Chapter 48: Meeting (Part One)

Cesar and Baldwin could not possibly refuse Damarah’s invitation.

Although Baldwin preferred to stay with his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in ages—after all, future meetings would inevitably draw criticism (since Amalric I’s marriage to the countess was illegal), and perhaps even the king’s rebuke—and Amalric I was already eager to launch a campaign against Egypt to avenge past humiliation, who knew when the army would depart from Arasaluh?

But early this morning, Balian came to inform him that the countess would be visiting Princess Sibylla today, and he should go entertain himself—no matter how much Baldwin longed for his mother, he could not deprive his sister of time with her; he could only… go entertain himself.

He invited Cesar to play chess together, a rare moment of leisure these past months; even chess was played without much thought—until Baldwin reached for the dice and realized the board was nearly filled with pieces.

“This game of Shatranj has turned into a mess,” Baldwin sighed. “If Master Bohemond saw it, he’d pin each of us to the windowsill and beat our backsides with a stick.”

Cesar felt the same—these past few days, Baldwin’s lessons had resumed, and he too finally experienced the true treatment afforded to sons of dukes and counts—namely, being beaten on the buttocks by dukes and counts.

Education in this era knew no tenderness, nor any laws protecting minors.

Even if such laws existed, a child blessed by grace—even if barely nine years old—was regarded as a reserve adult, expected to perform flawlessly in hunting or prayer, with no mistakes allowed, or else it was “an insult to God and the saints’ favor.”

Baldwin was already accustomed to his teachers’ harshness; due to his unusual status, he had not been sent at age seven to another lord’s small castle, but remained at the Holy Cross Castle, while his father’s vassals all sent their own sons to serve as pages.

Yet since the age of six, he had done every task expected of a page—dressing his lord, tidying rooms, running errands, cleaning the castle, raising dogs, feeding pigs—he had done nearly everything except cleaning the latrines. These burdensome chores were not meant to torment him, but to force a child “spoiled by women” to quickly learn obedience and submission.

At seven, he began lessons, taught by familiar faces—he often saw them at his father’s court, and occasionally his father, Amalric I, would even teach a few lessons himself.

What Baldwin regretted most was that the Holy Cross Castle had no lady of the house, so lessons in etiquette, poetry, and dress—normally overseen by a woman—fell to a male instructor.

Sometimes Baldwin couldn’t help imagining: if his parents hadn’t divorced, and Countess Agnes still ruled the castle as lady, how wonderful it would be—even if a young page erred, the lady would still strike his buttocks with a rod, but the feeling would be entirely different!

“My sister and mother must already be having lunch together,” Baldwin said, gazing at the sunlight outside the window. “The castle has been overflowing with food lately; Byzantine merchant ships have brought even more.”

What do you think they’ll eat? Chickpeas, cheese-baked fish, or wine-poached fruit? I wonder if Mother likes Byzantine cuisine—these past days, the castle cooks have studied many dishes using fish and chicken to welcome the Byzantine princess…

He sat cross-legged, watching Cesar gather the chess pieces, imagining how joyfully his mother and sister laughed and chatted, while secretly worrying his mother might forget him—after all, they were women, surely they had more to say.

The prince did not know that, after embraces and tears, the countess had brought up the absurd marriage—immediately, the room’s atmosphere turned icy.

The countess may have been too eager, but it was entirely to make up for the education she had been forced to miss—she left the castle when Sibylla was six and Baldwin three, and Amalric I had refused her request to leave a maid with Sibylla.

She never expected anything from Amalric I; the king had an heir, and he was not Baldwin II.

And reality proved as grim as she feared—Sibylla should never have been so eager about the secret marriage pact between Amalric I and Louis VII, nor should she have incited Agnes to bribe a guide to betray Count Etienne to the Turks.

Sibylla still tried to deny and argue—the countess nearly laughed in fury.

Evidence? Do people lack eyes, ears, or minds? They condemn you in their hearts without uttering a word—but at some point, this hidden threat will explode—no, perhaps not even wait; when she occasionally met Bohemond of Antioch, that fox’s smile was already sly and mocking.

Even if Agnes was disliked by her father, she was still his heir.

Baldwin has leprosy; even if Amalric I must oppose both churches, he must preserve his heir’s rights. Agnes is a fool, but at least she is healthy and whole—would Bohemond be pleased to see her manipulated by a woman?

Even without mentioning Agnes bribing the guide, from the countess’s perspective, Sibylla’s past actions had offended many.

Yes, if a noblewoman is too aloof, people complain she is like Athena or Artemis (both virgin goddesses who swore chastity); but if she chases the sun god like a Koris (sea nymph), what do you think people will say?

Not to mention she clearly displayed two utterly contradictory attitudes.

“Men rarely distinguish right from wrong; they care only for success or failure.

You raised a cold, arrogant shield against David, Agnes, and other noble sons—this was right; their love did not fade, but burned even fiercer, driving them to restless torment.

But you should never have shown your soft underbelly to Count Etienne. Of course, you could say: this marriage was arranged by Amalric I and Louis VII; he will be your future husband, your child’s father; you should be gentle, obedient, and satisfy him.

But, Sibylla, you are not yet betrothed, let alone married; even if Count Etienne did not refuse, would he treat you as a treasure after the wedding?

He obtained you too easily.

You should have been icy—even after marriage—you should have made him chase you, not you chase him!

Now, everyone has seen how you treated Count Etienne; they will demand the same treatment from you. What? Can’t you? Then neither can they—no matter what you demand.

