrival at Jaffa, they had heard of his “reputation,” and that his wife had died—he was now a widower. He was of suitable age and status; Louis VII had sent him to the Holy City for no apparent reason—perhaps intending him to become Hibilé’s husband.

(End of Chapter)