Chapter 33: The Invitation and Gift of Templar Knight Geoffrey (Part One)

After enduring such suffering, Étienne Count’s only benefit was that he could spend the next several holidays at the Holy Cross Castle, and his monks and knights now had ample time to purchase the goods they desired—Amalric I had indeed fulfilled his promise to them, granting the full reward, and even compensated them as much as possible for losses suffered during the disaster: horses, tack, clothing, swords, and armor, ensuring everyone was sufficiently satisfied.

But from that day onward, Étienne Count never deliberately sought out Cesar; people said this was merely a passing whim of the lord, and some believed he must have received a separate reward from the count, so those servants and retainers who had always been cold toward Cesar suddenly became warm and attentive.

They either complained to Cesar about accidentally losing, damaging, or defiling some sacred relic, claiming they needed compensation or would be whipped and expelled from the castle; or they spoke mysteriously to Cesar of a beautiful courtesan who had arrived, skilled and voluptuous, demanding high fees—but perhaps, if she saw a charming child like Cesar, she might charge not a single coin.

Or they first praised Cesar’s luck and lamented their own recent streak of misfortune at the dice table—they begged Cesar to bless their dice, then asked him to roll twice for them, swearing solemnly that if he won, all the money would be his, and if he lost, they would shoulder the debt.

If Cesar still ignored them at this point, they deliberately sought out his lapses in duty—technically, Cesar rarely left the Left Tower, so they could hardly find any fault; but with intent, a way was always found—and once they “found” something, they feigned concern, telling Cesar that a small sum of money would make them keep silent.

Had the soul within this body not been an adult, he would have fallen into at least one of these traps.

Baldwin knew Étienne Count had indeed given Cesar a reward; he did not press further, but feared Cesar might be cheated out of his money, so from the First Sunday of Advent (the Sunday closest to December 1), he kept Cesar closely by his side—no one dared play tricks before the prince.

But some were people Baldwin could not refuse.

On the eve of the Feast of Saint John Gande (December 23), Geoffrey de Fulque, a Templar Knight, sent a servant to deliver a letter to Cesar early in the morning, inviting him to meet at noon prayer (roughly two to three in the afternoon), where he would wait by the drawbridge.

Such a lord—whether for his past care or his present favor—Cesar could not possibly refuse; but Baldwin was deeply troubled: “If this were the Templars of fifty years ago, I would not stop you—in fact, I would encourage you. Back then, the Templars, as they had sworn, were believers, pilgrims, knights, ever ready to shed blood in service to God—steadfast, humble, obedient. I am certain every Templar of that time now sits beside the saints.”

But as some philosopher said, when a tree grows tall, rotten branches and dead leaves inevitably appear.

Because the original Templars truly kept their vows, people saw it, loved them, respected them, trusted them—they saw them as God’s knights. To the Order, as to any church or monastery, they paid taxes, made offerings, donated cloth, grain, money, even land, to support the Order’s eastward mission.

In just a few decades, the Templars’ holdings spread across the entire Holy Land and half of Europe—and they changed.

Though they still claimed to be knights, they lent money like Jewish money-changers of Isaac; built ships like Genoese shipowners; collected land taxes and tolls like French lords.

They took cuts from slaughterhouses and textile workshops, charged fees for using mills and ovens, leased out vineyards, sold fishing rights on rivers, and their lands produced wheat and vegetables day and night—enough to feed the entire Holy Land.

Such a vast organization could not avoid corruption—I have already heard troubling rumors about them; my father heard them too, and once warned the Templars, only to be met with their hatred, for they believed he sought to seize their wealth and power.

I have heard Geoffrey’s name—he may not be the worst, but if,” he gripped Cesar’s hand, speaking carefully, “if he asks you to abandon me and join the Templars—believe me, I do not wish to deny you a good future, but the Templars are certainly not one.”

He pleaded earnestly: “If you wish to leave me, say so plainly. Even if you cannot go to Tripoli or Antioch, I can send you to Lower Lorraine (the original Keeper of the Tomb of Arasath was Duke of Lower Lorraine, Count of Bouillon—Godfrey of Bouillon), or anywhere else you desire.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Cesar gripped Baldwin’s hand in return. Baldwin always wore gloves, removing them only if Cesar requested; signs of leprosy had begun to show—his fingers were swollen and red. After Cesar bathed and massaged him, he felt better, but both knew Baldwin’s condition was worsening—no wonder Amalric I would not even wait until Baldwin’s birthday (February 2), and instead planned the “Selection Ceremony” in the first month of the new year.

No leper had ever undergone the “Selection Ceremony,” for it was considered a sacrament; yet most clung to the hope that if Baldwin were chosen, he would be miraculously healed—or at least his condition would slow.

“I have pondered this repeatedly, especially after I rashly agreed to your request and sent you out to seek Étienne Count on behalf of Abigail’s sin...”

Baldwin’s expression turned thoughtful: “Look, I once wished to abandon all worldly things and enter a monastery, but my father promised me I was still his heir, still Prince of Arasath, and then he brought you to me, Cesar. When I first saw you, I thought someone so beautiful should never serve beside a leper—but then I reconsidered: perhaps this was not a bad thing.”

