Chapter 30: The Count of Etienne

The horse beneath Mulei shifted its hooves slightly.

Having undergone months of horseback training and truly transformed riding from a pastime into a necessity of life, Cesar could instantly tell that Mulei had shifted his body on the saddle.

Such a disciple of the devil, a shameful traitor, a mongrel of infidels—upon encountering this group of Christians, if he thought only of capturing them, dragging them back to his castle, and calculating ransoms by head, selling those who couldn’t pay to Isaac’s slave merchants, it would be no surprise at all.

Even though they had nothing to do with him and committed no crime, they would suffer and perish because of his greed, and he would care not at all—indeed, he would feel triumphant, convinced of his extraordinary luck—today his target was another group, but who would refuse a plump, defenseless lamb?

But if the other party was the only son of Bohemond III, Prince of Antioch, then matters would be different.

We have said before that this land indeed belongs to Mulei, but his previous vile deeds were despised even by the Turks; Toghrul II, harboring the intention of using a tiger to devour a wolf, granted him territory in the triangular zone between Antioch, Armenia, and the Seljuk Turks, where conflicts frequently erupted—so long as Mulei wished to hold onto his land, he must labor for Toghrul without pay.

Of course, how could a wicked villain like Mulei willingly submit to such exploitation? He preferred raiding pilgrims passing through or near his territory, sometimes attacking Isaac’s merchants, even Turks or Saracens who recited the same Shahada.

Someone might point at him and call him a renegade villain, but faith was merely a useful tool to him; he had the confidence to believe so—after all, he had witnessed Saint Matthew at the Temple in Alasaru and received the Prophet Lot’s blessing in the Aladdin Mosque—since saints and prophets themselves did not care, what could a mere mortal care about?

But when it came to matters of personal interest, Mulei considered far more carefully.

The current Prince of Antioch, Bohemond III, was no easy neighbor—this had something to do with events from his childhood and adolescence. His father was Raymond, son of William IX, Duke of Aquitaine; his mother was Constance, daughter of Bohemond II. It was a marriage utterly mismatched in age: Constance was ten, Raymond thirty-six.

Though they had two children, Constance neither respected nor loved her husband; after his death in battle, she swiftly married a Crusader knight—later known as Prince Raymond. Whether there was genuine affection between them we do not know, but when Raymond was captured by the Saracens, Constance showed little enthusiasm for rescuing him—perhaps by then the noble lady had already tasted the sweetness of power.

This desire destroyed Bohemond III’s relationship with his mother, especially after he came of age and demanded the return of power, which Constance firmly refused. Had she not previously committed a foolish act—marrying her daughter to Byzantine Emperor Manuel I, thereby granting him suzerainty and succession rights over Antioch—the Crusader knights of Antioch would not have angrily deposed her as regent, and Bohemond III’s accession might not have been so smooth.

Bohemond III naturally despised the ever-watchful Manuel I, but years ago he was captured by Nur ad-Din of Zengi and only released back to Antioch thanks to Manuel I’s mediation and gold coins; thus, he was forced to accept certain conditions: he must accept Manuel I’s clergy and officials, and marry his niece.

And the only son of Bohemond III and this imperial niece was Abigail. Mulei had certainly heard his name; if the child’s mother were anyone else—even the illegitimate daughter of the Pope of Rome or a princess of the Holy Roman Empire—he would have unhesitatingly seized them all and sold the boy for the highest price.

But this child was the key through which Manuel I extended his influence into the Holy Land states; if Mulei did this, he would face a three-sided assault from the Byzantine Empire, Armenia, and the Principality of Antioch—let alone Toghrul II, whose Turkish sultan would not expend a single soldier to rescue a former enemy.

Yet if you ask whether he could accept this outcome willingly, the answer is certainly no—a prince’s heir was worth at least several thousand gold coins, and his status was so unique, he might be worth even more.

Mulei now resembled a wolf pacing before a baited trap, coveting the fat lure laid out by the hunter, yet fearing the sharp bamboo spikes within the pit.

Moreover, he harbored doubts: the prince’s son held no insignificant status, and he was so young; even if not in his father’s castle, he ought to be in the castle of the King of Alasaru or the Count of Tripoli—how could he appear here without reason, accompanied by only a dozen men, and even then, Mulei could tell at a glance they were two separate groups?

“One of my father’s guests encountered a wolf pack; his servants rushed back for aid, so I set out with some attendants,” Cesar said.

Though he spoke thus, his tone carried a hint of weakness and uncertainty, and his eyes involuntarily dropped downward.

Mulei guessed the boy might have secretly slipped out, pretending to search for the guest, against his father’s wishes.

“We found him and are preparing to return,” Cesar added.

Mulei’s gaze lingered again on Count Etienne, noticing his twisted leg. “He is injured,” he turned his eyes back to Cesar: “Impressive, my young knight—did you alone find him?”

“Indeed,” Cesar lifted his head proudly. “My father sent many men, but only I found him.”

“Your father… sent many men?”

“Many,” this time it was Geoffrey who spoke: “We have released the falcons; they will arrive soon.”

Mulei’s expression shifted uncertainly. He had heard rumors of certain knightly bands searching for someone. Though he held superiority in strength and numbers, the other side had eight or nine men, all mounted, capable of fleeing or fighting, and who knew when knights from Antioch might arrive?

He always prided himself on caution, yet in truth was cowardly, greedy by nature and unwilling to take even the slightest risk. After much deliberation, he lightly kicked his horse’s flanks: “Then so be it.”

