Chapter 96: The Death of the King (4)

Cesar had been guarding Baldwin’s side all along; when he heard Amalric I’s summons, Baldwin immediately pushed his hand, signaling for him to leave at once.

Amalric I shared a tent with Baldwin. This was Amalric I’s own demand, just as he insisted on setting up the tent here—at a distance within a single cavalry charge of the Saracen forces—next to the tent where negotiations were being held.

He refused to appear before the Saracens because he could neither sit upright nor stand for long—but he clung steadfastly to his duty as Lord of the Holy Land, refusing to abandon the obligations of the King of Jerusalem even as he lay dying.

Beyond his duty to the Lord, Amalric I also worried for his son; he knew his wounds were beyond recovery, that even if he could cling to life for a while longer, he could no longer bear the burden of commanding the Crusaders.

He was not without regret—Amalric I had believed he still had at least ten or twenty years left. During that time, he could have trained Baldwin into a worthy heir; even if Baldwin, stricken with leprosy, could not sire an heir through marriage, he could still pass the throne to his half-brother, ensuring his bloodline remained upon the throne of Jerusalem, forever glorious, forever great…

But he had not anticipated that the Byzantine princess would bear him only a daughter, not a son—and that he could never return to Jerusalem, meaning Baldwin would inherit his crown and become the new Queen of Jerusalem, with his only possible heir being the son of his sister, Princess Sibylla.

He had little confidence in this daughter. True, she possessed ambitions beyond those of any ordinary noblewoman—perhaps because she had witnessed too many of her female elders’ “achievements”—she yearned to become a true ruler who could manipulate court and war alike, not merely a decorative figure or puppet.

But as people had once feared, one who could not wield a sword could not become King of Jerusalem—and a woman could not, even less so. No matter how wise or decisive she might be, she would ultimately have to transfer power to her husband, unless she received divine blessing, the saints’ favor, and rode into battle with knights.

If her husband could pass power to their child—this outcome might not be the worst—but if they had no children, or if her husband already had a child from a prior marriage, or if he suddenly grew weary of being a queen’s husband rather than a true king…

What troubled Amalric I most was that his sole heir, Baldwin, still harbored illusions about his sister Sibylla; yet conversely, Sibylla—since she had unhesitatingly accepted that marriage—Etienne, Count of Jaffa, was over twenty years her senior!—remained indifferent, even delighted—the king knew Sibylla might love her brother, but that affection clearly paled beside her ambition.

He also knew Sibylla had once suggested to Baldwin the idea of “accidents.” At the time, he had disliked Cesar and had not opposed it, even found it somewhat feasible; but now he wondered—if he had truly allowed Sibylla to proceed… was she truly acting for Baldwin’s sake?

Or did she prefer to make Baldwin a true solitary?

“Come closer,” he said to Cesar: “child.”

The king had allowed Heraclius to administer many drugs to numb his body and ease his pain; he knew this would accelerate his body’s decay and hasten death. But what did it matter if he could delay it by a few days, a few months? He preferred to remain lucid in his final moments, to leave a sliver of hope for Baldwin, for his family, for Jerusalem.

He gazed at the black-haired boy; even after the brutal battle and the ravages of fire, he remained radiant, captivating, and the faint sorrow in his brow stirred deep tenderness—Amalric I now fully understood Abigail’s jealousy of Cesar.

If Cesar were the son of a duke, no—even if he were merely the son of a count—Abigail would not have hated him so.

Precisely because he was of low birth yet possessed beauty and character beyond the reach of David, Abigail, or even Baldwin, did his presence stir unquenchable malice.

The king had once thought this a good thing; but now, he could not help feeling profound regret, even remorse—if only he had arranged a noble birth for Cesar before, made him the son of a knight, he could have granted him a castle!

Baldwin would not then have been left utterly isolated at court…

The king closed his eyes slightly, setting aside this useless emotion: “How many days have you and Baldwin fasted?”

Cesar paused slightly, then immediately understood the king’s intent; after all, Heraclius had already warned him that if he and Baldwin earned a distinguished merit in this campaign, the king could use that merit to hold the “Sword-Bestowing Ceremony” early and formally elevate them to knighthood.

Before Sharwal’s plot was exposed, Cesar had assumed the king would hold the ceremony in Fustat; later, Heraclius told him the king still wished to complete this important rite at the Holy Cross Castle in Jerusalem—after all, this was still infidel land, and even though it had become Christian, converting Saracen temples into Christian churches would take time.

According to tradition, the fasting period ranged from three days to a week. But now Amalric I could no longer be certain he had time to wait so long; by asking Cesar this before several knights, he clearly intended to shorten the process as much as possible.

Cesar did not hesitate at all, answering immediately: “A week. We have fasted for a week.”

Amalric I smiled. He knew Cesar would not disappoint him.

“Then, tomorrow,” the king said weakly: “when Heraclius returns, tell him…”

The knights beside him could not hide their astonishment. Not only was Amalric I’s condition dire, but there was no Christian church here… where were these two young squires supposed to pray and receive blessing?

But since the Patriarch of Jerusalem was present, such concerns were unnecessary.

