Chapter 51: Worried Baldwin

Damarra wanted to divine something; even if Baldwin didn’t say, the countess could guess seven or eight out of ten.

Melisende was ultimately an exception; most women of this era held no economic or political power—they could not don armor, mount horses, or go to war; they could not enter court to discuss state affairs; even if they entered the Church, they could only become nuns, and every convent’s overseer remained the local bishop—women could not receive holy orders, not even the lowest rank.

Most noble ladies still hoped for a suitable marriage: a young man of equal station, young and strong, humble and courteous, both a valiant knight and a passionate poet, preferably not too crude—especially when drunk.

“What result did Damarra get? Did she tell you, or did she keep it secret?”

“The monk said her glory would last until her final breath.”

The countess hesitated; this might be a favorable omen, but even a noblewoman crowned queen might still face unforeseen turmoil.

Sometimes, for dowry, land, or heirs, men would unhesitatingly abandon their wives—even after years of shared life, even if their children became bastards due to broken betrothals—they didn’t care.

“What about Cesar?”

Baldwin almost laughed at the thought: “I just told you—since the monk required the diviner to be alone with him in the tent, for my safety, Cesar suggested tying him up, leaving only his mouth and eyes visible…”

“Oh, I know,” the countess blinked. “He wasn’t wrong. Ground divination is an ancient art—the diviner stabs the earth with a stick to make odd or even dots; how many, how they’re made, depends entirely on divine favor or the spirit of the earth—though the monk certainly claims the former.”

After stabs, interpretation follows: each unique group of dots represents different words—“man,” “woman,” “small luck,” “great luck,” “loss”—link them together, and you have the client’s answer.

Heraclius had taught this: Cesar saw the stick again, and the monk suffered for it. Worse still, as soon as Baldwin stepped out of the tent, Damarra rushed in—so fast she didn’t even wait for the knights to untie him!

“Not even Cesar?” the countess asked, puzzled. Cesar wasn’t the kind of cruel child.

“He hadn’t even entered the tent,” Baldwin couldn’t help laughing. “The monk was already shouting that even without the stick, he could divine the future of that green-eyed brat—he cursed Cesar: for the next year, his eggs would rot, his wine would turn sour, his sheets would swarm with fleas, his hair with lice, he’d stumble off his horse, twist his ankle dancing, and return from hunting empty-handed…”

“That monk must have been furious,” the countess chuckled. Though one ought to respect monks, this one was too amusing.

But Baldwin immediately added they’d untied the monk and paid him three silver coins for the divination: “Though Cesar took one,” Baldwin said. “He said he’d take it himself to the Church of Saint John the Baptist—no need to trouble the monk.”

When monks charge fees or accept gifts, they always claim it’s for the poor or the church’s donation box—maybe, but more likely it’s swapped for beer, bread, and dried meat…

“Cesar is retaliating,” the countess mused. A touch of childishness is good—but this monk wasn’t ordinary. He claimed to have seen the saint Enoch. Fine. In such a mixed place, few would challenge him. But he instantly spotted Cesar’s weakness—Cesar loved cleanliness.

It’s not that Baldwin and Damarra were dirty; knights would tidy themselves before visiting a noble lady. But Cesar—how to put it? His standards of cleanliness were like a hundred strict laws etched into his mind and body, often acted upon unconsciously.

Even her husband Amalric I would wipe his mouth with his sleeve, rub his nose with his fingers, spit wherever he pleased, and go weeks without bathing—not forbidden, just lacking means or time.

Most knights were the very definition of filthy and greasy.

People of this time didn’t value hygiene much: they drank from the same cup, fished meat from bowls with bare hands, lifted their robes to urinate anywhere, and went long without baths—not forbidden, just impractical.

Fleas in their bedding, lice in their hair—they were old companions, not curses.

She’d only met Cesar two days ago, spent less than an afternoon with the two children, and already wiped her hands ten times, her face three times—Cesar had prepared countless damp linen cloths.

Anyone else, and she’d suspect mockery of Baldwin. But Baldwin and Cesar’s familiarity—so effortless, so natural—Baldwin extended his hand, Cesar wiped it, even between fingers, then handed him a clean cloth; Cesar wiped his own face, even behind his ears.

