Sibylla Suffers Humiliation (Part Two)

How the envoy from the Holy Land had an audience with Amalric I, and how he conveyed Louis VII's longing and greetings to this lord of the Holy Land, this knight of Christ—we need not dwell on it here.

That evening, a grand welcoming banquet was held. Naturally, the banquet had long been planned; more than a month earlier, the castle steward and the master of the kitchens had begun bustling about in preparation—there was far too much to do.

Beyond the castle's original staff, they had hired an additional thirty cooks, a hundred kitchen hands and servants, as well as a dozen or so carpenters and blacksmiths. They needed to provide enough tables and benches for the feast.

Merchants of every complexion and faith came and went from their lodgings and places of business—the castle needed beer, wine, wheat, rye, great quantities of poultry such as chickens, ducks, and geese, as well as pigs and calves, olive oil, vinegar, sauces, and, most important and most expensive of all, spices. At such times, money was scarcely money anymore, but sand, poured out in a daily torrent like running water.

Even so, the castle's knights still went hunting every day at the steward's urging. After all, in this age, without game such as deer, boar, and swans, even if everyone were given golden plates, the entire banquet would lose its luster. Once brought back to the castle, the prey would be smoked and salted in the great kitchens—of course, it was not as delicious as fresh meat, but most such dishes at a banquet were not meant to be eaten.

Besides these things that entered the mouth, there were also tapestries, ornaments, linen cloth, and seemingly ordinary but indispensable wooden trenchers.

The wooden trenchers here were not for cutting meat—at least, not the kind of meat-cutting one might imagine. Their true purpose was closer to that of a plate. Whether silver, gold, ceramic, or glass, plates were considerable assets. Even Amalric I could not possibly produce so many, so people placed food either upon a hard, dry flatbread or a piece of wood.

Some knights, to display their diligence and valor, used shields as plates and carved strips from ham upon them.

The host would not even provide guests with utensils. Though noblemen of this time ate with three fingers, thus distinguishing themselves from serfs who used all five, they brought their own spoon and eating knife.

Furthermore, between each course, there had to be dancing, music, and juggling performances to while away the guests' time. These too had to be hired from beyond the castle. There were jesters and musicians within the castle, but far from enough.

Baldwin took Cesar's hand and led him up to the "gallery."

"Gallery" was merely a name. It was more like a long, narrow platform or chamber projecting inward from high up in the castle hall. Sometimes it was made quite concealed, with the lord using tapestries and banners as cover so people could hide inside and peer down below—the so-called "squinting."

Amalric I's "gallery" was not deliberately concealed, though it too was draped in heavy tapestries and set with banners. At times, musicians performed there. Now, however, it stood empty. Though narrow, it could easily accommodate two children.

"My father lets me watch from here," Baldwin said softly. "Do you remember? Did your father ever let you watch these things before?"

"I don't remember very well."

"It's all right." Baldwin squeezed his hand. "We can watch together... The juggling is interesting, and the dancing and music aren't bad either."

At such a formal banquet, even if Baldwin had not contracted leprosy, he would still have had no right to attend as a child. Those running about below were either pages pouring wine or diminutive dwarfs. Yet Amalric I allowed him to peer down from here, and certainly not merely for amusement—from this place, one could overlook the entire hall, taking in everyone's seat, expression, and movement at a glance. It was one of the lessons every king's and lord's son had to receive.

Amalric I had already taken his seat of honor, while guests, clergy, and knights settled into theirs. Cesar leaned against Baldwin's shoulder and peered down through a gap in the tapestry—the hall was the most important place in a castle, surpassing even chapel and bedchamber. It was where formal ceremonies were held—audiences, investitures, weddings, or funerals—the court where hearings and judgments took place, and, as today, the site of an incomparably splendid and solemn gathering.

Its walls ought to have been blue-gray stone and white plaster, but were now concealed beneath countless banners: red, white, gold, blue, black... Maltese Crosses, fivefold crosses, Crosses of Saint John, Crosses of Saint Peter... eagles with wings unfurled, roaring lions, rearing horses, threefold fleur-de-lis, fish set back to back...

