Chapter 23: The Unlucky Count Etienne (Part One)

It’s snowing.

Amalric I said coldly—angels are always alone, demons always in crowds, and bad news always comes in succession.

Three days earlier at the same hour, the King of Arassal had already gone to bed, exhausted and troubled by recent events, with no desire to play chess, read, or listen to music; he was just about to sleep when a servant came to report that Prince Baldwin was waiting outside the main tower.

Anyone else might have been turned away, but Baldwin—among all those in the castle, only Amalric I himself could understand better than anyone else the immense responsibilities and crushing burdens his king, his father, bore; and he was such a gentle child that he would never disturb the Holy Lord’s sleep unless something dire had happened.

Amalric I rose at once, ordered candles brought, and soon Baldwin arrived with Cesar and Damara before the king, bringing terrible news—Amalric I immediately summoned his servants to fetch Bohemond, the Grand Duke of Antioch, and Raymond, the Count of Tripoli, along with their sons.

While waiting, Amalric I happened to glance at the saint’s portrait on the wall—Saint George, he himself, and the patron saints of Bohemond and Raymond—a valiant knight in full armor, riding a pure white horse, raising a gleaming silver sword, locked in mortal combat with a red dragon symbolizing Satan, angels casting golden light through swirling clouds upon the saint… This was God’s gift, granting him boundless wisdom and strength…

He did not know whether this was God’s test or the devil’s prank—Antioch, Tripoli, Arassal—they were kings, grand dukes, and counts revered by all, Christ’s knights, protectors of pilgrims and the Holy Land—but why, in matters of heirs, were they all so unfortunate?

His son Baldwin was nearly flawless, yet had recently contracted leprosy; Raymond’s son David was straightforward, even stubborn—perhaps not a flaw for a knight, but a weakness his enemies would gladly exploit if he were to become future count; and Bohemond’s son Abigail… Amalric I didn’t even bother to speak of him.

And it seemed things could grow worse still—himself, Raymond, and Bohemond each had only one heir…

Soon, Raymond and David, Bohemond and Abigail arrived; David looked bewildered and half-asleep, clearly unaware of the matter, and Raymond did not know whether to scold or be grateful for his stupidity; Bohemond’s expression and Abigail’s split lip spoke volumes.

Bohemond was about to step forward and beg pardon, but Amalric I merely waved his hand—this was not the time for reprimand or punishment; Cesar brought a trunk, usually placed beside the bed, flat on top to rest feet or place objects, now used to unroll a map.

“What did you tell the guide?” Amalric I asked.

Abigail flinched when he saw Baldwin, never daring to approach the prince, fearing his leprosy might spread with a breath or a gesture; his father Bohemond had no patience—he slapped Abigail hard, then seized his hair and dragged him to the trunk.

In normal times, someone might have intervened, but Abigail’s crime this time was too grave.

Because of this farcical betrothal, Princess Sibylla’s reputation might suffer slightly, but as Amalric I had originally planned—to choose her husband from among the most pious and valiant knights—this flaw was trivial. As for Amalric I and Louis VII’s recklessness, though it might invite mockery, it was harmless, even endearing—and if Amalric I had not only one son, Baldwin, Princess Sibylla’s marriage would hardly be a matter of consequence.

But Abigail bribed Etienne’s guide to lure Louis VII’s minister, the Holy Land’s envoy, a Christian, into infidel territory—to injure him, kill him, or imprison him… That would be a scandal of unprecedented magnitude!

This was not what a Christian should do to another Christian, nor even what a Christian should do to an infidel; even the devil does not devour his own kind, let alone that Etienne was a guest of the King of Arassal, the Grand Duke of Antioch, and the Count of Tripoli—he had been invited into the castle, received bread and salt in the hall, and all had come to see him off.

If Etienne were truly captured by an infidel lord, they might still ransom him; but if he were wounded, lost, or died in battle…

Amalric I closed his eyes—this shook more than just Arassal; it shook the very foundation of the Crusade! Like a shepherd who finds sheep’s blood on his dog’s muzzle, would he not suspect? Then not only Louis VII, but even the Church would demand answers; perhaps he would truly have to surrender Arassal to quell public outrage.

Abigail had already been shattered when questioned by his father and dragged up the main tower; when pinned by Amalric I’s steel-blue eyes, he spilled everything without reserve.

Damara had already been sent back to her room by Amalric I’s servants; Cesar leaned beside Baldwin, and when he heard Abigail say this was entirely his own doing, with no connection to Princess Sibylla, Baldwin exhaled softly, relaxing his tensed shoulders—no matter his role—as brother or future king—he did not wish Sibylla implicated.

“...so I told him to take Count Etienne to Mule’s territory…”

To Cesar, Mule was an unfamiliar name, but to Amalric I and the other two lords, it was not; Amalric I immediately ordered servants to take David and Abigail away; Bohemond insisted on locking Abigail in the dungeon, but Amalric I refused—this matter was best resolved with as few people as possible; if Abigail were imprisoned, what excuse would they give when asked?

Baldwin and Cesar could not remain in the room either; before leaving, Bohemond placed his hand on the map but suddenly turned his head, wearing a strange smile: “Ah, yes,” he fixed his gaze on Cesar: “I’ve seen this pious, clever boy—was it him? Did he hear something, see something, or did an angel descend in his dream and reveal this secret meant for no one’s ears—why else would he rush here so urgently… was it him?”

