Chapter 3: The King

King Amalric I’s question made everyone in the room tense—except the one being asked.

The king’s suspicion was not groundless; at this time, people’s concept of labor was undergoing a strange turning point, for originally the Church interpreted labor as a punishment upon humanity—Adam and Eve had lived carefree in Eden, but were cast out for defying God’s will, and thus men were condemned to toil, women to childbirth.

But this view changed considerably after the monastic reforms; labor began to be encouraged, as monks sustained themselves and their monasteries through farming, winemaking, weaving, and copying manuscripts, regarding it as spiritual practice, and the apostle Paul’s maxim, “If anyone will not work, neither shall he eat,” was increasingly cited.

Yet for nobles and knights, labor remained unacceptable; many young monks—originally second or third sons of noble families, raised in comfort—complained first upon entering the monastery about “having to toil like serfs, spin like women, forge like craftsmen.”

Just as monks had guessed Cesar’s identity by first examining his hands and feet, for some, labor remained shameful, painful, and without merit.

Cesar had to treat this question with care; Abbot John was unquestionably a reformer—but what kind of man was King Amalric I? What answer did he seek?

“No one forced me, Your Majesty,” Cesar said calmly: “When I could not move, many came to care for me; now that I am well, I wish to repay them.” He paused briefly: “And was it not the Lord Himself who toiled for six days to create heaven, earth, and all things? His labor was grand, ours is small—but smallness is no excuse for laziness or indifference.”

“Aren’t you afraid others will look down on you, see you as a servant?” King Amalric I asked softly.

“How can one’s future be defined by others’ opinions?” Cesar replied equally softly, offering a brief smile: “When you and your knights passed over that hill, what did you see? Thirty-one slaves of Isaac the merchant, correct?”

“I didn’t count them so precisely then,” King Amalric I did not mind his boldness: “But you’re right—destiny need not be unchangeable.” He gestured: “Heraclius, John, I wish to speak with this boy alone.”

When only the two remained, “I give you three choices,” King Amalric I said.

“First choice: become a page to Abbot John of the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist. He likes you; you will become a monk, receive holy orders, and perhaps later secure a position in my court, or return to Francia or Apennia. Second choice: leave the monastery. Choose freely—become a craftsman, farmer, or hunter, and live by your skill and God’s grace.”

“And the third?”

“The third…” King Amalric I said, “Perhaps you already know—I have one son, only one. He is your age, but shortly before I met you, he was diagnosed with leprosy.” He raised his eyes, fixing them on Cesar: “You know what leprosy is.”

“I know,” Cesar said. “It is a contagious disease.”

“It brings many terrible consequences, though it does not kill,” King Amalric I said. “For this reason, I had to dismiss Baldwin’s attendants. Their fathers or guardians were not my vassals, my knights, or my courtiers and monks. Whether as king or as friend, I could not let their heirs bear such risk.”

He turned his gaze to the window: “Though not all among them were cowards—but I could not.”

The problem is, Baldwin needs friends, companions to read, hunt, and train with. Cesar, we both know you come from noble blood, yet you have lost your original surname and cannot recover it—so, will you go to Baldwin’s side and serve as his page?”

The king’s gaze returned.

King Amalric I had gray-blue eyes, as foreboding as storm clouds: “I cannot guarantee you will not fall ill. I can only guarantee that if you agree to serve my son, whether you remain healthy or not, your status will equal that of a duke’s son. No one may question your origins or shame your parents. When Baldwin becomes a knight, you will be his squire. When he becomes king, you will be his knight.”

Cesar’s eyes widened slightly. True, living daily with a leper carried great risk—but King Amalric I’s reward was equally immense, astonishingly so—for a man who had recently been a slave with no surname…

“Me?”

“Before you, there were others,” King Amalric I said. “Sadly, they all disappointed me.” He placed a hand on Cesar’s shoulder: “You will be the one. Now, tell me your decision.”

What was leprosy? Others might not know—but Cesar knew too well.

It was indeed a terrifying, dreaded contagious disease, yet its panic stemmed not from high lethality or high transmissibility; instead, it caused skin lesions, deformities, and disabilities, yet rarely took life—patients could survive long with care and treatment. It was not easily transmitted—there was some infectivity, but ninety-five percent of people had natural immunity.

Who was susceptible to leprosy? Those weakened by malnutrition. Hence, this disease was common among the poor.

But for the son of King Amalric I to lack immunity due to food scarcity? That was pure absurdity—he had never left the walls of the Holy Cross Castle or his father’s protection; how had he contracted leprosy?

Thus, if he chose to serve King Amalric I’s only son Baldwin, he would face not only leprosy, but countless conspiracies and traps.

Yet he could make only one choice.

“I am willing to serve your son,” he said.

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“Raymond will fly into a rage,” Heraclius said. “Think of his father, Raymond IV.”

Raymond IV was a curious figure—valiant, fierce, devout; in the First Crusade, he arrived with Godfrey of Bouillon and Bohemond of Apennia before the holy city of Aramis, and his deeds were illustrious.

Yet strangely, the first crusader state established was the County of Edessa, then the Principality of Antioch, and finally Aramis. Throughout, Raymond, for various reasons, never secured a foothold of his own, until finally he seized the last Saracen stronghold on the Mediterranean coast—Tripoli—and only then joined the ranks of the crusader kingdoms.

