Sibylla Suffers Humiliation (Part One)

Following Amalric I's plan, before Epiphany on January 6, no banquets would be held at Holy Cross Castle apart from the necessary celebrations. Everyone was to devote their energy to the coming "selection ritual."

The castle had visibly grown much more desolate. Dust flew across the square, while in contrast, meditation and training became increasingly intensive, and both the quality and quantity of food improved greatly. Then there were the monks... They came one after another before Baldwin and Cesar, praying for them, touching the crowns of their heads. Some whispered encouragement; others wore pitying expressions.

Their mantles showed that not all of them came from churches or monasteries. A great many were "clerics" from the knightly orders: the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller, and some of the smaller orders in the Holy Land, such as the Knights of Saint Lazarus and the Knights of Saint Thomas.

They had only one thing in common—they were all "chosen ones." Their prayers and touch held divine power, making Baldwin and Cesar stronger, swifter, and more focused. The last was especially important. Each time the boys had received the monks' soothing ministrations, Heraclius would take out a portrait of a saint and require them to stare at it with complete concentration while pricking up their ears and listening with all their might.

He said, "Prayer during the ritual is naturally the most important thing, but one must not underestimate what is accumulated in ordinary days. Just as a frightened lamb will rush in panic toward the shepherd it knows, so too will the shepherd reach out to its own lamb amid hundreds and thousands of nearly identical white fleeces."

At that point, he looked at Cesar. This was the child's greatest difficulty. He had forgotten everything from before, and they could not peer into the scenes of his former life... They could not tell which saint's gaze he might more easily draw. What left Heraclius torn between laughter and tears was that the child was not quite so "devout," either. He could only hope Cesar's previous ascetic practices, even if they could not move a saint, might at least persuade mortals—if he was not chosen, people would only say that perhaps this was a trial and tempering sent by God, rather than that the gem bore an irreparable crack.

Cesar hesitated as well. He was still uncertain; after all, in his former world, no power beyond science existed. Baldwin showed a worried expression. As Amalric I's son, he himself had little cause for hesitation. An icon of Saint George had always hung in his room. Ordinarily, the saint a father was drawn to was also the one his son would most likely follow.

Heraclius sighed and placed three icons before Cesar—Saint Blaise, Saint Mark, and Saint Ambrose. These three had also been carefully selected by the monks. After what had happened before, the humbler the saint Cesar was drawn to, the better. A saint like Saint George, so often chosen by kings, was certainly unsuitable. Better not to choose someone like a pope or one of the Twelve Apostles, either.

Saint Blaise had been the bishop of Sebaste in Armenia. Persecuted for his faith, he had been forced to flee into the mountains. There, he tamed wild beasts as though tending a flock of sheep, singing scripture to them, combing their fur, and living with them like family. When a wolf carried off a woman's pig, the saint commanded the wolf to return it. When a child had a fish bone stuck in his throat, he commanded the bone to walk out by itself. All these miracles had been proven.

Saint Mark, meanwhile, had been one of the seventy disciples Jesus sent to preach among the Jews. It was said that he had once abandoned Jesus, then awakened to repentance and became Saint Peter's assistant, writing the famous Gospel of Mark.

Saint Ambrose had been the governor of Milan in the fourth century. Before he took office, it was said, an angel disguised as a man told him, "Govern the people as a bishop would, not as an ordinary governor would." The words became prophecy. At the time, the people of Milan were arguing furiously over the election of a bishop, and Saint Ambrose had no choice but to step forward and mediate. Then someone cried out, "Why do we not choose Ambrose as bishop?"

The people considered it and found that this upright, gentle young man truly had no equal. So they chose him as bishop.

That was not why Heraclius had selected him, however. After the young governor underwent consecration and became Bishop of Milan, he immediately gave all his furniture and money to the poor, donated his lands and property to the Church, kept only a small portion of money for his sister, and handed his title over to his younger brother.

Such selfless conduct subtly aligned with Cesar's earlier good deeds. If Cesar was drawn to Saint Ambrose, it was hard to say whether people might one day regard him as this saint's disciple. That would be far more reliable than the guarantee of a king or bishop.

