Chapter 21

How the Holy Land envoy paid homage to Amalric I and conveyed Louis VII’s longing and greetings to this lord of the Holy Land, Christ’s knight, need not be recounted here.

That evening, a grand welcoming banquet was held—of course, it had been planned long in advance; over a month ago, the castle’s steward and head cook had begun preparing for it—there was too much to do.

Beyond the castle’s original staff, they hired thirty additional chefs, one hundred kitchen assistants and laborers, and a dozen carpenters and blacksmiths to provide enough tables and benches for the banquet.

Merchants of every skin tone and faith came and went between their homes and offices—the castle needed beer, wine, wheat, rye, vast quantities of poultry such as chickens, ducks, and geese, as well as pigs and calves, olive oil, vinegar, sauces, and above all, the most important and expensive spices—during such times, money was no longer money but sand, with expenditures pouring forth like a river each day.

Even so, the castle’s knights still went hunting daily under the steward’s urging, for without game such as deer, wild boar, or swans, even if everyone used gold plates, the banquet would lose its luster; these game animals were brought back to the castle and smoked or salted in the great kitchen—though not as tasty as fresh meat, most dishes at such banquets were not meant to be eaten.

Besides these edible items, there were tapestries, ornaments, linen, and seemingly ordinary yet indispensable wooden cutting boards.

These wooden cutting boards were not used for slicing meat—at least not the kind you imagine; their true purpose was closer to that of a plate. Since plates—whether silver, gold, ceramic, or glass—were considerable assets, even Amalric I could not provide enough of them, so food was placed either on a hard, dry bread or a piece of wood.

Some knights, to display their diligence and valor, used their shields as plates, slicing strips of pork leg upon them.

The host did not even provide utensils to guests; though nobles now ate with three fingers (to distinguish themselves from serfs who used five), each would bring his own spoon and knife.

Moreover, between each course, dances, music, and acrobatic performances were required to entertain guests—these too had to be hired from outside; the castle had jesters and a band, but they were far from sufficient.

——————

Baldwin took Cesar’s hand and led him up to the “gallery.”

The “gallery” was merely a name; it was more like a long, protruding platform or room high above the castle hall, sometimes made discreetly, with tapestries and banners concealing it so that one could hide within and peer down—what people called “peeking.”

Amalric I’s “gallery” was not deliberately concealed, but it was covered in heavy tapestries and adorned with banners; occasionally, musicians played there, though now it was empty—narrow, yet perfectly capable of holding two children.

“My father allows me to observe from here,” Baldwin whispered. “Do you remember—did your father ever let you watch these?”

“I don’t recall.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Baldwin squeezed his hand. “We can watch together… the acrobatics are fun, the dancing and music aren’t bad either.”

At such formal banquets, even if Baldwin had not contracted leprosy, as a child he had no right to attend; those running about the hall were either wine servers or dwarfs, but Amalric I permitted him to watch—not merely for amusement, for from here one could overlook the entire hall, every seat, expression, and movement—this was one of the essential lessons every king’s or lord’s son must receive.

Amalric I had already taken his seat at the head table; guests, monks, and knights had taken theirs as well. Cesar leaned against Baldwin’s shoulder and peered down through the gaps in the tapestries—the hall was the most important space in the castle, even above the chapel and bedrooms; it was where formal ceremonies (audiences, investitures, weddings, or funerals) were held, where trials and judgments took place, and where, as today, a magnificent and solemn gathering occurred.

Its walls should have been grayish stone and white plaster, but now they were entirely covered by countless banners—red, white, gold, blue, black… the Maltese cross, the fivefold cross, the Cross of St. John, the Cross of St. Peter… eagles with wings spread, roaring lions, horses rearing on hind legs, the trinity of fleurs-de-lis, fish back-to-back…

Some hung, some leaned—each represented a family, a nation, or a knight’s entire honor and deeds…

From massive tea-brown wooden beams hung bronze or black iron lanterns, filled with animal fat; when lit, they emitted brilliant light amid rising black smoke, yet the distance of thirty feet from the lofty ceiling to the floor rendered their glow feeble, so torches mounted on walls and pillars supplemented the light.

Of course, regardless of anything else, the host and important guests were given priority, so Baldwin and Cesar saw the head table most clearly.

The banquet’s main table was formed by joining three ordinary long tables, covered with multiple layers of fabric—white linen, blue cotton, gold and red velvet—this arrangement had its purpose, to be explained later; the center seat was typically occupied by the castle’s lord, unless a higher-ranking noble, such as a count hosting a king, had to yield his place.

But Amalric I was both king and host; in this world, save for God, no one could make him yield his seat—he sat at the center, to his right sat Heraclius, which was unsurprising, as more and more kings now seated clergy in the second-most important position, yet intriguingly, to his left sat Princess Sibylla.

Amalric I was now a widower; his daughter was grown, and as lady of the castle, her sitting there was understandable—but to her left sat the day’s guest of honor, the Holy Land envoy, Count Etienne of Sancerre.

This arrangement unsettled some—certain young knights, admirers and suitors of Princess Sibylla; her followers were not limited to youths like David or Abigail, many knights had sworn fealty to her, yet in this setting, even if they wished, they could do nothing.

At such banquets, participants were grouped into a “mess”—meaning a cluster, usually two to six people—who sat on either side of a long table; the closer to the head table, the more favored or esteemed by the host.

Those seated just below the head table were nearly all key figures from within the Holy City; these knights could only sit near the walls.

Servants brought rosewater for handwashing; Etienne, seated beside the princess, perfectly fulfilled a knight’s duty—he served her hands like a servant, offered her a silk towel, then washed his own hands in the same basin.

