Chapter 67: New Member

Baldwin stepped back slightly.

The motion made him seem oddly childlike, for in these three years he and Cesar had grown rapidly, now standing about six feet tall and weighing one hundred forty pounds.

Cesar still worried whether this growth rate was normal, drawing a loud laugh from Heraclius and Amalric I—seeing Cesar ask such childish questions was still amusing.

Heraclius promptly dispelled his doubts, saying that if a child passed the “Rite of Selection” before age fourteen—or even earlier—they would be bathed in the light of heaven, growing stronger and taller, like wheat sprouts under the sun, with visible changes each day.

This was a good thing, yet also not so good: if a child was too young, even after surviving the backlash from “Grace” or “Blessing,” the sudden elongation of bones, swelling of muscles, or even fever from tooth loss could kill them.

Now, when he and Baldwin walked out, they were nearly indistinguishable from adults, though their muscles remained thin—Cesar seemed naturally this way, while Baldwin’s condition was due to the persistent illness still afflicting him.

Amalric I, while deeply anxious, also eagerly awaited the arrival of his second son; the Byzantine princess had married him at fifteen, an ideal age for childbearing, but nothing happened in the first year. By the second year, the king built another chapel to pray for a son, vowing that if a second son arrived, he would erect a church to the Virgin.

Princess Maria thus faced immense pressure: before every conjugal visit with the king, she observed seven to ten days of fasting—though this practice hindered conception, Cesar could not speak against it; before bed, she prayed with the king, and after, she never rose casually, sending only a trusted maid to pray for her, lest she waste the precious seed.

Finally, nine months ago, she was suspected of pregnancy.

Heraclius examined the queen’s urine, confirming its gray-white color and sediment, then used ancient methods—immersing seeds in the urine to see if they sprouted prematurely, or sprinkling it on pregnant animals to observe restlessness—to verify, and the results were, of course, joyous.

The king held a thanksgiving mass, a grand procession, and almsgiving, and requested a priest who had received visions of Saint Joseph (patron of women and families) and a Templar knight who had received visions of Saint Anthony (patron of lost items, the poor, the oppressed, and pregnant women) to come to the Holy Cross Castle, to comfort and protect the fetus and queen.

He even moved the queen’s chambers to the main tower—the former armory—claiming it was quiet and secluded enough to avoid startling the pregnant woman; in truth, everyone knew the king hoped the True Cross’s protection would ensure the queen bore him a healthy son.

Though this era had not yet reached the point of crowds gathering to watch the queen give birth—that would come centuries later—the birthing room was still sealed tightly, windows covered with wooden planks and tapestries, each carefully chosen to depict only saints or geometric patterns, no beasts or knights, lest the pregnant woman suffer hallucinations and the fetus be born deformed from fear.

In this dark, stifling room, only a single small candle was permitted; the air was thick, shadows loomed, and a timid pregnant woman might faint outright.

Yet the floor was covered with the freshest rushes and herbs, guaranteeing a “comfortable environment.”

Fortunately, Princess Maria was strong enough to sit on a chair during labor, without needing maids to support her, and a rope had been specially fastened to the ceiling for her to pull when the pain came.

But all this was relayed by noblewomen; men were forbidden from entering the birthing chamber. The king, Prince Baldwin, Heraclius, Cesar, and all senior ministers waited and prayed in the chapel.

Cesar heard Bohemond discussing the queen’s hips with Raymond—not an act of disrespect, but pure concern for the kingdom’s heir; Bohemond said the queen, though young, had wide hips and strong legs, surely capable of childbirth, but Raymond cited his own case: his wife died in labor with her first child—leaving him a son as sturdy as an ox.

He said youth was an advantage, but experience was rare; a woman who had given birth before would not cause such worry.

Reality seemed to be proving Raymond right: typically, even a first-time mother should deliver within a single day, at most adding a night, yet no good news came from Queen Maria’s chamber.

The Countess of Jaffa entered the chapel with a grave face, her waist bound with the Virgin’s girdle—the queen wore one too, and every noblewoman summoned to supervise and assist in delivery wore one as well—they were called “Sisters of God.”

On the birthing bed lay a parchment girdle, more like a scroll than an ornament, inscribed with prayers for a safe delivery and images related to fertility, said to guarantee the queen’s smooth childbirth.

But these holy relics failed to free the queen from the devil’s torment—the countess requested a fragment of the True Cross for the queen to hold, and the king agreed.

The queen’s labor began at midnight; now it was dawn. The king looked out the window and could wait no longer: “Bring her in. Bring them in too.”

She was a filthy, old woman, carrying a basket and shrinking timidly, a cloth draped over it; yet when the guards inspected it, Cesar saw the scissors and hooks inside—she was the village woman most easily accused of witchcraft, yet sometimes indispensable: when a woman labored in vain and the husband still wanted his wife, she would hook out the fetus—if she couldn’t, she’d cut it to pieces.

Baldwin saw too, and that was when he stepped back; though in these three years they had followed Amalric I through many battles—against the Saracens, the Seljuk Turks, and bandits—the thought that what was being cut might be his brother or sister…

They were criminals.

Queen Maria was moved to the window; once positioned, on the king’s order, servants began beating the criminals with all their strength; under the brightening dawn, their bare backs turned crimson, their cries rising and falling, praying, begging, cursing…

They knew well: if the queen still could not deliver, they would be whipped to death.