Some hung down, some leaned against the walls. Some represented families, some nations, and some all the glory and achievements of a single knight...

From enormous brown wooden beams hung lampstands of bronze or black iron. Their cups were filled with animal fat, and when lit, they gave off dazzling light amid rising black smoke. Yet from the empty heights to the floor was a full thirty feet, making that light seem pitifully faint, so people supplemented it with torches fixed to walls and pillars.

Naturally, whatever else was lacking, the lord of the place and the important guests were supplied first. Thus, what Baldwin and Cesar saw most clearly was the high table.

The banquet's high table was made by joining three ordinary long tables together, then covering them with several layers of cloth: white linen, blue cotton, gold and red velvet—there was naturally a reason for this arrangement, which would be explained later. The person seated in the middle was usually the castle's lord, unless a guest of higher rank had come to visit. For instance, if a count entertained a king in his own castle, he would have to yield his seat.

But Amalric I was both king and host. In this world, aside from God, probably no one could make him yield his place. He sat in the center, with Heraclius to his right. That was not strange; more and more kings now placed clergymen acting in God's authority in the position of greatest importance after themselves. What was thought-provoking was that seated to his left was Princess Sibylla.

Amalric I was now a widower, and his daughter had already grown up. It was understandable for her to sit there as mistress of the castle. Yet to her left sat the day's honored guest, Count Étienne of Sancerre, envoy from the Holy Land.

This arrangement left some people unable to sit still. They were young knights, Princess Sibylla's admirers and suitors. Naturally, her followers were not limited to youths like David or Abigail; there were many knights willing to swear themselves to her. But on such an occasion, even if they wished to act, there was nothing they could do.

At banquets of this era, participants were divided into a "mess," meaning a group, usually of two to six people. They sat on either side of a long table, and the closer they were to the high table, the more favored or valued they were by the host.

Those able to sit below the high table were almost all important figures from the various powers within the Holy City. These knights could only sit near the walls.

The attendants brought rosewater for washing hands. Étienne, seated beside the princess, perfectly fulfilled a knight's duty. He attended the princess like a servant as she washed her hands, offered her a silk towel, and then washed his own hands in the same basin.

At such close range, Sibylla could clearly see the gray at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. What the maidservants knew, she could not possibly have failed to know. For a young girl just awakening to love, marrying a knight old enough to be her father was truly painful. But from Sibylla's position, she knew she was not choosing a husband, but a capable right hand, the father of her children, and the king of Jerusalem.

Though Amalric I was exceptionally stubborn regarding Baldwin, Raymond was far from the only one striving to persuade the king. There were also many who suggested that the husband of Princess Sibylla be regarded as heir, or that the child born to the princess and her husband be accepted instead... Objective reality did not shift according to human will. No matter how dearly the king loved Baldwin, a leper could never recover. His condition would only worsen, never improve.

And was Amalric I truly as resolute as he believed himself to be? Sibylla did not think so. If Amalric I truly meant it, he would not still be seeking a marriage with a Byzantine princess. Amalric I was only thirty-four this year. If he took a new wife, it was entirely possible that he might father one or more healthy boys...

At this point, the first course was served. Perhaps it should not be called a course, for this ornamental sweet was known as "sculpted food." The cooks kneaded together all kinds of candied fruits and pastries, shaping them into animals or buildings—Étienne had once seen sweets shaped like swans at the banquet where Louis VII celebrated the birth of his heir. In the swans' beaks were fleur-de-lis sculpted from colored sugar.

What was served here was a "Holy Cross Castle," made chiefly from nut brittle and dates, drenched in honey and sugar. It was certainly delicious, but bore an unmistakable Byzantine, even Saracen, style. Étienne absentmindedly tasted a few bites while sweeping his gaze about, wondering whether these knights who fought for Christ had noticed it.

Unfortunately, they had not.

What followed was the true feast: roast pigeons, roast chickens, roast rabbits. An entire pig was brought out, its belly stuffed with sausages made from its stomach, intestines, and bladder. Venison was served already carved, decorated with sharp antlers and heaped about with all kinds of herbs. There was also thick stew, with meat, seasonal vegetables, and burst grains of wheat floating within.