At such close proximity, Sibylla could clearly see his gray temples, the fine lines at his eyes and lips; the maids knew these things, and she could not be ignorant—for a girl newly awakened to love, marrying a knight old enough to be her father was indeed painful, yet from Sibylla’s standpoint, she knew she was not choosing a husband, but a powerful ally, the father of her children, and the king of Jerusalem.

Though Amalric I was stubborn regarding Baldwin, he was not the only one trying to persuade the king; many others suggested making Sibylla’s husband the heir, or even accepting a child born to her and her husband… objective reality did not bend to human will; no matter how much the king cherished Baldwin, a leper could never be cured—his condition would only worsen, never improve.

But did Amalric I truly hold as firm a conviction as he claimed? Sibylla did not believe so; if he truly did, he would not continue pursuing a marriage with a Byzantine princess; Amalric I was only thirty-four, and if he took a new wife, he could very well father one or more healthy sons…

Then the first course arrived—though perhaps not rightly called a course, for this dish, more of a decorative sweet, was termed “food sculpture”; cooks blended various candied fruits and pastries into shapes of animals or buildings—Etienne had once seen at Louis VII’s banquet celebrating his heir’s birth a swan-shaped confection, its beak holding a sugar-carved and dyed fleur-de-lis.

What was brought forth here was a “Castle of the Holy Cross,” made chiefly of nut brittle and dates, glazed with honey and sugar; though delicious, it bore unmistakable Byzantine and even Saracen styling. Etienne tasted a few bites absentmindedly, glancing around unconsciously—wondering whether these knights fighting for Christ had noticed.

Sadly, none had.

Next came the real feast: roasted pigeons, roasted chickens, roasted rabbits, a whole pig served with its stomach, intestines, and bladder stuffed into sausages; venison sliced and presented adorned with sharp antlers, surrounded by heaps of herbs; and thick stews, floating with meat, seasonal vegetables, and bloomed barley.

There were also pies, layered with meat—pork, pigeon, or venison.

Wine was poured; the head cook had prepared one hundred barrels of wine and three hundred barrels of beer for the banquet.

Between each course, as previously mentioned, performances took place—musicians played lutes or flutes, jesters juggled or danced.

When a dish of mixed meats dyed blue, gold, and red with safflower, saffron, and sandalwood was served, a dwarf climbed a rope suspended from the beams—a rope that allowed him to swing from one end of the hall to the other; he gripped the rope with one hand and held a large silver wine jug in the other—he swung directly above the head table, where a servant behind Amalric I caught him; the guests roared with laughter, and even Amalric I showed a rare smile, extending his cup for the dwarf to pour him wine.

The dwarf poured the wine, winked and told a fresh joke; everyone at the head table laughed uncontrollably, even Princess Sibylla; Etienne absentmindedly plucked a gold pin and tossed it over—the dwarf beamed with delight, extending his jug to catch it, but the narrow spout could not hold the pin; it bounced once on the jug and fell.

“Let me down!” the dwarf cried, unaware that the servant’s face twisted sharply—he was shoved out—violently, his balance instantly lost; the jug fell first, then he, crashing onto a long table; knights laughed loudly; when he lay motionless, one knight shoved him hard, and he tumbled to the floor along with the nearly eaten venison dish.

He was terribly unlucky; he had not fallen far, but when he landed on the table, the decorative antlers pierced his chest.

Before Cesar realized what had happened, the table, after a brief silence, erupted in even louder laughter; knights pounded the tables, howling with mirth—this joke was funnier than the dwarf’s performance or his words; a group of servants rushed from behind, seized the four corners of the tablecloth—they had multiple layers—and lifted only the topmost layer; two servants hoisted the dwarf’s corpse, still impaled on the antler, placed it atop the cloth, and carried him away with the leftover scraps.

Afterward, it was as if nothing had happened—except that this “joke” was spreading like wildfire; someone eating heartily, having missed it, was truly regretful… from Cesar’s vantage point, he could see the dwarf’s blood, but soon other dwarfs and musicians stepped on it, and in moments, it blended into the hall’s deep black floor.

Baldwin nudged his friend; he himself felt nothing, but he knew Cesar was a soft-hearted man, laughably kind. “Let’s go back,” he whispered.

Cesar shook his head; he had already killed two men since arriving here, though they were not innocent—he too must grow accustomed to the death of the innocent; in this Holy City, beyond it, human lives were as worthless as grains of sand.

Another dish arrived: a chicken sauce mixed with rice boiled in almond milk, then seasoned with fried almonds and fennel—people called it “white cheese soup,” halfway between soup and dessert, yet more reminiscent of Saracen rice pudding; after it came a meat jelly, which required sprinkling with spices; Etienne courteously held the spice tray for Princess Sibylla—a divided dish containing onion, ginger, pepper, saffron, cloves, and cinnamon; the princess pinched some cinnamon and sprinkled it over her jelly, then did the same for Etienne’s.

“They are truly well matched,” Bohemond said to Raymond beside him.

“I wonder how strong Count Sancerre is,” Raymond frowned. “Amalric I may live another twenty years, no problem—but if the king dies young, say at thirty, and Baldwin, already bedridden before thirty, cannot shoulder God’s burden, then the only one capable of leading them against the Saracens and defending the Holy City will be Sibylla’s husband. I’d prefer caution, but others in the Holy City do not agree.”

“He once repelled a coalition of one king and two counts.”

Bohemond said, half-jokingly.

“For a woman.” Not for God.

“Is our Princess Sibylla not beautiful? I see she has already bewitched Count Sancerre.”

(End of Chapter)