Chapter 47: Marriage (Part 2)

Cesar blinked in surprise.

It wasn’t his fault; since arriving at the castle, neither the castle steward nor the servants and attendants like himself, nor even Prince Baldwin, nor his teacher Heraclius, had ever mentioned Amalric I’s first wife.

The first rumor he heard about marriage was that Amalric I had negotiated multiple times with Byzantine Emperor Manuel I.

He naturally assumed Baldwin’s mother had died, perhaps when Baldwin was very young, and such matters were certainly not something he would casually bring up in Baldwin’s presence.

And then this mother walked out of her grave?

Such thoughts were far too disrespectful; Cesar immediately bowed his head, feeling only a warm breeze of lavender brush past him: “Raise your head, child. You’re not the first person who’s looked at me as if I were a ghost.”

He lifted his head and saw Baldwin standing awkwardly beside him, even more uneasy than himself—he seemed to want to embrace his mother, but raised his hand only to realize he wore neither gloves nor veil. He quickly turned to find them, but the Countess of Jaffa pulled him into her arms.

“Let me hold you properly,” she said. “Your father is a king, and he does not fear you—do you think I would?”

She held Baldwin tightly for a long while; his face flushed crimson, nearly obscuring the scars left by leprosy. He closed his eyes slightly, his body slowly relaxing from stiff to soft, even, like a drunkard, leaning most of his weight onto the countess’s shoulder.

Balian of Ibelin did not enter, only coughed softly; Cesar understood and closed the door.

Balian’s posture clearly signaled he was guarding the door. Cesar wondered whether he should also take his leave, but the countess’s eyes fell at once on the scattered items on the carpet—expensive gifts neatly divided into two piles. Clearly, before she entered, these two children had been doing something obvious.

“You’re Cesar, aren’t you?” the countess called gently. “Come here, sit down, join us—I’ve heard your name and know your virtue. I’m glad my son has a companion like you.”

She stroked Baldwin’s head. “As the wise say, birds of the same feather flock together. I’d rather people say he is Cesar’s friend than that he has a servant beside him.”

Even Cesar’s face began to burn.

“He’s no longer a servant,” Baldwin said joyfully. “Under God’s gaze, we’ve become brothers. From now on, he is my equal.”

The countess smiled as she studied Cesar carefully. “If I could bear a child so beautiful, I’d build a chapel just for the Virgin Mary.”

“Am I not beautiful?” Baldwin stared in disbelief. “I always thought I was beautiful, Mother.”

The countess saw at once her child was trying to amuse her. She burst into laughter. “In my heart, even if Attis with violet blood, the cunning suitor Acantius, and Apollo’s son Linus stood side by side before me, the most beautiful would still be you—and only you.”

She drew Baldwin close. Though he would turn ten on February 2nd and, with the bishop’s or pope’s permission, could be declared an adult, marry, and form alliances—still, every mother sees her child as small, always ready to be lifted and held.

It was a tender scene, but a few golden glints pierced Cesar’s eyes unkindly—he realized one corner of the cloak Baldwin had shown him earlier had slipped out. He was struggling how to hide it discreetly when the countess spotted it.

“It’s a gift from Princess Maria,” she said calmly. “Bring it to me—see if it suits my most beautiful child.”

Baldwin hurried to cover his face. Cesar crawled over and fetched it. The countess took it in her hands, examining it repeatedly. “The Byzantines…” Her tone held no envy or malice. “I divorced Amalric I in the year 63.”

Originally, the marriage had been suitably matched. Amalric I was only a second son; the countess was the daughter of the Count of Edessa. She never expected to wear a crown, only hoped her husband wouldn’t die too soon—and preferably leave her several children. They soon had Sibylla, then Baldwin. But in the year Baldwin was born, Baldwin III died suddenly, leaving no heir, so the throne passed to his brother.

For Amalric I, his first wife was no longer suitable—not out of ingratitude or disregard for sentiment, but because the King of Jerusalem and the Count of Jaffa and Ascalon were entirely different beings. Meanwhile, the County of Edessa had fallen. The patriarch, ministers, and grand masters of the military orders all urged him to seek a better, more advantageous marriage for Jerusalem.

Amalric I weighed his options carefully—he truly needed a powerful in-law family; the fall of Edessa was a warning. Though many reasons existed… and besides, he had ambitions toward Egypt.

“I’m grateful he agreed to make a deal with the patriarch—keeping Baldwin and Sibylla’s legitimate status and recognizing their inheritance rights. Not to mention he left me Jaffa.”

The countess glanced sideways at Cesar and smiled. “But they find it hard to tell you—what would they say? That my husband cruelly abandoned me? That my mother was forced to give up her children?”

Baldwin took her hand. She squeezed his fingers in return, feigning casualness but actually checking his condition. When she realized Baldwin hadn’t noticed her subtle gesture, her heart sank sharply—but her face showed nothing.

They sat lazily and cheerfully for a while. Baldwin reselected his share of gifts, offering his mother the most precious items. The countess chose only a round brooch, pinning it to her headscarf, then turned to Cesar: “Don’t you have anything to give me?”

Cesar gathered his courage, selected several jewels, and presented them to the countess. She glanced down, picked one brooch, and pinned it beside Baldwin’s gift.

“Look,” she took up a small hand mirror. “What a lovely pair.”