He spurred his horse forward, slowly passing through the group. The “son of the Prince of Antioch” watched him curiously, turning his head to whisper something to his attendant, while the tall, sturdy knight replied with words tinged with contempt—certainly not kind words—but Mulei, who had lived comfortably this long, did not care for such empty reputations.

As he passed the guest, he confirmed the man was a Frank: a white or blue cloak or short tunic, red trousers, boots gilded and patterned—knights who had stayed long here always bore some Eastern elements. Count Etienne gave him a slight nod, as if he had never heard the name “Mulei.”

“You are truly a brave man,” Mulei feigned admiration. “How many did you encounter?”

“We encountered two groups—one of wolves, one of jackals—at least fifty in total. They were cunning and cruel, but God protected us; we sang as we drove them off. If you go further, you may still see their corpses.”

Mulei stared at him for a moment, unsure whether he was being mocked. Though Count Etienne used animal terms, Mulei feared more than actual wolves and jackals—he feared small bands of roaming bandits. His concern was not for the peace of his territory, but for fear others might steal his prey.

“Then I must go see for myself,” Mulei said. This time he did not pause, leading his soldiers—whether Turks or Saracens—past Cesar and his group. Only when the last horse’s tail swept past the edge of the pine forest did Geoffrey nod to Count Etienne: “Let’s go.”

One of the count’s knights moved forward, but the monk seized his reins and shot him a stern glance. The knight was puzzled until he saw Count Etienne step forward, bow slightly to the “son of the Prince of Antioch,” and then the two walked ahead side by side. Only then did he understand—by the time the group had walked over a hundred paces, a Turkish cavalryman hurried up from behind.

“The prince says he forgot to ask you to convey his regards to your father, the Prince of Antioch. May God grant him good health.” He extended his hand; Geoffrey took the object he offered—a gold ring in Fatimid style, its band and face entwined with fine gold threads, studded with gold granules, its craftsmanship worth far more than the gold itself.

Geoffrey tossed a gold coin into the Turkish cavalryman’s hand. The man was overjoyed, dismounted, bowed deeply with hand over heart to the “prince’s son” in his black sable cloak, remounted, and vanished in an instant.

Only then did Count Etienne’s knights realize how close they had come to making a grave mistake.

After this episode, they no longer cared for Count Etienne’s leg; once beyond Mulei and his soldiers’ sight, they galloped full speed, with no guide or messenger, heading as fast as they could toward the sea. This time, divine favor finally smiled upon them—they found a Christian village.

The village steward sent a messenger to guide them to Tyre, an ancient port city. Though under Byzantine rule, to avoid trouble, they disguised themselves as pilgrims escorted by Templar knights, sailed from Tyre to Cyprus, then sailed directly to Jaffa.

Only upon reaching Cyprus did Geoffrey send word to Alasaru; another day and a half passed before Count Etienne returned to the Holy Cross Castle.

Seeing the three towers shaped like lion heads, Count Etienne was overwhelmed with emotion. When he left, King Amalric I had been his tormentor—though the fault lay with him and Louis VII. Now, upon returning, he had become Amalric I’s tormentor.

He was taken to the main tower and lodged in a room second only to the king’s. The bishops of Alasaru had long awaited him; they took turns praying for and healing his leg, guaranteeing he would walk freely within a week with no lasting damage—he would remain a fearless knight.

The king himself placed a collar around his neck—a collar inlaid with red and blue gems, worth roughly the entirety of Count Etienne’s value in this journey. Other comforts and gifts need not be listed; the king and the Prince of Antioch generously covered all rewards—this affair had stirred three knightly orders and half the Crusader knights of the city.

Geoffrey and his soldiers and attendants would receive additional honors as well.

“Where… is the child?” Count Etienne asked.

His monk hesitated. “I don’t know.” He recalled that as they entered the Holy Cross Castle, the king had taken Count Etienne’s arm and, flanked by the Count of Tripoli, the Prince of Antioch, and other nobles, ushered them inside—only to see the green-eyed young attendant left behind, receiving no extra attention, except that Templar knight Geoffrey turned back, placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke to him.

But to the monk, the young attendant did not seem forgotten or abandoned—he seemed to be waiting for something.

And he waited. The monk saw: after everyone else departed, a boy in a white robe with a fine veil over his face rushed from a corner of the tower, straight toward Cesar, and embraced him tightly!

“Did you see that man?”

“Amalric I’s only son, Baldwin—also Cesar’s master,” the monk said. “Their bond is clear; Prince Baldwin treats him not as a mere servant, but as a beloved brother.”

Count Etienne nearly laughed aloud. “Ah, my dear Aronsia,” he called his monk—generally, these monks were his trusted confidants, and he never concealed his true self from Aronsia.

“You were born to peasant parents; had you not become a monk, you’d be just another farmer. Tell me—if you were still a farmer, would you allow a leper to embrace you so intimately, rest his chin on your neck, breathe upon your skin, and touch you with fingers like dry branches?”

The monk shuddered. “No, never!”

“What if he were a prince?”

“Let him rot in hell!” the monk declared firmly. “No amount of gold or title is worth my life!”

“Then,” the count leaned back, sinking into the soft, plush furs, and asked lazily, “do you think Cesar wants this ‘beloved brother’?”

Here, an explanation of the collar the king gave Count Etienne.

At this time, jewelry was generally unisex.

Moreover, many knights wore collars, since face-covering helmets had not yet been developed—only mail coifs existed; to add an extra layer of defense, some knights wore iron collars.

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(End of Chapter)