Chapter 97: The Death of the King (5)

Before mighty foes, fear not! With piety and loyalty, give thanks to God! With humility and integrity, never lie! Protect the weak, defend justice!

This is your oath—remember it well!

Amalric I spoke in a low, awe-inspiring voice.

I will show mercy to the weak, courage against the strong, relentless opposition to sinners. I will fight for those who cannot fight, aid those who need my help, remain faithful to my friends, lend aid to women and children, treat every knight generously, and fulfill every vow I make without compromise.

Baldwin stood before, Cesar behind; they swore this oath and received the king’s approving nod: “Good.” He extended his hand, and a knight beside him handed him a longsword.

When the two youths knelt side by side before Amalric I, the nobles invited as witnesses could not help but exchange strange glances.

Though this practice was meant to accommodate Amalric I’s frail condition—the king likely lacked the strength or time to hold two separate sword-bestowing ceremonies—in most people’s minds, he needed only to hold one grand ceremony for his only son. Why add this lowly squire?

If he truly wished to elevate this squire to knighthood, he could have entrusted the task to Baldwin. After all, by custom, any knight qualified to bestow knighthood upon another.

And this would have been more advantageous for Baldwin. For if a knight receives his weapon from another’s hand, he owes that man eternal gratitude, must fight for him, and pledge loyalty—unless he ceases to be a knight.

By doing this, is Amalric I not stripping his son of rights he might otherwise have claimed?

Could this black-haired youth be Amalric I’s illegitimate son?

Those who entertained such thoughts could not help but churn with more unspeakable, foul ideas—though men like Richard, noble in birth yet valuing character and virtue over lineage and surname, remained rare.

More still, upon learning that Baldwin’s squire had no noble birth—indeed, the opposite: he was a slave of an Isaac merchant, spared only by Amalric I’s mercy and favored by Baldwin—began to scheme.

Not all of them harbored the Church-condemned vices, yet such a beautiful youth, if brought back to their castles or courts—even as a mere ornament offered to lord or king—could earn them envy, even advancement.

So when Amalric I commanded Baldwin and Cesar to kneel before him, these men felt a pang of regret.

In the sword-bestowing ceremony, a binding, irrevocable covenant is formed. Had a common knight conferred knighthood upon Cesar, they might yet persuade him to leave perilous Arasal for the warmth of Apennine or the wealth of Francia.

But if he is knighted by Amalric I, he can never leave Arasal.

Amalric I knew full well what they were thinking—since they first laid eyes on Cesar, no few had begged or bargained for the boy.

A faint smile touched his lips. Cesar was a jewel, and this jewel had long been seized and set upon the crown of Arasal—a crown destined to rest upon his son’s head.

He looked down at the two boys, raised his hand, and struck each one across the face. This act warned the young men-to-be: do not grow arrogant, do not forget humility and obedience.

Then he took the sword offered by the knight and tapped each on the shoulder—first Baldwin, then Cesar.

As he tapped Cesar’s shoulder, whether from sudden weakness or deliberate intent, the blade came too close to Cesar’s temple and ear. It sheared off a lock of hair and carved a long, bloody gash. Though the skin did not split open, blood quickly coalesced into a string of beads, trickling down Cesar’s ear and neck.

Fortunately, Berion of Ibelin and Humphrey of Toron had been assigned to dress the boys. Due to the countess of Jaffa’s favor, Berion had always been kind to Cesar. At once, he signaled to Humphrey beside him; they stepped forward swiftly and slipped the gleaming chainmail over the two youths.

In the motion, Berion used the inner lining of his sleeve to wipe away the blood beads—luckily, the wound was not severe. By the time they fastened the sword belts and strapped on the spurs, the bleeding had stopped.

Yet it was an ill omen. Baldwin glanced anxiously at Cesar; Cesar shook his head, signaling he was unharmed.

Next came the most crucial part of the ceremony: the newly knighted must seize their weapons and shields, mount their horses, and strike down the prepared dummy target. The watching knights would cheer them on.

Of course, only if they succeeded. Some new knights, panicked or unskilled, turned this final step into a farce.

For Cesar and Baldwin, it was no challenge. Light as birds, they leapt onto their mounts—Black Polax and White Castor—under the bright morning sun, and with one blow sent the leather-stuffed straw dummy flying far away.

The watching knights erupted in cheers. The king watched the two youths, like the rising sun, and his heart swelled with joy.

When they turned their horses back, he extended his hand to Baldwin, who immediately stepped to his father’s side. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he extended his other hand to Cesar.

Baldwin’s mother, the countess of Jaffa, had done the same—but a countess and a king, even performing the same gesture, carried utterly different meanings, especially at such a sensitive moment.

“Why not come forward?” Amalric I asked gently. “My knight of Bethlehem?”

At Amalric I’s words, all present turned pale with shock, a murmur rippling through the crowd—even Baldwin stared in disbelief at his father. Heraclius frowned deeply; Amalric I had never mentioned he would grant Cesar a fief, let alone Bethlehem.

His best hope had been merely a small parcel of land in newly conquered territory.

But that hope was now impossible: Mestart still burned like a hellfire, and Bilebes stood isolated. They could only return to Arasal.

Thus, in Heraclius’s mind, if Cesar was merely knighted by Amalric I, even without land, it would suffice.

