Chapter 31: Etienne Count

Baldwin and Cesar met, and their joy, of course, needed no words.

In the days since Cesar’s departure, endless regret had gnawed at Baldwin’s heart like a venomous snake, intermittent but relentless.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his young companion lying flushed and still in a patch of wet mud, sick with fever, dying; in the next instant, he saw him riding his horse, pierced through the chest by a savage Turk’s spear, falling from the saddle and vanishing amid the chaotic hooves; in a haze, the prince again saw him aboard a ship caught in a monstrous storm, sinking as he cried “God!” and plunged into the sea, gone in mere breaths…

All these things could easily have befallen Cesar—he had no familiar faces beside him, was heading into infidel lands, and had to endure countless hardships—Baldwin was so tormented he could not sleep day or night—only after Cesar left his side did he realize he had foolishly been tempted by the devil, sending his best friend to die for worthless vanity and pride!

Seeing Cesar unharmed, alert, and unchanged from when he had left the Holy Cross Fortress, Baldwin felt the heavy chains lift from his body; he could not bear to let go of Cesar, and the two walked arm in arm back to the Left Tower, though this time Baldwin brought Cesar to an empty chamber, its furnishings and decorations only slightly less splendid than the prince’s own room, with a steaming tub already prepared.

“Whose room is this?”

“Yours,” Baldwin said.

Though as a squire, Cesar should have shared a room with him, during Cesar’s absence Baldwin had been restless and distracted, pacing endlessly up and down the Left Tower.

Only when he noticed several vacant rooms in the tower did he recall that back in the Right Tower, though David, Abigail, and others had served as his squires and slept on wheeled cots beneath his bed, each of them had their own room in the tower.

He remembered his father Amalric I had once promised that Cesar would receive the same treatment as David and Abigail; if so, he too deserved his own room.

Having his own room was naturally a blessing for Cesar—no matter how grand or comfortable the prince’s chamber, it was not his; when he occasionally sought privacy, he could only slip out after Baldwin slept and sit on the small platform outside the door to think or read.

“You even prepared a bath for me?”

“As we do for every returning knight,” Baldwin said, guiding him as servants helped him undress and step into the tub. He found no wounds on Cesar’s back or chest, but Amalric I had shown him the letter sent by Templar Geoffrey.

The letter gave only a rough account of the journey, full of the Templars’ characteristic embellishments, yet it still revealed the peril and terror of the trip—especially at the end, when they had directly encountered Prince Mule’s party.

Baldwin did not trust the monks around Etienne, and planned to have the bishops of Arasal send someone to examine Cesar’s condition.

“I’ll go back now, Cesar,” Baldwin said.

“Don’t you want to hear about the journey?” Cesar asked. In an age with so little entertainment, people were endlessly curious about any news from beyond their borders—this was why traveling troupes, pilgrims, and minstrels were welcomed everywhere they went.

Baldwin was no exception; he had even promised that after the Selection Ceremony, he would take Cesar to the market, where taverns and alleys often hosted musicians, singers, and storytellers.

“No,” Baldwin said, “I’m tired too—I need to sleep. When you’re done washing, rest as well. Don’t disturb me.”

Though he spoke this way, Cesar felt Baldwin’s tenderness—he did not lack curiosity, nor had he grown cold toward Cesar; he simply feared that after all Cesar had endured, he was utterly exhausted, and forcing him to talk would be cruel.

“Then until tomorrow,” Cesar said. “Tomorrow I’ll tell you the whole story—rest easy. I’m back.”

Baldwin nodded, silent, afraid that if he spoke, he would weep.

——————

Cesar had never slept so deeply; this mission had been a severe trial for him, but if God truly existed, He would give this Dajuan a perfect score.

When he awoke and headed for Baldwin’s room, he met a servant—he recognized him as one of Amalric I’s men. The servant told him to go to Etienne first, as the count wished to personally thank the humble savior who had pulled him from the chasm.

Etienne was now staying in the chamber of Bohemond, Prince of Antioch—a fine room indeed. When the tapestries were drawn back, bright sunlight bathed the chamber as if gilded with gold. The count sat on a Byzantine-style throne, wrapped in a sleeveless robe of gray squirrel fur, his golden collar, a gift from Amalric I, gleaming at his neck, and several unfamiliar rings adorning his fingers—on a long chest (used as seat, storage, and display) sat the monk Anuncius.

Cesar bowed to the count.

Though Etienne claimed he wished to thank his humble savior, most believed he was merely curious about the squire—after all, in this age, when a noble was saved by a subordinate, a mere reward sufficed; there was no need to waste time or energy, let alone lower oneself to offer thanks face-to-face.

Etienne studied Cesar again, forced to admit that though he had spent years at Louis II’s court and seen countless young squires, none matched this boy in appearance.

“I thank you,” he said. Only after escaping the chasm did he realize how deep and narrow the “Devil’s Mouth” had been; without the monk’s account, he knew his attendants and the Templars would have abandoned him the moment he fell.