Heraclius said this because the Count of Tripoli was a staunch believer in bloodline; after retaking Aramis, a dispute arose over who should be king, and the choice came down to Raymond and Godfrey. Raymond yielded the throne to Godfrey solely because Godfrey’s bloodline was closer to the direct line of King Louis II of Francia.

The Raymond beside King Amalric I clearly inherited his father’s valor and stubbornness. He had long resented the king for abandoning noble-born sons and selecting pages from among exiled knights and low-ranking officials’ children. He had remained silent while others did, unable to openly oppose. Now, King Amalric I wished to make a former slave Baldwin’s page… Raymond would surely go mad with rage.

“Yes,” King Amalric I smiled. “He always says—‘The king’s son must be served by the sons of dukes or counts.’” He pulled his cloak tighter. It was early September; in Jardin of Francia it might be cold, but along the Mediterranean coast, sea breezes brought warmth. His chill came from within.

He recalled the faces and expressions of those around Baldwin when he was declared—announced to have leprosy, this disease deemed “God’s punishment.” Except for Raymond and his son David, all feared, loathed, schemed, and rejoiced.

The children who had once been close to Baldwin vanished instantly—suddenly sprained ankles, dislocated arms, or sudden fevers; none could fulfill their duties as pages.

As a king, he should have been forgiving—and he was. But as a father, he could not help but feel resentment and bitterness. Baldwin was his only son, only nine years old; his life was already an hourglass turned upside down—each day, Baldwin drew closer to the grave.

This poor child had suffered enough, yet others still kicked him when he was down—they petitioned the king, demanding that, as in Francia, laws be enacted regarding lepers: strip Baldwin of his inheritance, exile him to a monastery beyond the city.

True, if Baldwin remained heir to Aramis, their actions were betrayal of the present and future king. But if he were no longer heir, morally and legally, they remained blameless, innocent men.

“They are wrong,” King Amalric I said coldly. “A page’s honor and status come from his master—not the reverse. Without their service, Baldwin remains my only son, future lord of Aramis, guardian of the Holy Sepulcher. But whoever serves Baldwin becomes a duke’s son, or a count’s son.”

Heraclius sighed. Normally he would have pressed further, but yesterday Rome had formally rejected King Amalric I’s request. The Church’s excuse: mortals must not interfere with God’s will. Heraclius suspected this was tied to Amalric’s attitude toward the Church—Aramis was founded on divine authority, yet Amalric I was no fanatic willing to kneel before ecclesiastical power.

The Church had long coveted the Holy City of Aramis. Even when the first king, Godfrey, died, clerics had asked if he would dedicate Aramis to the Church. Had Godfrey’s personal page not been present and willing to testify, Aramis would already be the Church’s possession.

The king’s only son contracting leprosy was a rare opportunity for the Church. How could these crimson-robed leeches possibly let go?

But King Amalric I would not bow—would not hand Aramis over to that pack of powerless maggots. For this reason, he felt profound guilt toward Baldwin; this guilt, when facing those with ill intent, turned into raging fury. Now, using a slave to strike their faces was already extreme restraint.

————————

At this moment, the king’s son, future king of Aramis, guardian of the Holy Sepulcher—Baldwin—knew nothing. He would soon meet the most important friend of his life.

He was organizing his belongings. Unlike King Amalric I’s fears, this precocious child remained in his room not because he had been shattered by sudden grief, fallen into despair, weakness, and self-pity—he had accepted the truth far faster than anyone imagined. After repeatedly questioning the monks and confirming his illness, unless God showed mercy, would likely never heal, Baldwin began planning his future.

Baldwin’s grammar teacher was the resident priest Heraclius, a learned historian and theologian who, in teaching Baldwin, often cited historical examples. He had long known of leprosy, a disease traceable to over a thousand years before Christ, and was familiar with its associated laws—if, as the Church claimed, it was a sin or a severe trial… he was willing to atone, willing to endure.

He also wondered: what would his father do? He would surely lose his inheritance—how could a leper become king? His father might remarry, perhaps a Byzantine princess, and sire a new heir. Or he might choose a suitable husband for his sister Sibylla, entrusting the Holy City and crown to her or her children.

If he still lived then, he would pray for the new king in the monastery.

He took out his favorite Damascus dagger, replacing it in his chest with the vellum Bible his sister Sibylla had given him. He rose, stretched his limbs, and almost instinctively touched his arm—the strange numbness felt like wearing thick leather gloves while touching a branch. He gave a bitter smile.

It was during a “Endurance Game”—a common pastime among knightly children, where they scratched each other to see who would cry out in pain—that he had kept winning, until his sword instructor noticed something wrong—early leprosy caused numbness, loss of sensation.

“How brave you are, Your Highness,” he murmured, repeating his sword instructor’s words: “But don’t you feel pain?”

Baldwin shook his head. A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. “Your Highness!” a coarse, muffled voice called from outside: “Bath time!”

This was Heraclius’s prescribed herbal bath, once daily, meant to slow progression. More than cure, it was comfort. Baldwin accepted his kindness. He stepped out—the small antechamber outside his chamber was empty; the new servants were terrified, refusing to appear before him unless ordered.

Baldwin stepped into the water—it was cold. He sighed at their negligence. The scent of Saint John’s herb came and went—clearly someone had tossed in a handful after pouring, not the full pound of dried herbs Heraclius demanded be steeped in boiling water.

(End of chapter)