Receiving the Host by Proxy

Heraclius had not told the children the exact time or place—lest further trouble arise. Even now, Amalric I had failed to find the slightest clue as to the source of the leprosy.

Just as Cesar had surmised, the nearest gathering place for lepers to Jerusalem—a leper valley—lay fifty li away. Even if there had been a leper among the pilgrims hiding his condition, he could not have approached Baldwin easily.

Baldwin was only nine years old, not even a page or squire. Apart from the rare hunting excursion, his movements were confined to the inner ward of Holy Cross Castle. Those around him were either heirs to lords or sons of ministers, and afterward none had shown signs of illness. Could it truly be that God, displeased with Godfrey and his descendants for refusing to hand Jerusalem over to His spokesman, had sent an angel to punish him?

Heraclius and Amalric I were entirely of one mind on this matter. This was not a natural disaster; it could only be man-made calamity.

To prevent a second man-made calamity, Heraclius naturally would not lay out every detail of his and the king's plans before a third person.

"There is one more thing I need you to do," Heraclius said. "At tomorrow's Mass, you will receive the Host on Baldwin's behalf."

"Claim the Host under false pretenses?" Baldwin asked in surprise. "Would that not be a grave sin of sacrilege?"

"Claiming the Host under false pretenses refers to the presumptuous act of one who has not been baptized, confessed, or instructed in canon law and doctrine. You do not fall into that category, Baldwin," Heraclius said calmly. Nothing in his manner showed how many times he and Amalric I had debated and argued this matter with the Patriarch of the Holy Land over the past few days.

Baldwin breathed rapidly.

"Your father told you," Heraclius said. "You may trust him."

"How could he stand before everyone else?" Abigail, son of Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, stared fixedly at the black-haired boy standing shoulder to shoulder with Princess Sibylla.

"Because he acts in Prince Baldwin's stead," Bohemond murmured lazily. "Naturally, he is qualified to do so."

"But he should know his own place," Abigail said viciously. "Such a lowly creature..." Yet he could stand so close to her, with every breath steeped in her fragrance.

Bohemond merely lifted his eyes in disdain. He knew what his son was thinking—

"Then will you go?" His lips moved, his voice no louder than those around him and slightly indistinct, ensuring that only Abigail, pressed close beside him, could hear. "I can ask His Majesty to permit you to serve His Highness. The question is..." He shifted his knees slightly. The chapel of Holy Cross Castle stood high in the main tower, yet it could not escape the bone-deep chill seeping from the stone.

"Do you have the courage? To remain at a leper's side at every hour? To carry his golden cup, hold his cloak, sleep beneath his bed, breathe in the air he exhales—do you dare? If I remember correctly, the moment you learned that the king's only son—your friend and future lord—was a leper, you wept without cease, your knees went weak, and you knelt before me begging bitterly never to be the prince's attendant again."

At this, the duke even curled his lips. "You said you would rather become a monk, fight the Saracens, die, than live day and night beside a sinner punished by God."

At his father's words, Abigail's face instantly flushed crimson. His lips trembled and his breathing quickened, but even after the monks had finished a passage of their chant, he had not gathered enough courage. At last, he could only mutter, "He is only a slave..."

"'For they are My servants, whom I brought forth out of the land of Egypt; they shall not be sold as bondmen.'" Bohemond repeated a passage from scripture—it could be found in Leviticus. "When Amalric I bought him from that Isaac slave trader, he ceased to be a slave."

Abigail had no reply. Yet it would not be so easy to make this stubborn youth lay down the resentment in his heart. With one glance, Bohemond could see the malice brewing within him, and he could not help sighing inwardly at how he had ended up with such a mediocre eldest son.

Sibylla, eldest daughter of the King of Jerusalem, was thirteen that year. Her waist was slender, her budding figure full; even without rouge, her lips, brow, and cheeks shone as brightly as the morning sky. Some said she was as pure and flawless as the Vestal Virgins of Palatine Hill. Others said she possessed the wisdom and talent of the Queen of Sheba of Marib. From northernmost Galilee to southernmost Hebron, those who wished to become her husband were as numerous as the sands of the wilderness.