This time, Cesar boldly studied her face. He saw many familiar features—except for her blue eyes, Baldwin and Sibylla had inherited nearly everything from her.

As beautiful as Sibylla was, the countess was equally beautiful. Though time and fate had worn her down, her beauty had not been utterly erased—it had gained a veil of softness, making her appear gentler, more reserved, more worthy of deep contemplation.

“What’s wrong?” the countess noticed his gaze.

“You and Baldwin look so much alike,” Cesar blurted out, then realized his blunder. He hastily added, embarrassed: “No—Baldwin resembles you. Princess Sibylla does too.”

The countess laughed uncontrollably. “Of course, child. They are my blood, my legacy.” She gently lifted Cesar’s face. “You’re a beautiful child, and Baldwin’s good friend. But my joy at seeing you isn’t only because of that.”

She turned Cesar’s face toward Baldwin’s, bringing them close. “Strange,” she said. “You two bear some resemblance.” She studied them again. “Perhaps beautiful people share similar features.”

They passed most of the afternoon this way, until the sky outside turned from gold to deep indigo. “I must go,” the countess said.

“Stay and have dinner with me,” Baldwin pleaded, clutching her robe.

“I’ll remain in Jerusalem until Amalric I’s wedding to the Byzantine princess Maria concludes—that is the Countess of Jaffa’s duty,” she bent to kiss his forehead. “So don’t fear—I’ll come to see you often.”

The countess arrived silently and departed just as silently—and with remarkable swiftness.

“She said she’ll come again,” Cesar felt a pang of longing. The countess was nothing like the noblewomen of the castle; she was like a flower blooming in the Judaean hills, surrounded only by sand, sun, the great lake, and the vast sky—making her appear so proud and unique: “Even if she can’t come, we can go to Jaffa to see her.”

“You’re right,” Baldwin’s eyes lit up. “I’ve received the blessing. I’m no longer a child.”

That night, Cesar and Baldwin slept together—not in their own rooms or on the wheeled bed—but talked endlessly. In truth, by the end they didn’t even remember what they’d said, only that they had never been so happy.

————————

The Countess of Jaffa’s joy with Baldwin was matched only by her distress with Sibylla.

“I told you—this is all men’s doing!” she wiped her face with her palm, complaining to her younger brother Balian.

“This…” Balian found it hard to agree—Godfrey of Bouillon was an untouchable saint in Jerusalem; Baldwin II was a fearless knight-king. But in matters of daughters… it was hard to describe.

Godfrey of Bouillon married his daughter to the rulers of Antioch, Tripoli, and Edessa, hoping that when they died—by illness or battle—his daughter could act as regent for the minor heir—and indeed, he gained two queen mothers.

Godfrey set a bad precedent. Baldwin II followed suit. He had only one daughter, Melisende, and carefully chose her husband, Fulk of Anjou. But on his deathbed, his will stunned everyone—he divided the inheritance into three parts: one for his daughter, one for his grandson, one for his son-in-law… and named Melisende only as regent for Baldwin III, granting Fulk, the boy’s own father, no authority whatsoever!

This wasn’t unreasonable. Fulk and Melisende had only one son at the time. But Fulk had several adult sons from his prior marriage. He feared that after his death, Fulk would seize power as sole king—and banish Melisende and her son, installing his eldest son as heir.

This wasn’t uncommon then. Though male lords in the Holy Land often died young from war or disease, forcing daughters to inherit lands, these daughters rarely exercised power directly. Instead, their husbands gained influence through them.

If lucky, their father’s bloodline endured on the land. If unlucky, they merely served as a dowry for others.

After Baldwin II’s death, Fulk indeed began demanding power. But hindered by Baldwin II’s will and supported by Jerusalem’s ministers and knights, he could not shake Melisende’s authority. Finally, the scoundrel devised a vile scheme: he accused Melisende of adultery with Baldwin II’s cousin—the then Count of Jaffa—to sever church and noble support for her.

Of course, Melisende emerged victorious. She swiftly ended the game with a palace coup. After the church mediated, Melisende supposedly “forgave” her husband and bore him another son—Amalric I. But from then on, Fulk never touched a shred of power again.

Eight years later, he fell from his horse and broke his neck.

Thereafter, Melisende continued ruling, co-governing with her eldest son Baldwin III for thirteen years. Had she not suffered a stroke in 1161, she might have remained active in Jerusalem…

“If Sibylla could become a second Melisende… perhaps that would be a good thing,” Balian ventured cautiously.

“Impossible,” the countess raised her head, her gaze sharp as lightning, making Balian shudder. “Not only has her brother received the blessing, but the Byzantine princess will bear children—girl, boy, girl will share power, boy will monopolize it all. And how can she compare to Melisende? Melisende was raised by Baldwin II as his heir.”

She sneered. “Amalric I himself was never an heir—why would he see his daughter as someone capable of bearing the entire Holy Land? Besides, he has Baldwin. And—” she rubbed her forehead wearily—“I’ve met Melisende. I’ve lived with her. As a mother, she was unfit. She was her eldest son’s enemy, her second son’s jailer. Amalric I would never wish to have a daughter like Melisende.”

“Wait,” she suddenly turned toward a direction. “That child—I think I saw her with Sibylla. Where is she going? The left tower?”

(End of Chapter)