Had Cesar not insisted they lower him into that terrible “Devil’s Mouth” to search for the count, they would have merely knelt at the chasm’s edge to pray—gaining nothing, and facing punishment—while he, of course, would have died, forced to endure the living hell of the earth before death.

“I thank you,” he repeated. “I’ve thought long, child—how should I repay you? I asked around—you are Prince Baldwin’s squire. Do you know he is a leper?”

“I know.”

“Since when?”

“Before I became his squire.”

“I heard Amalric I spared you.”

“Yes.”

“He rescued you from Isaac’s slave merchants—that was a debt, but one repayable,” Etienne leaned back. “You must know what happened before. Amalric I owes me a favor—I can use that favor to redeem you.”

Cesar looked up in surprise. The count smiled: “See, I can tell Amalric I to release you. You need not worry about your future. Do you remember Templar Geoffrey Fuller? He is no ordinary knight—he was once the Grand Master of the Templar Order, returned to Arasal last year, and is rumored to become the Warden of the Holy City.

He praised your conduct on this journey endlessly—he said even the youngest Templar knights could not match you: those nobler than you lack your humility; those humbler than you lack your courage; those braver than you lack your composure; those composed than you lack your piety; and those more pious than you lack your wisdom. Yes—he likes you.

Had you been merely a peasant’s son, he would have taken you into the Order at once. But as the prince’s squire, it troubles him greatly.

I guarantee: if Amalric I releases you, Geoffrey will rush to the gates of the Holy Cross Fortress to claim you. With your debt to me and his favor, your future in the Order may be no worse than staying by the prince’s side.”

He watched Cesar’s expression closely, expecting ecstatic joy.

Cesar lowered his head, thought a moment. Etienne’s vision for his future was not wrong—because of Abigail’s folly, Amalric I and the entire Crusade were now in Etienne’s grip.

After Etienne stole another lord’s bride and went to war with the king, he still won Louis VII’s favor and trust—even the king was willing to make him King of Arasal (whether Etienne wanted it was another matter)—clearly, this man was cunning, adaptable, and masterful.

Seeing a guide suddenly reveal a sum of money no ordinary man could possess, then seeing Arasal’s knights rush to his aid, how could Etienne not suspect a malicious trap had been laid for him? And the one behind it was no ordinary man—not a common squire, who could never afford so many gold coins, nor orchestrate the entire Holy Cross Fortress to cover for him.

When he returned to the Holy Cross Fortress and saw Prince Abigail of Antioch was missing, he understood fully.

The Templar Order was among the very few organizations in all of Arasal, even the entire Christian Kingdom, that could speak plainly to Amalric I without fear.

And within the Order, there was no disdain for birth, wealth, or surname—for Crusader knights were originally “armed monks”; once they chose to serve God, all their worldly ties were cast aside—a peasant’s son and a knight’s son held equal standing.

“I should thank you for your arrangement,” Cesar said after thought, then shook his head. “But I have sworn an oath.”

Etienne was stunned, then his expression softened with understanding. “Do you doubt me? Or fear King Arasal?”

“How could I? My lord, Amalric I is the Defender of the Holy Land, the Guardian of the Holy Sepulcher. Every word he speaks is God’s law—even he cannot break it. And you—I believe a good man who braved hardship to journey here, toiling for God, the king, and the people, would not speak falsely.”

“Then why refuse?”

“Because I swore,” Cesar smiled. “I swore to Baldwin I would never leave him—and Baldwin swore to me he would never abandon me.”

Etienne froze. He looked at the monk in disbelief, then sat upright, leaning forward to study every subtle shift in Cesar’s face—sure he was not lying: “So… you followed the Templars through snowstorms, beasts, and Turks to find me… fought wolves without fear… and leapt into the ‘Devil’s Mouth’ without hesitation… all for your master Baldwin?”

Not to escape him? But truly to serve him?

Etienne’s mind became a chaotic storm—as if four great feasts and eight minor ones had marched through his skull, hammering, shouting, praying, singing hymns. He sank back into his chair, pondering long, then asked, bewildered: “But he is a leper…”

“I have known he was a leper since long before,” Cesar said gently. “And I am but Isaac’s merchandise. He respected me, loved me—I respect him, love him. I praise your generosity, but I will not leave Prince Baldwin.”

“Good heavens,” Etienne turned to the monk. “Pinch me. Am I dreaming? Perhaps—I’ll wake and find myself still in the ‘Devil’s Mouth,’ bleeding to death…”

The monk obediently pinched him!

Etienne yelped, springing up from his chair.

“Enough!” he glared at the monk. “I know it’s not a dream! What are you doing?” He slapped the monk’s hand away. “One pinch wasn’t enough?”

He tugged at his collar, unfastened it, and tossed it aside—he was suffocating.

“I truly cannot imagine—” he stared at Cesar, whispering. “Are you truly a saint?”

(End of Chapter)