The only fool is perhaps Agnes of Antioch,” the countess concluded angrily. “This is your trump card, yet you wasted it venting your rage… Well, now they won’t call you Koris—they’ll call you Medea…

Medea lost her reason because Eros’s golden arrow pierced her chest; what drove you mad? A countess’s title?”

This remark ended the meeting with Sibylla hurling insults—she declared the countess was no longer lady of the castle, nor his father’s wife, and had no right to teach or rebuke her…

The countess slapped her, knocking her to the ground, then swept out of the room, her skirts swirling in fury.

Baldwin had no idea his mother and sister had utterly broken with each other; he was still happily yet sorrowfully pondering how to evenly divide his mother’s spare time between himself and his sister.

Damarah came to find Cesar; Baldwin figured the castle couldn’t possibly have another Agnes, so he simply called her to his room.

Upon seeing Prince Baldwin, Damarah fell speechless—she had come to warn him: the feud between the countess and Princess Sibylla might become a storm, and she must alert Cesar to be careful—Uncle John said she was Cesar’s protector in the castle!

(Damarah stood tall and proud)

“What’s wrong?” Baldwin waited a long time without hearing a word. “Is there some difficulty? Speak up—what problem can’t you and Cesar solve? If all else fails, I’ll take you to my father; just kneel, hug his knees, cry and beg—whatever you want, the king will give it to you.”

Damarah glanced at Cesar behind Baldwin; Cesar shook his head with the smallest, fastest motion possible.

“I… I want,” Damarah raised a finger, then suddenly had an idea! “I want to go out and buy something!”

Baldwin was momentarily stunned—such a simple request—but then he saw Cesar. “Oh, right,” he smiled. “Cesar will be your knight, of course—it’s his honor. He should accompany you.”

Cesar glanced at Baldwin; Damarah immediately understood and begged Baldwin to join them.

Baldwin, still immersed in the warmth of his mother, sensed nothing amiss; hearing Damarah’s request, he assumed they were shy—or perhaps showing him affection.

He hadn’t left the castle in a long time; he was a leper. Had he not been Amalric I’s sole heir, he would have worn coarse sackcloth and lived in the desert, and whenever he walked near roads or crowds, he would have to ring a bell to warn people to keep their distance.

But now he had received grace… his father’s ministers and generals were eager to kiss his hand—perhaps walking the streets wouldn’t cause panic after all.

“We can dress as Byzantines,” Damarah suggested. “Many Byzantines have arrived lately.”

This idea won Baldwin and Cesar’s approval; among the Byzantine princess’s gifts were many clothes suitable for boys of their age, and as daughter of the current Gerard family, Damarah had received a matching gift. They quickly helped each other dress.

Byzantine clothing followed the ancient Roman loose-garment style; though lavish, the emphasis was on fabric, not cut—styles differed little, even between genders. Inside was a sleeveless or sleeved tunic; outside, a large shawl, often adorned with embroidered cloth and jewels. But since they were children, such details could be ignored.

Damarah also had servants bring three satchels, identical in style to the large handkerchief she had given Cesar.

Her embroidery skills had improved, but no matter how good, they couldn’t match the overwhelming opulence; Baldwin glanced and nearly toppled backward—but a knight could not refuse a noblewoman’s gift; he could only turn his head and whisper to Cesar to pick the least conspicuous one and hang it on his back.

“I’ve been wanting to visit the market,” Baldwin said cheerfully. “I want to pick out a gift for Mother.” Though his storage room overflowed with expensive gifts, he always felt something lacking—what? Perhaps it was sincerity.

Cesar summoned Longinus and asked if he had Byzantine clothes; Longinus laughed. “I do, but no need. That attire isn’t suited for battle. Don’t worry—three young Byzantine nobles followed by knights in leather or chainmail is common. I’ve been hired for such duties before.”

He studied the three glittering children carefully. “Good,” he said. “This disguise reduces the chance of recognition. I’ll dress as usual—it’s better.”

Without a livery, he appeared merely a wandering knight; hiring one implied these three young Byzantines had some status—but not enough to warrant knights from the Order.

With his advice, the other knights assigned to guard them also turned their cloaks inside out. They left the castle; Cesar glanced at the river, then the road, then the sky.

“Is something wrong?” Baldwin asked, turning his head. They hadn’t brought their ponies, Polax or Castor—both would be furious, but it was unavoidable; since Baldwin received grace, Amalric I had gone all out to promote him—even Polax and Castor were said to be angels disguised as merchants who delivered them.

Now everyone in the Holy Land knew Prince Baldwin had two ponies—one black, one white—with stars on their foreheads.

“Do you feel it too?” In the castle, the sensation was faint, but outside, Cesar felt: “The world feels washed clean.” Unnaturally clear and sharp—as if coarse grains had turned to fine brushstrokes, colors far more vivid.

“Otherwise?” Baldwin whispered. He knew Cesar was very clever and had great accumulation, yet often stumbled on common sense. “We’ve received the saints’ favor, God’s grace—our bodies have improved greatly. In a few years, our gap with ordinary people will widen further.” Why else did people value the “Selection Ceremony” so much?

Cesar thought of Count Etienne—he had fallen from a ten-story building. Though guided by a shield, cushioned by bear carcasses, tree roots, and stones, he broke only one thigh bone—he had been surprised then, thinking he’d met a European. Of course, luck played a part—but the luck wasn’t in the fall; it was that Count Etienne, too, was “chosen.”

Even with the same priestly healing, Etienne recovered faster than ordinary knights; while his un-blessed pages still screamed in bed, Etienne was already wandering the castle freely.

——————

“My lord, you shouldn’t come now.”

“You’re wrong,” said a Saracen wrapped in a headscarf. “There is no better time than now.”

(End of Chapter)