There were pies as well, layered thick with meat—pork, pigeon, or venison.

Wine was poured too. The master of the kitchens had prepared one hundred barrels of wine and three hundred barrels of beer for this banquet.

Between every course, just as previously mentioned, there were performances. Musicians plucked strings or played flutes, while jesters performed tricks or danced.

When a platter of mixed meats dyed blue, gold, and red with columbine, saffron, and sandalwood was served, a dwarf climbed onto a rope suspended from the wooden beams. The rope allowed him to swing from one end of the hall to the other. He gripped the rope with one hand and held an enormous silver wine ewer in the other—he swung directly over the high table, where an attendant behind Amalric I caught him. The people burst into laughter. Amalric I even showed a rare smile and extended his cup for the dwarf to fill.

The dwarf filled it, then pulled faces as he told a fresh joke. Everyone at the high table doubled over with laughter, Princess Sibylla included. Étienne casually removed a golden brooch and tossed it over. The dwarf was immediately overjoyed and stretched out his wine ewer to catch it, but how could the narrow mouth of the ewer catch a brooch? It bounced once upon the ewer and fell below.

"Lower me quickly!" the dwarf shouted. He did not notice the attendant's face twist abruptly. He was shoved out—viciously—and instantly lost his balance. The wine ewer fell first, then he did. He crashed onto a long table. The knights laughed loudly at him, and when he did not move, one knight gave him a shove. Then he fell to the floor along with the nearly finished platter of venison.

He was terribly unlucky. The distance to the floor was not great, but when he struck the table, one of the decorative antlers happened to pierce his chest.

Before Cesar could even understand what had happened, the long table, silent for only an instant, erupted into even louder laughter. The knights slapped the table, beside themselves with delight. Clearly, this joke was funnier than anything the dwarf had performed or said. A group of attendants rushed out from behind. They seized the four corners of the tablecloth—there were several layers—and simply lifted the uppermost layer. Two attendants placed the dwarf's corpse, antler and all, upon it, then carried him away with the leftovers.

Afterward, it was as if nothing had happened—except that the "joke" was flying everywhere. Someone was eating and drinking heartily, and having failed to see it with his own eyes was truly regrettable... From where Cesar stood, he could see the blood flowing from the dwarf, but other dwarfs and musicians soon trampled over it, and in the blink of an eye it blended into the hall's dark-black floor.

Baldwin nudged his friend. He did not feel much about it himself, but he knew Cesar was such a softhearted good person that it could make people laugh. "Let's go back," he said quietly.

Cesar shook his head. The moment he had arrived here, he had killed two people with his own hands. Though they had not been innocent, he also had to grow accustomed to innocent people dying. Within this Holy City and beyond it, human lives were as worthless as grains of sand.

Another dish arrived: a chicken sauce mixed with rice cooked in almond milk, then garnished with fried almonds and fennel. People called it "white cheese soup," somewhere between soup and dessert, though it was more likely to remind one of Saracen rice pudding. After that came aspic, which had to be sprinkled with spices. Étienne attentively held the spice tray for Princess Sibylla—a divided dish containing onion, ginger, pepper, saffron, cloves, and cinnamon. The princess pinched some cinnamon between her fingers and sprinkled it over the aspic, then sprinkled some over Étienne's as well.

"They truly are well matched," Bohemond said to Raymond beside him.

"I wonder how skilled the Count of Sancerre is in battle." Raymond frowned. If Amalric I could live another twenty years, then naturally there would be no problem. But if the king's years were short, if Baldwin could only live to thirty and was likely to be bedridden by illness even before then, he would simply be unable to shoulder the grave duty entrusted by God. By then, the only person capable of leading them against the Saracens and defending the Holy City would be Princess Sibylla's husband. Raymond preferred to be cautious, but the others in the Holy City did not think the same way.

"He once repelled the allied forces of a king and two counts."

Bohemond said it half in jest and half in earnest.

"For a woman." And not for God.

"Is our Princess Sibylla not beautiful? I think she has already left the Count of Sancerre utterly bewitched."