Heraclius was just about to give Cesar a hint when someone knocked on the door. A servant stood outside, saying that the king needed to see him at once. The monk had no choice but to leave the two children behind and hurry away. Before long, though, another servant came running over to tell Baldwin that there was nothing serious at the king's side. It was only that Étienne, Count of Sancerre, Louis VII's envoy to the Holy Land, had arrived in Jaffa and was preparing to enter the city. Duke Bohemond of Antioch had already gone to greet him on Amalric I's orders.

"Quick!" Baldwin seized Cesar's hand. "Let's go to the walls!"

They hurried out, leaving the tower, crossing the castle yard, passing through the inner wall, and arriving before the twin towers flanking the city gate... While they waited for the soldiers to open the tower doors, David came running over with another group of children—all people Baldwin knew, his former companions and attendants. Clearly, they had come to watch the excitement too.

In the twelfth century, when entertainment was broadly restricted and scorned, people had pitifully few ways to seek amusement. Ascetic practices, executions, and Mass could all be regarded as rare spectacles. The progress of a king, lord, or envoy was likewise considered a rare occasion. If an ordinary peasant was fortunate enough to witness one, he could speak of it for thirty or forty years, savoring every detail with relish.

David and Baldwin only exchanged a brief glance before drawing apart as if they had touched burning coals. David lowered his eyes, breathing quickly, not knowing what to say. Fortunately, Baldwin raised a hand and pointed toward the bridgehead on the other side. "You go there."

Naturally, there was no reason for a prince to yield to a minister's son.

"I used to come here with them often—sometimes to welcome my father, sometimes just to enjoy the evening breeze."

Baldwin held Cesar's hand. He always wore gloves, so even when he clasped someone's hand tightly, it lacked the intimacy of skin against skin, of shared warmth. Yet Cesar could feel that hand trembling faintly—from the confirmation of his leprosy until today, only two or three months had passed... Baldwin could not possibly not miss his friends...

He pulled his hand free and, under Baldwin's slightly disbelieving gaze, hooked an arm around his shoulders.

"Look, they're here."

The Holy Land envoy's procession was indeed impressive.

Several hundred people made up the mighty train. At its head, and along both sides, walked ragged pilgrims. Whenever they saw such dignitaries, they immediately came forward to beg. The pilgrims at the front cleared the way and swept the ground, while those at the sides shouted, boasted, and sang praises. Such practices had existed as early as ancient Rome, except that in those days, the people following beside the litters had been clients and slaves rather than pilgrims.

Around these pilgrims walked mercenaries carrying clubs, ready at any moment to drive off rogues and ill-intentioned people who came too close to the procession, whether deliberately or by accident. Further within came the attendants and servants of the envoy and the Duke of Antioch, along with monks. They held their heads high, carrying crosses, relics, and banners. Here one could see Charlemagne's golden flame banner, the Capetian Dynasty's crown banner of golden fleurs-de-lis on blue, Blois's banner of castle walls, and the matching great coats of arms. These shield-sized emblems were slung over the attendants' arms, their brilliant pigments clear at a glance in the glow of the setting sun.

Among the coats of arms and banners was a band of seven or eight musicians. They beat drums and blew pipes and trumpets, while brightly dressed jesters darted back and forth among them.

The knights wore armor beneath splendid mantles, and their horses were no less magnificent, like peacocks grown four hooves. At the center of their escort were, naturally, the Duke of Antioch, Bohemond, whom they knew well, and the day's most important guest: Étienne, Count of Sancerre, envoy of Louis VII of Francia.

From afar, Count Étienne of Sancerre had a build similar to Bohemond's: tall and lean. As he spoke with Bohemond, he inclined his body slightly and often made deferential gestures. He looked more like a scholar than a knight. But if one thought that made him a mild and refined gentleman, one could not have been more wrong.

This count was not only bold, but remarkably valiant as well.

"You said he stole someone else's wife?!"

"One cannot quite put it that way. That marriage did not reach its end." Baldwin was a little embarrassed to say it, but he truly wanted to share the gossip with his little companion. When he had first heard the story, he too had stared wide-eyed, unable to understand it.