Baldwin stepped forward, shielding Cesar with his body.

“Enough,” Raymond cut in sharply, silencing Bohemond’s insinuations: “Even if no one saw or heard, the servants’ tongues will be loosened by women and wine—you might as well say this is God’s will, allowing us to mend the fence before the disaster becomes irreparable.”

Amalric I nodded to Baldwin; Baldwin immediately pulled Cesar out the door—he regretted it, he should not have let Cesar stay there; he should have sent him away with Damara.

Cesar, however, was unconcerned. Some might say, provoking a grand duke’s enmity so recklessly was inviting fire to burn oneself—but since he had seen the fates of Wit and the servants, the pilgrims before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and the dwarf at the banquet… he knew that in this place, in this age, the powerful needed no doctrine, law, or morality to dispose of the lowly—they needed no reason.

And Abigail’s hatred for him had long festered; unless he left the castle, ceased being Baldwin’s squire and friend, and never again came near Princess Sibylla… but even then, because he—a humble servant—had once stood beside her and spoken to her, Abigail had a thousand reasons to kill him.

“Who is Mule?”

“He is the prince of Armenian Cilicia,” an independent principality founded by Armenian refugees fleeing Seljuk invasions; “Prince Mule once lived in Arassal for years and even became a member of the Knights Templar, but unfortunately, he soon fell under the devil’s temptation, abandoned the order, and defected to Sultan Toghrul II of the Seljuks, who granted him a position and a small territory.”

That territory lay directly on the pilgrims’ main route, and so a former Christian, a knight whose cloak bore the cross, had become a thief, preying on travelers.

Baldwin entered the room; though it was deep night, he had no sleepiness. Like Amalric I, Raymond, and Bohemond, he took a map from a locked cabinet, spread it on the bed, and studied it face-to-face with Cesar.

The First Crusade was in 1096, the Second in 1147; these two great expeditions opened four major routes for pilgrims: “When Count Etienne came, he traveled the path of Louis VII’s second crusade—from Paris to Lyon, Lyon to Metz, through the Holy Roman Empire, Hungary, Bulgaria, to Constantinople, then by horse or ship along the coast across the Mediterranean—here, already near Seljuk territory.” Baldwin pointed to a specially drawn red line.

“If by sea, he would pass Rhodes and Cyprus, but must beware Saracen pirates. Still, for safety, it’s better than crossing Seljuk Sultan’s lands—you studied with me before,” Baldwin said: “You should know—”

The Seljuk Empire was a vast Turkic empire in Central and Western Asia, Islamic in faith, once glorious, but after the death of its last great ruler Malik Shah in 1092, it fractured into over a dozen small dynasties; Toghrul II was one of the larger—though judging by Mule’s conduct, he was clearly a weakling.

“My father put Count Etienne on a ship at Jaffa.” Here, Baldwin sighed; because of earlier events, many young knights had challenged Etienne, who clearly had no intention of shedding blood for a princess he’d never met and would never see again—he had “fled” Arassal swiftly, refusing to stay even a single day—if he had sailed from Acre, perhaps they could have caught him.

A man walks six to ten leagues per day on foot, eight to twelve on horseback, but a single-masted ship can reach thirty to fifty leagues daily; if Etienne had gone directly to Smyrna or Thessalonica, it would have been fine—both cities lay deep within Byzantine territory, far from Seljuk lands—but with a bribed guide, he might have been persuaded to disembark early, and the guide would surely find a way to lead the count to Mule or another Seljuk.

“Abigail gave him a hundred gold coins upfront,” Baldwin said hoarsely: “If successful, he’ll get four hundred more from Abigail upon return.”

Equal to three point three three… of me, Cesar thought silently.

“What will His Majesty do?”

“There’s no other option—find him. If we can catch the guide before Etienne suspects, fine; if he’s already suspicious, we may face negotiations. But from what I know, Etienne isn’t greedy—if so, it won’t be too hard to handle. Worst case… you know—someone must step forward to bear responsibility.”

Cesar remained silent. He had been here many days and understood the relationship between Arassal, Antioch, and Tripoli: they were like a family, their rulers treating each other as brothers, but Antioch and Tripoli were vassals of Arassal; Amalric I was the elder brother—he accepted Bohemond and Raymond’s fealty, yet also bore their troubles and sins.

Baldwin and Cesar thought their only course was to wait—but three days passed, and no trace of Etienne or his retinue appeared at any port; whether on the pilgrims’ main roads or the thieves’ hidden paths—from Ashkelon, Jaffa, to Caesarea, Acre, Tyre, Sidon, Beirut, Tripoli, and Antioch—no clue, no trace, nothing.

Bohemond, as the father of the culprit, had been racing day and night; Raymond looked worn and bewildered; Amalric I, immersed in heavy state affairs, also kept tabs on every rumor—so far, he had not written to Louis VII to inform him that his envoy might already be a Seljuk captive.

As knights rode out the castle gates in turn, Baldwin stood behind the window watching; Cesar knew he longed to join them—for his father Amalric I, and for his sister Sibylla.

“Can I go?” he suddenly asked. “I’ll go.” Instead of you.

(End of Chapter)