When Heraclius returned and heard Cesar’s message, he immediately set about organizing it with decisive efficiency: they erected a new tent, larger than Amalric I’s current one, for the “Sword-Bestowing Ceremony” would surely draw many witnesses.

The king’s urgency was justified.

Baldwin was fourteen, at a very delicate age; by years, he was an adult, yet not yet old enough to command full respect; but if knighted, doubts and contempt toward him would diminish greatly.

After all, the prototype of the knighthood ceremony was the ancient Germanic rite of passage.

When a Germanic man was deemed ready to bear the duties and rights of an adult, he would receive shield and spear before all fully armed warriors; after the rite, he was recognized as a warrior and full member of the tribe.

Even after the Germanic peoples converted to Christianity, this custom endured. For instance, Charlemagne’s eldest son received his sword from his father before he turned thirteen.

Though Amalric I’s condition was now critical, neither Heraclius nor anyone else could persuade him to return to his tent and quietly receive treatment and rest—whether for the king, the prince, or Jerusalem, they must complete this ceremony as soon as possible.

As the two principal witnesses, Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, and Raymond, Count of Tripoli, both learned of the news. Compared to the ever-unpredictable Bohemond, Raymond’s reaction was especially strong.

Amalric I suspected him.

In the court of Jerusalem, no one was more suited to serve as Baldwin’s regent; by doing this, was the king not saying he did not trust Raymond to faithfully assist Baldwin? Worse still, he believed Raymond would seize Baldwin’s power during the regency—so even as he neared death, he must hasten Baldwin’s knighthood to prevent being held hostage by him.

He nearly stormed out of the tent to argue with Amalric I—but as soon as he stepped out, he halted. What could he say? Not only was Amalric I still his sovereign, but even if he went and pleaded his innocence, it would not awaken Amalric I’s mercy or remorse; instead, it would only confirm Amalric I’s suspicion that he harbored ulterior motives.

He forced himself to turn back, suppressing his boiling emotions.

On his way back, he suddenly saw a stone. He could not say what drove him—he walked over, lifted it, then instantly replaced it, moving so swiftly he could barely be sure he had seen whether anything lived beneath—like a worm or a snake.

His heart pounded. Even as he kept telling himself he did not mean to divine the king’s fate.

This was a divination method widely practiced here and now. When a man lay dying of illness, his friends and kin would step outside and randomly turn over a stone.

If life stirred beneath—the worm, the snake, the frog, the toad—any living creature meant the man would survive; if nothing moved, death was certain.

Raymond knew he should not do this. He had walked away, yet turned back without warning, trembling as he lifted the stone.

Beneath the stone, there was nothing.

————

In the new tent, a cross was soon erected, embedded with fragments of the True Cross. The king had brought it, originally intending to use it to rally morale during a stalemate in the siege; he had not anticipated Sharwal’s alternative path, so it remained unused.

Now it stood inside the tent, before a makeshift altar constructed from trunks.

Even so, it was the holy dwelling of God on earth. Any Christian who passed this tent or even saw it would make the sign of the cross over his chest.

Cesar and Baldwin were brought into the tent; they had already bathed and prayed—this was a great trial for Baldwin, who had exhausted himself in battle and burned his hands trying to rescue his father; pain and fire had battered his body, his lips pale gray, his cheeks flushed crimson.

He held Cesar’s hand, and all could see he leaned most of his weight upon his companion—the patriarch’s clerics, seeing this, quickened their recitation of scripture.

The two youths had changed into white tunics and donned red cloaks; the white tunic symbolized purity, the red cloak signified they would fight and bleed for Christ.

On the temporary altar lay a layer of pure white linen, upon which rested a spear, two shields, and a longsword—their weapons and armor, the vital tools with which they would destroy enemies and defend themselves on the battlefield.

Placed here, they were both a plea for divine and saintly blessing, and a sacred pledge of their faith.

They were to spend the entire night in worship and prayer before the altar; at dawn, the bishop would come to conduct Mass for them.

That night was unbearably long, longer even than the night of the “Selection Ceremony”; or rather, on the night of the “Selection Ceremony,” they had been filled with anticipation—now, they were filled with sorrow.

Early the next morning, Heraclius hurriedly performed Mass for them.

Amalric I no longer lay upon his couch; he insisted on walking from his own tent into this sacred place.

The witnesses had all arrived: Raymond, Count of Tripoli; Bohemond, Prince of Antioch; Balian of Ibelin; Joscelin of Turbessel… and the Grand Masters and Archdeacons of the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller, along with other key figures of the Crusader host…

They watched the two youths kneel before the king—of course, one after the other, but the king could not endure such a long ceremony; this special honor stirred rare displeasure in Bohemond. To be knighted by the king was one thing, but to stand shoulder to shoulder with the prince—hmm, his own son would one day be knighted by Baldwin; the thought was deeply unpleasant.

Raymond, ever obsessed with status, stood blankly, lost in thought.

Until a single word suddenly struck his ear—he jolted awake, snapping out of his reverie.

Raymond turned around, but the speaker was already gone; yet he had not misheard.

The man had said: “Will.”

(End of Chapter)