For such a beauty, even gazing upon the shadow she cast in the dust was profanation. Yet now, because he had become the prince's attendant, a humble slave could keep company with the princess as though they were intimate friends, receiving the golden cup and sacred bread from her hands. How could that not kindle jealous fire in a simple young heart?

Bohemond did not care how Abigail adored the princess. What concerned him was that his eldest son was foolish enough to be utterly unable to see what he truly ought to grasp, putting the cart before the horse.

To a great noble such as Bohemond, Sibylla's greatest value lay in her right to inherit the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

The Kingdom of Jerusalem, the County of Tripoli, the Principality of Antioch, the County of Edessa that had fallen some years before, and the Patriarch of the Holy Land all recognized primogeniture—male heirs took precedence. If a king had no male heir, then his daughter could inherit all that he possessed and pass it to her husband. In other words, if a kingdom's line died out, an outsider could gain a kingdom through marriage.

When Godfrey I, King of Jerusalem, had strongly supported this system, it was because he had three daughters. One after another, those three daughters had entered into marriage contracts with the lords of Antioch, Tripoli, and Edessa, and, as Godfrey I had hoped, briefly became queen regents after their husbands died—except in Edessa. Perhaps for this very reason, the County of Edessa and the Kingdom of Jerusalem had been distant and cold toward one another. When Edessa was attacked from both sides by the Saracens and the Amirians, Jerusalem and its other two allies ignored their earlier promises and stood by with folded arms.

How laughable, Bohemond thought. Godfrey I had likely never imagined that the inheritance law he established might not always benefit Jerusalem. After he died without issue, Jerusalem had passed to his brother, Baldwin, then Count of Edessa. Yet Baldwin's son, Baldwin II, had no sons either, and his kingdom had been forced into the hands of his son-in-law.

Baldwin II's grandson, Baldwin III, Bohemond, and Raymond of Tripoli had all been his attendants, as well as his friends and brothers. They had spent all their childhood and youth together in Holy Cross Castle, until Bohemond had to return to Antioch to fulfill his duties. But, as expected, he had soon been summoned back to Jerusalem to become Baldwin III's right-hand man, wielding immense authority.

But fate toyed with men. Baldwin III died suddenly, before he could even marry. His brother, the Count of Edessa, later Amalric I, became the new master of Jerusalem. Though he too summoned Bohemond back, truthfully, Bohemond and Amalric I were not close.

To make up for this deficiency, he had sent his eldest son Abigail to Amalric I's only son, young Baldwin, at an early age, hoping that he would forge as firm a friendship with the future king as Bohemond himself had once possessed.

To his disappointment, Abigail and young Baldwin had only an ordinary relationship. Or rather, he had shifted all the effort and time he should have invested in the king's son onto the king's daughter. Yet after young Baldwin was discovered to have contracted leprosy, Bohemond's opposition had turned ambiguous—everyone knew that lepers did not live long and could not give women children.

But what troubled the Duke of Antioch was that, between Abigail and Sibylla, Sibylla clearly held the upper hand. Given the cautionary examples left by Godfrey's daughters, Bohemond could not help worrying that Abigail would ultimately become a puppet for Sibylla to manipulate at will.

Only one of many, at that.

Abigail was not the only youth here who adored the princess. There was David of Tripoli, Eudes of the Knights Templar, Roger of the Knights Hospitaller, William of Apollonia, Nasi of Galilee, Guy of Arabia...

They had all once been attendants to the king's son, and friends of the younger brother Sibylla cherished most. There might be cowards among them like Abigail, but there were also boys like David, brave to the point of recklessness—after learning that young Baldwin was ill, he had still asked to return to the prince's side.

Naturally, Amalric I had not permitted it.