The countess blushed; she sometimes forgot that spot too.

When she held Baldwin in her arms, though his fingers remained dull, she smelled no leper’s feather-like stench, saw no open sores, only a faint herbal fragrance.

As a mother, she was glad her son was so well cared for—but she wondered: Cesar was said to be a slave of the Ismaelites. Amalric I claimed he’d lost his memory, yet his origins must have been high. What kind of upbringing allowed such natural, lavish use of linen?

But the countess wasn’t Amalric I. Perhaps because of feminine subtlety, she saw Cesar’s care for Baldwin wasn’t superficial, nor calculated. His occasional attitudes—like an elder toward a child—weren’t offensive.

Amalric I viewed Baldwin as his future king, so he saw Cesar as overstepping. The countess still saw Baldwin as a child—she only guessed Cesar might once have had a younger brother or sister, and was simply acting from habit.

“By the way, where’s Cesar?” the countess asked. The two children had always been inseparable.

“Cesar went to work,” Baldwin said listlessly.

The Byzantine princess had arrived at Jaffa; tomorrow she’d enter the city. The king and all nobles would greet her. Heraclius had barely donned the patriarch’s robe before he and the castle steward plunged into a whirlwind of tasks. Even Baldwin’s lessons were suspended—every able body was needed.

Now Amalric I was so busy he’d borrow a cat’s paw if he could. Baldwin had been handed a stack of ledgers—outside a squire’s duties, but his lessons included arithmetic. “I’ll help you,” the countess said. As lady of the castle, managing accounts was mandatory. Baldwin beamed and dragged over a pile of parchment books.

“Cesar was supposed to help me with the ledgers,” Baldwin said, hauling a heavy counting board. “He calculates fast and accurately. But the Templars kept crying shortage of hands.” He gritted his teeth. “That Geoffrey—he’s been finding excuses to send Cesar out ever since they went together once. I know what he’s after—he wants Cesar as his squire.”

“Geoffrey Fuller?” the countess feigned interest. “That’s not bad.”

“Mother!”

“But does Cesar want it?”

“Of course not. He swore to me, and I swore to him—we’re blood brothers. The Templars take vows of chastity. For a man like Cesar, with his looks and character, to have no heir would be a waste. I…” He lowered his voice. “If you hear of anything good, remember to tell me.”

The countess barely held back a smile. Though Baldwin’s age made worrying over a squire’s marriage unremarkable—nobles often sought matches for children still in swaddling—Cesar was nearly Baldwin’s age. Baldwin had even set Cesar’s birthday as February 2nd, same as his own. After February, they’d both be ten.

Men married at fourteen, women at twelve. Even without counting courtship, negotiations could drag years. So though they were children, time flew like a white horse passing a gap. Men could delay slightly, but Cesar had no lineage or backing.

“What kind do you want?” the countess leaned close, whispering, placing a red-stained stone on the counting board—this board was like a flat Chinese abacus; stones were placed, not strung; lines were drawn, not rods—but the calculation was much the same.

“Beautiful!” Baldwin said at once, then frowned. “No, no—just good-looking. I want their children to be my children’s squires. But preferably a wealthy heiress—with land even better. Size doesn’t matter. I trust Cesar—just give him a foothold. Her temperament must be gentle. Cesar’s actually quite stubborn…”

He sighed. “If they quarrel, I’ll always side with Cesar—so be gentle, humble, don’t overvalue lineage or surname.”

Such an heiress would attract dozens of counts and dukes, the countess thought—but she didn’t shatter the boy’s fantasy, especially when he spoke of wanting Cesar’s children as his own squires—she nearly wept.

——————

Cesar had no idea Prince Baldwin had begun seeking a suitable marriage partner for him—even though his mental age far exceeded his physical one.

But even in his former world, he’d barely reached marriageable age. His parents were open-minded, never pressured him. The world was too dazzling, his life too rich—work, study, exercise—each demanded vast time.

Though he’d pledged to be Damarra’s knight, to harbor romantic thoughts toward a child as small as a kitten was either perversion or beastliness.

He couldn’t refuse then—the suggestion came from Damarra’s guardian and mistress, Princess Sibylla, Baldwin’s sister, daughter of King Amalric I. Both had shown Cesar kindness.

