Chapter 87: Storming the City! (7)

Baldwin raised his hand and slapped it hard against his forehead—only a teenager, free from economic or social constraints and still in the prime of carefree youth, would make such a gesture, and Richard was entirely to blame.

They were merely exhausted, not mortally wounded; after being rescued, they simply slept a full night and received treatment from the priests, then immediately bounced back to full vigor.

Cesar woke up half a day later than they did, but even that half-day was enough for Richard to make Baldwin sincerely believe that his father Henry II must have committed countless sins to sire such a son—no, his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine must have sinned just as deeply.

Though from our perspective Richard clearly loved his mother, Baldwin never imagined Richard had twice proposed arranging a marriage for Cesar—and meant his own mother.

“Eleanor?” At the name, Baldwin involuntarily widened his eyes, then recalled it might be Richard’s sister, Eleanor, the sixth daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II, born in 62—age-wise, that would fit.

“But my sister has no lands,” Richard said honestly. “I mean Eleanor of Aquitaine—my mother.”

Baldwin was momentarily speechless. He stared, mouth agape, then finally managed, “Are you planning to petition the Pope to annul your mother’s marriage to your father Henry II?”

This was no small matter—it concerned not only the vast territories of Aquitaine but also the legitimacy of the children Eleanor bore after marrying Henry II; if the marriage were declared invalid, all those children—including Richard—would become bastards.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But you just said—”

“My father is very old. He won’t live much longer.”

“It’s not about whether he lives or dies!” Baldwin shouted.

Even if Henry II died, as his widow, Queen of England, and Duchess of Aquitaine, she could never surrender herself to some ordinary young knight.

Perhaps Constance of Antioch (Bohemond’s mother) could—but that was because the Holy Land’s sacred kingdoms had unique customs. Even so, after Bohemond came of age, Constance lost the support of her knights, forfeited her power, and was banished by her own son to some remote convent, where she spent her final years alone and wretched.

If Cesar were truly his brother, there might be some chance—after all, he and Richard still shared a damned blood tie, and a close one at that.

His grandfather Fulk V had a son from a prior marriage: Geoffrey, nicknamed “the Fair” or “Plantagenet,” who acquired the English throne through marriage; his eldest son, Henry II “the Short Cloak,” was Richard’s father. That meant they shared a common ancestor—Baldwin was, in fact, Richard’s cousin-uncle…

But the problem was, Cesar was not—he began far lower than most knights. To marry Eleanor, a great lord, he’d need to carve out his own kingdom with his sword after Baldwin’s coronation.

Even then, the English and French would unite to crush this lucky man over the question of Aquitaine’s ownership.

To put it simply, how vast were the lands of Aquitaine? One-third of France—far exceeding the direct holdings of Louis VII, the current King of France. Eleanor had already married Henry II and borne him multiple children; Richard had only recently been confirmed as Duke of Aquitaine.

That meant, after Eleanor’s death, he would become master of these lands—so what was this sudden claim of a new husband for Eleanor?

In the face of such critical issues, the age gap between Eleanor and Cesar ceased to matter.

Honestly, if Cesar could truly gain Aquitaine through this marriage, Baldwin would wholeheartedly support it—but it was impossible.

“Then what will you do?”

“I’ve always wanted to renounce my lands and join a knightly order—the Templars or the Hospitallers, or even your father’s Order of the Holy Sepulchre,” Richard declared boldly.

“I’d rather be a knight than a king. I’d rather fight for Christ than for my father or any monarch. I want to devote myself to this holy and noble cause—I’d rather die on the battlefield like King Arthur than on a bed, the fate of common men.”

He thought his plan was excellent: “When my father dies, my elder brother will inherit his kingdom, and my mother—she needs a young, strong, loyal, and valiant knight to guard her.”

He waved his hand. “I only accepted the title of Duke of Aquitaine to help my mother hold onto her lands. My father has always coveted her dowry, always scheming.”

“Cesar is so young,” he said bluntly. “If he marries my mother, he’ll rely entirely on her past prestige and the people’s affection for her.”

He must build his own authority only after my mother’s death—by then, he should have established solid ties with Aquitaine’s nobles and subjects, and smoothly assume power.

Then I won’t have to worry about my mother, sisters, or brothers anymore—and Cesar is so beautiful. Even if he and my mother have no children, simply gazing upon him daily would bring her joy and radiance for the rest of her life.”

Baldwin… Baldwin was stunned.

He could only warn Richard: if he dared tell anyone else this idea, he would immediately go to Amalric I, have him bound, and ship him off to Rafah or Jaffa, straight back to London, where his father would deal with him.

Richard could only sulk and fall silent. “This plan is entirely feasible,” he muttered. “Don’t you trust your own brother? And if he faces danger in Aquitaine, I’ll lead an army to aid him.”

Before entering the tent, he had been desperately trying to persuade Baldwin—and finally revealed his shameful true intent.

He meant that after this battle, there would be no major wars left here; why should Cesar waste his youth idly staying behind?

He could first take Cesar back to London or Aquitaine. His mother had been imprisoned by their father, but that didn’t matter—he believed that with him and Cesar, they could quickly gather an army.