If any one of these people vented even the slightest malice, it would be enough for this attendant with neither roots nor known origins to suffer for it. As Bohemond thought this, he could not help rolling his eyes inwardly. His foolish son had not even considered that. Instead, he had impatiently been the first to reveal such an ugly and useless face—without thinking that if anything happened to this boy, he himself would be the first scapegoat.

Cesar accepted the golden cup.

To say that he knew nothing of the scorching stares and surging malice behind him would have been a joke. In truth, perhaps no one in the chapel besides Amalric I bore him any goodwill. The Crusaders were still fighting the Saracens. He had been merchandise belonging to an Isaac slave trader, of unknown birth—worse than a bastard or a commoner. No one could guarantee that he was not a spy, or perhaps a heathen.

If—he meant, if—Amalric I had merely made him a lowly servant, these people would not have cared in the least.

But after Baldwin contracted leprosy, Amalric I had to bear two crushing burdens—one for himself and one for Baldwin. He had to be responsible for his kingdom, fight for his faith, and shoulder his duties toward his vassals and subjects... The pressure had nearly driven him mad, making his temperament increasingly extreme.

The more they wished Amalric I to strip his only son of identity, status, and power, the more he would raise him to heights beyond anyone else's reach. Even if Baldwin still could not leave his chamber, he would use his extravagant favor toward Cesar to tell everyone that his son remained Jerusalem's most honored heir! Even one of his attendants had the right to meet the sons of counts and dukes eye to eye.

For some timid and cowardly people, this was simply torture. But to Cesar, it was merely responsibility equal to power. Unless he was willing to endure the fierce inequality created by bloodline and rank in this era and this place, he would not refuse it.

The clergy's dissatisfaction was focused even more on the matter of "receiving the Host by proxy." "Such a thing has never happened before!" they shouted. Since the wine and unleavened bread at Mass represented the blood and flesh of Christ, believers had always had to receive them in person. If a believer was unable to move, then a cleric would personally distribute Communion to them; no one would receive it on their behalf.

But Baldwin's circumstances were different. Whether leprosy was God's punishment or God's trial had yet to be determined. Though it was written in canon law that lepers could not receive sacraments, Amalric I was undoubtedly skirting the edge of the rules.

Yet no matter how they complained, Amalric I would not change his mind. Receiving Communion by proxy was only the first step. He would make everyone understand—Baldwin's identity and status would not waver by even the slightest fraction because he was a leper.

Under everyone's gaze, Cesar held the golden cup filled with wine and raised the unleavened bread wrapped in fine linen, leaving through the secret passage behind the chapel. A strong but sorrow-faced monk guarded the passage. At the sight of Cesar, he bowed, then opened the door.

The passage was narrow, steeped in the raw scent peculiar to stone. Thin rays of light shone through small holes in the walls, barely illuminating the steps. A few minutes later, Cesar reached the left tower.

At the sight of him, Baldwin could not help drawing a deep breath. When he saw the Eucharist, he was even more greatly relieved.

He took the unleavened bread from Cesar, dipped it in the wine, and swallowed it in one bite.

Originally, Baldwin had wanted to ask in detail about what had happened, how everyone had reacted. But before Cesar could put away the golden cup, servants came—new servants. Since the former ones had been hanged, every one of them had become as meek as lambs. Perhaps they still muttered unpleasant things in their hearts, but the sort of acts that had happened when Witt was there—openly scattering salt into water, by doorways, and in corridors to ward off evil; forcibly demanding rewards; shirking work; drinking and gambling—had never occurred again.

They came to report that Princess Sibylla had come to visit her brother.

By then, they could already hear a string of sharp tapping sounds, like little hammers striking a xylophone. The wooden soles or hard cowhide soles of the princess and her ladies were striking the stone steps.

There was also the faint rustle of silk and linen skirts brushing against one another as they swept over walls and floor, along with soft murmurs like nightingales chirping. There was no need to see them; simply listening was enough to imagine what a lively and lovely group of young girls they were.

"There is no need to send your attendant away," a crisp and beautiful voice said outside the door. "These lovely ladies have come to see him as well."