He rose to his feet: “At the time, I kept you, thinking I had sheltered only a fragile, beautiful bird—otherwise, you would have been shattered by storm and wind, dying too soon.”

But now I see: the creature beside me is no lark, but a young eagle—though its wings are not yet full, it will one day soar high in the blue sky. If I still keep you here, it is not love for you—it is selfishness.”

He gave a bitter smile: “Especially now that I realize—I thought myself steady and wise, yet I am still a child, clinging to hollow honor, sending you away. Though Geoffrey’s letter said little, I knew at once you suffered greatly, endured much, nearly died.”

If such a thing happened again, I could never forgive myself.”

Cesar listened, sighing inwardly. Étienne Count had offered to plead with Amalric I for his freedom, and for a moment, he had been tempted—not because he feared Baldwin’s leprosy, for he had lived with Baldwin for months and was certain he was not susceptible.

Besides, Baldwin was always careful—even after Cesar asked, he still wore veils and gloves in his room, and never let Cesar handle anything that might involve bodily fluids or secretions—since the execution of a group of servants, the new ones were far more respectful and obedient.

Perhaps also because no servant had yet contracted leprosy; regardless, they now served Baldwin with greater care.

But he still refused.

Étienne Count’s spontaneous question still echoed in his ears, yet Cesar did not feel he deserved praise. He was grateful to Amalric I, but far less so than to Baldwin—for the favors he received from Amalric I were partly earned through calculation and risk, partly born of Amalric I’s own self-interest.

He had simply never expected to meet a child like Baldwin here.

In this age, in this land, danger lurked everywhere, wolves circled—though called the Holy Land, it was a bloody meat grinder.

He had never known war, but had seen too much death and life; he knew that before Death, few could maintain their former composure, let alone endure years—decades—of unrelenting pain and hopeless future brought by leprosy, which could shatter the spirit beyond control.

When Amalric I ordered him to serve Baldwin, he had prepared himself for a mad, volatile child, terrified of the future, hysterical and aggressive.

In fact, he had already decided: if that were true, he would not foolishly remain as a living target beside the prince.

He could have done so easily—even facing Amalric I, he was no true child.

But this Baldwin made it impossible for him to utter “abandon.” He was only nine, a minor in any world, yet had endured great upheaval and still preserved a pure, noble heart.

He saw a peer more beautiful, healthier than himself, felt no envy, did not mock or torment him because of their disparity in status; he kept Cesar beside him as a weakling, yet when he saw Cesar had a better future, even though he had only one friend left, he was willing to lift him up, let him fly—rather than cage him.

“I have refused Étienne Count,” Cesar said. “I will refuse Geoffrey too.”

Baldwin’s eyes widened behind his veil—he had guessed Geoffrey might take interest in Cesar, but he had not expected Étienne Count to harbor such thoughts; now he felt a pang of envy.

“Étienne Count isn’t good either,” he sneered. “His lands are small and barren, and he’s a widower—you’d go to his castle with no lady to care for you.”

“I have refused.”

“Wise choice,” Baldwin grumbled. “In any case, neither of those two is suitable—a pair of fools.”

“If they heard that, they’d challenge you to a duel,” Cesar said cheerfully. “They’re not evil men—at least Étienne Count isn’t.”

He told Baldwin only about the gold coins, but never mentioned the travel passes—not because he intended to hide them, but because this matter was identical to his request to the Gerard family for the Templar map: Étienne Count’s gifts essentially said Amalric I or Baldwin could not provide him proper protection.

Étienne Count had already suffered greatly from refusing the marriage; while he remained at the Holy Cross Castle, no further complications were needed.

So Cesar formally requested leave from Baldwin and obtained permission from the castle steward; as he walked out through the gate passage, Baldwin watched him from the bridgehead.

Cesar looked up at him, recalling how Baldwin had chattered on during their farewell—though he was meeting a Templar Knight, who had sworn chastity, meaning they should avoid even seeing women, let alone touching them—hence the Pope permitted them to build private chapels (to avoid women).

Married men wishing to join the Templars had to separate from their wives and could only become sergeants in brown or black robes.

Templars could not hunt, keep dogs or falcons; their only permitted prey was the lion of the Holy Land, and they were forbidden to hunt with common hunters.

They could not enjoy entertainment—no chess, gambling, jesters, or minstrels; they ate together—on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, the Order provided sufficient meat—and unless fasting, they could drink wine, but never to drunkenness.

So the things Baldwin most feared would not happen. Had it been another adult knight, he would have worried the man would take Cesar to courtesans and dice tables, or hunting (dangerous even then), or get him drunk and unconscious.

Baldwin saw Geoffrey—he did not enter the castle, dressed in imposing splendor. Honestly, if Baldwin had to choose, he would rather follow a valiant knight than a sinful patient—but he trusted Cesar.

He watched Cesar ride his little horse, Ma Kas, trotting behind Geoffrey’s great steed across the drawbridge.

Soon after they crossed the bridge, a thin, dark shadow followed them. Baldwin was about to call out, when he saw the figure bow from afar, then wave his lance before vanishing swiftly, before the guards could react.

The prince then remembered: during Cesar’s penance of cleansing the Holy Sepulcher, a wandering knight had indeed followed him and served as his guard.

(End of Chapter)