In Francia or Apennine, a knight granted knighthood was expected to receive a fief—even if only a mill or a farmstead. But such law or custom was rarely enforced in Arasal and surrounding Christian lands.

For nearly all land here had been seized by Christian knights from the Saracens; today it might be in Christian hands, tomorrow in theirs. Thus, a knight who pledged loyalty to king or lord might never receive a fief.

Inspired by the Saracens, Crusader commanders thus paid their knights in coin—the so-called “gold fief.”

Amalric I paid his knights roughly nine hundred to a thousand gold coins annually.

Heraclius had no great ambition here. He thought even five hundred gold coins a year would suffice—if Cesar remained by Baldwin’s side, he would never lack. Baldwin treated his brother as he treated Cesar.

He would even gladly share everything with Cesar.

But he never imagined the king would grant Cesar a fief—especially Bethlehem!

Bethlehem was but a small city in the lower right corner of Arasal, perhaps one-tenth the size of the Holy Land, with only a few thousand people. Yet its sanctity rivaled Arasal’s own, for Jesus Christ and King David were both born here.

Centuries before Christ’s birth, the prophet Micah foretold: the Savior would be born in Bethlehem. And so it came to pass: Jesus was born in a manger within a cave beneath Bethlehem. Shepherds in the fields saw angels descend, announcing the Savior’s birth. Following the angels’ guidance, they found the newborn Christ and rejoiced, spreading the news far and wide.

Three Magi from the East came to Herod, telling him they had seen signs in the stars of the Savior’s birth and wished to pay homage. Herod grew uneasy, sent them to find the child, and ordered them to return and report. The Magi went, paid homage to Christ, but angels warned them not to return—and so they did not.

Herod, feeling deceived and fearing the prophecy, ordered the slaughter of all male infants under two years old in Bethlehem.

But before this, Joseph, Christ’s foster father, had been warned by an angel and fled with Mary and the infant to Egypt.

In Bethlehem stood the Church of the Nativity—the very “Christmas Church” the king had mentioned during the “Selection Ceremony.” Its sanctity rivaled that of the Holy Sepulchre. Bethlehem also held Rachel’s Tomb, the Massacre of the Innocents, and the Milk Grotto where Christ once hid.

For Christians, Bethlehem’s importance needed no explanation. No king of Arasal had ever granted it to any knight or noble.

Some immediately moved to speak in protest—but when they met the king’s cold blue eyes, their courage vanished.

Berion nudged Cesar. Amalric I had always been stubborn; now, in his dying state, he was utterly unyielding. To beg a dying man to change his mind was like pleading with a stone to open its heart.

Besides, this was nearly the king’s final testament.

Christians held a peculiar view of wills: they did not avoid them, but established and revised them early—perhaps because death came so easily: war, murder, disease, even a simple fall could claim a life.

Thus, Christians made wills before illness, childbirth, travel, pilgrimage, battle, or hunting—and revised them often.

Clergy strongly encouraged this. They taught that if a man died without a will, causing disputes, resentment, or even new deaths among heirs, it was a grave sin—one that could bar him from burial and deny him entry to heaven.

Therefore, a devout believer would not wait until his final breath to gather family at his bedside. He would make his will while still healthy and clear-minded—partly to avoid the confusion and incoherence that often came with age or illness.

People agreed: the best time to make a will was while healthy and alert. Sometimes notaries demanded the testator cross a stream or ditch unaided, or stand upright under his own power, to prove his mental fitness.

If a man lay ill long or suffered sudden injury and wished to make a will, he must summon all kin and witnesses to his home, sit upright in a chair—not in bed—and answer questions clearly, to prove he was still sound of mind, ensuring the will’s validity.

A common man must be so careful—how much more so a king? Especially after churchmen had once tried to deceive Godfrey into surrendering Arasal on his deathbed—Amalric I must ensure his will would not be twisted or altered.

Was this not the perfect moment?

The noblest, most illustrious, most pious knights and lords stood here—over a hundred witnesses—who had seen Amalric I knight his only son and his companion, and now heard every word he spoke.

“I am blessed by God,” the king placed his hands on the two youths’ shoulders; suddenly, vitality flooded his face, his voice rang clear as a bell: “Though tested in the fires of hell, I remain—clear of mind, firm of will.”

“My lords, I speak now with my own thoughts, not under the influence of others or the Devil…”

Silence fell. Some stood outside the tent, others within, all listening in stillness to Amalric I’s final words.

Amalric I continued: “I make my will—or rather, my final wish…”

He first spoke of his wealth, dividing it into six parts: one to the Holy Sepulchre and the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre; one to the Church of Arasal; one to the Templars and Hospitallers; one to his only son Baldwin; one to Byzantine Princess Maria and his two daughters; the last to all the poor of Arasal—men and women, Isaacites, Christians, or Saracens.

He then granted Arasal and the Holy Cross Castle to Baldwin, demanded he kneel before him, and swear never to betray the divine burden or the saints’ favor. Then he summoned the Grand Prior of the Holy Sepulchre Knights and permitted him, with the Grand Master, to elect a new Grand Master.

But all knew the new Grand Master would be Baldwin. If Baldwin were unworthy, fine—but since he still bore the strength to lead Crusaders against the Saracens, no one would choose another.

Finally, Amalric I’s gaze lingered on Raymond, Bohemond, and several other vassals: “And my daughter Sibylla’s marriage…”

Tension surged visibly through the crowd.

(End of Chapter)