“If the queen weren’t a Byzantine princess,” Bohemond gloated, “the whips would be on her.”

And to everyone’s relief, the terrified princess seemed to summon her last strength; as the maids and noblewomen cried out in delight, just as full daylight broke, a baby was born.

But to their disappointment—the True Cross had not prevented the devil from swapping the queen’s son for a daughter at the final moment.

——————

Damara was certain she saw Princess Sibylla smile.

She immediately lowered her head, even breathing softly—since Count Étienne’s departure, that ridiculous betrothal had not been mentioned again, but only forgotten in words, not in hearts; everyone remembered it, occasionally savoring and mocking it, at least as Princess Sibylla believed.

The Countess of Jaffa’s visit and reprimand only added insult to injury; after slapping the princess and leaving, Sibylla wept unusually, refusing proper meals for days. Had this happened before that affair, many youths would have come to comfort her, but those days they all seemed dead.

Oh, not quite: Abigail insisted on visiting the princess, but before Count Étienne safely returned to the Holy Cross Castle, his father sent knights to escort him back to Antioch; it was said his cheeks swelled like a peach steeped in honey, and the two knights treated him abominably, nearly chaining him up.

This situation improved little after Amalric I married Byzantine Princess Maria; these youths seemed to have grown up overnight. They still respected, even warmly attended to, the princess, yet the subtle distance was palpable—even to simple Damara, especially after Queen Maria’s pregnancy was confirmed.

Damara’s father had explained to her: if Queen Maria failed to bear a son, the succession to Arasal would inevitably fall to Princess Sibylla or her descendants; and if one became the princess’s husband, as Bohemond once hoped, one could at least co-rule Arasal—or even replace her.

But if Queen Maria bore Amalric I a second son? No need to think further: Baldwin could directly pass the throne to his younger brother; this was not unprecedented in Arasal, and Princess Sibylla’s claim would be delayed—if her brother married soon and had children, the chance of using her to seize Arasal would vanish entirely.

When word came that Queen Maria had given birth to a princess, not a prince, Sibylla’s smile was genuine; she turned to her maids—had she not suffered humiliation from Count Étienne, she nearly would have shared her joy with them!

And as she expected, soon after, the king sent word summoning her to the chapel to pray with everyone for the newborn.

——————

Baldwin’s gaze was almost reverent… though silent, Cesar could tell he was silently begging the saints for protection—yes, for himself; on the battlefield facing five fierce enemies, he never trembled, yet before a swaddled infant, he was unsteady, on the verge of collapse.

Cesar had to support him; if the Prince of Arasal, future king, fainted from excitement at seeing his sister for the first time, people would gossip about it for years.

He looked down at the infant, wrapped in layers of pure white linen from chin to toes; people believed newborn bones were soft, and if not bound this way, the child would grow into a dwarf or monster—he had seen many infants during his training, and this one would grow to resemble Baldwin…

She inherited many traits from Amalric I, but the most important one she did not: the king made no effort to hide his disdain for this daughter; he even ordered the infant brought to Baldwin for viewing, yet even though Baldwin’s illness had been well controlled these three years, such indifference—already he had begun discussing crusade plans with Bohemond and Raymond.

Cesar understood the king’s displeasure: they had firmly decided to launch the campaign in September, avoiding the scorching summer and bitter winter; this expedition might last years.

That meant Amalric I could not share a bed with Princess Maria for those years, nor conceive another child; this daughter was entirely outside his expectations.

Baldwin was overjoyed, yet still dared not touch or approach his little sister: “Hold her for me.”

Cesar took the princess in his arms; Baldwin leaned against his arm and stared for a long while.

“Father,” he asked eagerly, “have you named her?”

Amalric I had prepared a son’s name; for a daughter… “Isabella.”

Isabella derives from Hebrew, meaning “God’s vow” or “sacred promise.”

Had it not been for the impending crusade—this name would have been dignified and elegant; but now, one could not help but wonder what this “vow” and “promise” truly meant.

Baldwin sensed it too; on the way back to the left tower, he sighed and complained to Cesar that Amalric I’s attitude was far too cold; even if the king had longed for a son, he was still young, and he and Queen Maria would have many more children.

On this point, Cesar truly had no comfort to offer.

“You don’t need to stay with me,” Baldwin said. “Go sleep. You haven’t slept all day.”

Though he said so, when Cesar returned to his room, he drank a cup of coffee to dispel his faint drowsiness, then summoned a page to check whether Damara was asleep or awake—if awake, whether she wished to join him at the market.

Due to provisions and arms preparations, the weekly market had become twice weekly, and even on non-market days, merchants entered to trade goods; as long as they were discreet, the overseers turned a blind eye.

Cesar had never missed a market, but always under the pretext of accompanying Damara; as a result, a full layer of gold coins had vanished from his chest; Damara was not greedy, but Cesar never let anyone work for free.

That day he left the castle again, returning to his room only after Prime (two to three in the afternoon).

He had barely shut the door, hadn’t even reached the window to lift the blackout tapestry, when he heard a soft cough: “What did you buy?”

Cesar’s hand slipped; the large bundle hidden beneath his cloak fell to the floor.

(To be continued)

(End of chapter)