Or he could even secure Louis VII’s help—after all, the fellow had always wanted to trouble his father. If he hid his final goal well, perhaps things might proceed unusually smoothly?

As for when to return Cesar? Only during the next Crusade—then he and Cesar would come together to Arasal, leading their armies.

“And then go back together after the fighting’s done, right?” Baldwin couldn’t help mocking him.

“If I can conquer a territory, I’ll stay here,” Richard said eagerly. “Cesar can return, then come back next Crusade to meet us again—how wonderful, Baldwin! Perhaps one day we’ll become Saint Baldwin, Saint Richard, and Saint Cesar!”

What could Baldwin do after such a blow?

But out of filial consideration for his father, he did not repeat these outrageous words to Amalric I, who still foolishly believed that having such a heroic, noble young man as Richard was a great joy.

He praised Richard’s courage and piety, thanked him for helping Baldwin, but also subtly reminded him not to let his father and mother worry so much—he said he had already written to Henry II, lavishly praising his outstanding son, and had requested his forgiveness for Richard’s earlier offenses.

Whether Richard wanted this forgiveness was another matter; before Amalric I, he behaved with remarkable grace, humility, and restraint—he did not mention his plan to marry his mother Eleanor to Cesar.

Amalric I had vaguely heard Richard was seeking a marriage for Cesar, but paid it no mind—since Cesar gained status, many had come to propose matches; some asked Baldwin, others asked him.

Any normal person would assume Richard meant one of his mother’s maids, a minor noble’s younger daughter, or perhaps a youngest daughter—Amalric I never once considered Richard’s own sister. How could that be?

To Amalric I, Cesar’s future wife should be a woman from some remote Frankish land far from Arasal, so he wouldn’t gain more power or supporters in the Holy Land. His surname and lineage didn’t matter—but he must be rich, extremely rich—enough to ensure that when Cesar received a fief and began developing it, he’d never lack funds.

He knew Baldwin’s nature: he’d stubbornly reject those who had abandoned him, but if a friend he approved of was in trouble, he’d unhesitatingly give everything he had.

Heraclius had similar expectations for Cesar’s future as Amalric I, but focused more on high ranks within the knightly orders and neighboring vassals—the former might not care about Cesar’s past, the latter might provide him with a steady dowry: a fief.

Hearing Richard’s words, Heraclius laughed. He didn’t believe Richard could truly secure a good match for Cesar—but what kind of man was Richard?

Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou.

Baldwin, though blessed by God and thus safe from rivals using his illness against him at his coronation, would be helpless if he died before thirty—what then for Cesar? Though he was now Archbishop of Arasal, he knew his position came from Amalric I—just as Cesar’s came from Baldwin. Lose those two supports, and their enemies would pounce with claws and fangs.

Unless they could establish an unshakable foundation beforehand—but it was too hard.

Yet if Cesar gained Richard’s favor, he believed Cesar could also find a place in Aquitaine’s court—and thirty was the prime age for knights: young, strong, experienced. Even Heraclius had a fallback: Arasal was holy, but it couldn’t compare to sun-drenched southern Frankland—for retirement.

Before Richard revealed his true name, Cesar had risen from his cot; his clothes had been changed by the monks, his body washed. He tested himself—he felt no lingering ache, pain, or fatigue, as if they’d never existed. He bowed again to Richard and accepted his gift—Richard simply plucked the gold cross from his own neck and hung it around Cesar’s.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Not long. It’s evening of the next day,” Baldwin said. “We won decisively.” Here, even he couldn’t suppress his excitement: “Laude Island is ours now—but the Saracens in Fustat, seeing defeat was inevitable, immediately burned the drawbridge and the wooden bridge beneath it—”

“You’re right,” Richard added. “We’d already reached the highest point of the fortress, and there were too many enemies—we didn’t see it. The Saracens had indeed prepared boats upstream; the second wave of knights crossing the bridge were ambushed. But someone remembered your warning—the knights stayed alert, so they suffered no losses.”

“How are our men?”

At this, Baldwin’s joy deepened: “No deaths. Even the two who fell from the bridge only broke a few ribs. During the battle inside the fortress, we blocked the Saracen reinforcements coming from the drawbridge, and my father’s knights held off those coming from the wooden bridge on the right flank. They fought hard, but it wasn’t too bad.”

“What about the King’s side…?”

“The Royal Gate and Victory Gate—neither made much progress,” Richard said. Though he didn’t say it outright, his expression made clear the situation at Fustat was grim. “Too many fools, and Fustat is truly a great city… but at least we won here.”

Otherwise, repeated setbacks early on might have bred fear and retreat. Amalric I knew well: without his own army and knights, he could never fully encircle Fustat.

“My lord!”

Just as Richard was about to complain further, a messenger entered, holding the King’s decree. With solemn face, he delivered the King’s order to Baldwin and Richard.

“A Saracen reinforcement force of about five hundred has arrived from Giza,” he handed the decree to Richard. “The King commands you to select from his reserve troops the knights you deem suitable to intercept them.”

(End of Chapter)