Damarra would be mocked—rejected even by a slave-born squire; future suitors would vanish, her marriage prospects ruined.

Even without Abbot John, he couldn’t bear to hurt such a soft little girl.

“Come here, Cesar!” Geoffrey called.

Geoffrey dragging him from the castle wasn’t without reason. His task was inspecting the wooden platforms—tall stages built along both sides of the street, where actors would perform wedding-themed plays when the Byzantine princess entered.

Adam and Eve, Solomon and Sheba, Aquila and Priscilla (a pious biblical couple), Isaac and Rebekah, and so on.

No flowers yet; the platforms were decorated only with paint and ribbons. Before them hung linen or cotton banners, inscribed with biblical exhortations for marital harmony: “Husband and wife are one.”

“He who finds a virtuous wife finds a good thing, and receives favor from heaven.”

“Wives, submit to your husbands; husbands, love your wives as your own bodies. To love your wife is to love yourself.”

…

Some banners carried goodwill; others were malicious—at least the bride would find them offensive.

Like: “Women should remain silent in church.”

This came from a saint’s admonition—the next passage: since they must not speak, they must be submissive, as the law says; if they wish to learn, they may ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for women to speak in church.

Originally, this addressed noisy women in the Corinthian church; the saint meant no harm, only wanted quiet.

Even Cesar, who barely understood this era’s faith, found it jarring.

It was a clear warning to the Byzantine princess: don’t expect to influence Arasal’s politics through pillow talk.

Cesar assumed Geoffrey would demand the banners be removed. Instead, the Templar only chuckled, rubbed his newly grown beard, and turned to Cesar with casual indifference: “Jump on it.”

These platforms were wooden. If they fell to ground, fine. But on narrow streets, they jutted from walls and windows. If supports failed, they’d collapse—embarrassing, and dangerous.

Geoffrey raised his hand and hoisted Cesar up.

Cesar climbed, jumped on the platform, kicking up dust and rolling stones. Geoffrey, no longer covered in grime or choking as he had the first time, stood far off, shouting: “Jump again! Harder!”

Cesar’s face blank, he jumped again.

He thought Geoffrey was teasing him—but this kind of adult teasing, wrapped in legitimate duty, left him no ground to object.

Finally, the Templar seemed satisfied. The crowd, laughing until their sides ached, clearly found this “little saint” adorable. Someone shouted: “Do another!”

But Geoffrey wouldn’t oblige. He stepped beneath the platform, extended his arm. For a moment, Cesar entertained mischief—jump again, perhaps—but his mental age prevailed. He vaulted over the railing. Geoffrey grabbed his foot, casually dropped him to the ground.

“That’s the last one,” Geoffrey said. “That’s Jaffa Gate.”

Cesar saw the Tower of David.

“The Eastern Emperor’s daughter will enter Arasal through this gate,” the Templar sneered. Cesar remembered Baldwin saying Amalric I desperately wanted kinship with Manuel I, but due to faith, claims of sovereignty, and Antioch’s precedent, the Templars deemed such a risky alliance unsuitable for Arasal now.

They couldn’t oppose it—but they’d show no goodwill.

“I’ll tell you something funny. A secret,” Geoffrey said, though his expression betrayed him. Cesar guessed many already knew this “secret.” “The Byzantines wanted to enter through the Golden Gate.” He nodded toward it. “If they came from the east, they’d pass Mount Temple. Their excuse? The Golden Gate’s ancient name was the Beautiful Gate—perfect for their princess. Pah!”

He spat on the ground, then, under Cesar’s disapproving gaze, ground it into the dirt with his boot.

“Of course, the king refused.” He gazed at it. “We all know. The Ismaelite sages prophesied: at the world’s end, the Savior will enter through the Golden Gate to save Arasal. Many still believe it. If their princess enters through it and bears a son, they’ll claim the child is the Savior.”

He looked down at Cesar. “You don’t want your prince to face that, do you?”

Cesar slowly nodded. If Baldwin had no child, he could name his brother heir—he’d support him. But if Baldwin still lived, still king of Arasal, and the Byzantines sought to claim the throne…

“By the way,” Geoffrey suddenly asked, “when Amalric I brought you back, you didn’t come through the Golden Gate, did you?”

(End of Chapter)