How should he put it? This man was the third son of the Count of Blois. Everyone knew that under Salic Law, the eldest son inherited everything, the second son was at most a spare, and the third son... Even though Blois was an ancient and great house, after his father Thibaut IV died, Étienne, as the youngest son, received only the poorest and smallest territory: Sancerre.

Yet he had fallen in love with Adela, the daughter of a neighboring lord. Adela, however, had long been betrothed to another lord, Anseau II. Anyone else could only have sighed and silently given up, but not their Lord Étienne!

He burst into the church where the wedding was being held, forcibly carried off the bride, took her back to his own lands, married her at once, and made the marriage public.

Anseau II was driven mad with rage. But since they were both vassals of the King of Francia, they could not simply wage private war. So he appealed to Louis VII. Louis VII summoned the head of the House of Blois, Étienne's eldest brother, the Count of Champagne... Yet the Count of Champagne could do nothing with this younger brother of his, so he could only join Louis VII and Anseau II in attacking Sancerre.

Had they won, people would surely have mocked Count Étienne of Sancerre for his foolishness. But the problem was... they had actually failed to take it!

In the end, the Church mediated. "Since the marriage has already been concluded," why waste the blood of knights and the king's gold here for nothing? Louis VII naturally could not have wished for more. The Count of Champagne was not particularly willing to attack his own brother, either. Anseau II was of course unwilling to accept it, but alone, he could not bear such crushing expense. Thus, the matter was left unresolved.

He had done this when he was twenty. Now, this gentleman was already thirty-seven, yet he still looked very young. Though lean, he clearly had never relaxed his pursuit of martial skill.

By now, Baldwin and Cesar could clearly see his face. Count Étienne of Sancerre had an unhealthy grayish pallor, but his lips were richly red, his eyes bright, and his hair thick and full. He wore a fitted coat of dark red velvet, a sapphire-blue cloak, and a silver belt. Though his attire differed little from that of other nobles of the day, he somehow seemed especially effortless and dashing.

At the same time, Count Étienne sensed the gazes from above. He looked up and saw Baldwin in white, immediately guessing that he was the only son of the King of Jerusalem, said to have been unfortunate enough to contract leprosy. The count paused slightly—after all, in his experience, even if lepers were not driven from the city, they hid themselves away in their rooms. The terrified, disgusted looks of others pierced like knives.

But he was only stunned for that brief moment. Then he lowered his head and placed a hand over his chest in salute from horseback.

Cesar heard Baldwin sigh softly. There was little sorrow in it; rather, it held a measure of relief. Before his leprosy had been discovered, Baldwin had been as mischievous and energetic as every other boy. Climbing up to the battlements in the evening breeze to gaze into the distance must have been something they did every few days. But ever since... then, Baldwin seemed to prefer staying alone in his room. Cesar could understand it. But seeing Baldwin no longer shut himself away, and seeing that his first attempt had not met with rejection...

It was truly wonderful.

"He saluted Baldwin?"

"Yes," the maid said as she gently combed Princess Sibylla's long hair with a golden comb. "He looked like a humble, courteous man."

"And very generous. He scattered several pounds of Frankish copper coins among those pilgrims." Another maid brought over a hennin. This hennin was even more exquisite than the one Cesar had seen the princess wear when he first met her. The white veil flowing from its peak was not a single layer but several, cascading one upon another like drifts of snow falling from mountain slopes. But Sibylla only glanced at it. "No, not that today. Bring me a wimple."

The head covering she meant was a wimple. Simply put, it was white linen draped over the hair and neck, leaving only the face exposed. Unmarried girls could wear flower crowns, while a king's daughter like Sibylla could wear a crown. Sibylla's crown was simple in design, with sapphires set only at the tips of its crosses.

The maids exchanged glances behind Sibylla. Before this Holy Land envoy had arrived in Jaffa, they had already heard of his "fine reputation," as well as the fact that his wife had died and he was now a widower. He was of the right age, and his status suited as well. Louis VII had sent him to the holy city for no reason at all; perhaps he intended for him to become Sibylla's husband.