Sibylla Suffers Humiliation (Part Two)

Count Étienne felt as though five thunderbolts had struck him at once.

He had always believed himself to be a decent old fellow who kept to his place and loved peace.

He had done only one outrageous thing in his life: carrying off his beloved Adela from her wedding. But he had to say that Adela's marriage to Anseau II had never been consummated, and his actions had not violated doctrine.

He had accepted his punishment as well, accepting the challenge of one king and two counts, and afterward purchasing five hundred years' worth of indulgences from the Church—two hundred years more than the sin of marrying one's own sister.

He felt he had done everything with the utmost benevolence and righteousness, with nothing left to criticize. Yet ever since then, people had always thought of him as a frivolous, unrestrained libertine.

But at the very least, his liege lord Louis VII ought to have understood him. Otherwise, His Majesty would not have entrusted him with such a grave duty as special envoy to the Holy Land. He had never imagined that Louis VII had chosen him with another purpose in mind... God bless him, he had never intended to become father-in-law and son-in-law with Amalric I, King of Jerusalem, nor had he ever wanted to become a knight of Christ, a guardian of the Holy Sepulchre!

He was not that devout!

He complained to his personal servant, who immediately removed his hat, pressed it to his chest, and expressed boundless sympathy for his master. Just moments ago, Count Étienne had done something irreparable. He did not believe he had done anything wrong, but it had indeed made the scene utterly... absurd.

At the court of Francia, the Count of Sancerre had always been a welcome figure—because of that affair where he had rushed into a church and snatched away a bride, people's opinions of him had practically been fixed forever. Men regarded him as a troublesome and detestable enemy, while noble ladies saw him as a lover both challenging and deeply satisfying to win.

He admitted that he had never remained chaste, but both he and the ladies in question could swear that they had merely immersed themselves in an elegant, lofty atmosphere of tantalizing nearness and distance. There had been no overly intimate contact, nor any letters that might leave evidence behind. They were like larks, meeting upon the branches at night and parting when dawn descended.

He had grown accustomed to the ambiguous atmosphere of the Frankish court, and thus overlooked the strangeness of the Jerusalem court—the fervent gazes of the highborn and powerful, the provocative stares of young knights, the whispers of maids and attendants.

They had seated him on the princess's left, so he had treated her as the mistress of the castle. Like a knight attending a noble lady, he brought her water to wash her hands, handed her towels, carved her meat, served her spice dishes, and shelled nuts for her—but he could swear that he had been utterly honest and proper, without a single word or act that crossed the line!

After the last course was cleared away, the servants cleaned the long tables and set the hall in order. A spacious area was opened in the center for dancing. This was one of the customary proceedings after a feast. People watched him, and they watched Princess Sibylla. As the most important guest present, he ought to dance with the mistress of the house.

So he stepped forward and invited the princess. He had to admit that Princess Sibylla was indeed beautiful. And her beauty differed from that found at the Frankish court. Perhaps because she was the only daughter of the King of Jerusalem, she lacked the humility and gentleness expected of women in this age. Though she had to lift her head to see his face, she did not look the least bit shy when she did so. There was even a trace of appraisal in her gaze.

For several minutes, Count Étienne had thought he was going mad from too much wine or moldy bread. Her gaze upon him carried the certainty of possession, as if she were looking at a jewel in a casket. She extended her hand to him, appearing to offer herself to him, but in truth she was drawing him toward herself. Count Étienne felt that he was the one being seized.

Even so, Count Étienne still clung to a shred of hope. He was already thirty-seven, while Princess Sibylla was only thirteen. To put it bluntly, he could not only have been her father—if the marriages of children had been arranged a little more hastily, it would not have been impossible for him to be Sibylla's grandfather. He knew himself well enough.

But that self-knowledge was swiftly shattered. They danced, and then Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, rose again and suggested that he compose a love poem for the princess. Poetry was one of the required studies for knights as well. At a banquet, it was a common and warmly welcomed sight for a knight to offer a love poem to the person he admired.

It had nothing to do with morality or doctrine. Many husbands were even delighted to see such scenes, for it showed that their wives were admired by many, and as husbands, they shared in the glory. The problem was that Princess Sibylla was unmarried. For a gentleman—especially one who was not her husband—to openly declare his love for an unmarried woman at a banquet was almost a proposal of marriage.

Count Étienne went cold all over, but the eyes gathered upon him forced him onward, leaving him unable to refuse rudely or remain silent. He could only rise "happily" and compose a love poem for Princess Sibylla:

"Beneath the shade lies a scroll of verse, A bottle of wine, a little bread; With you beside me singing in this wilderness, The wilderness, ah, becomes Heaven!"

The poem was brief and simply worded, and the count recited it dryly, without the slightest emotion. Yet everyone present was overjoyed, clapping their hands vigorously or pounding upon the tables.

Apart from Sibylla's admirers, everyone wore beaming smiles. They invited Count Étienne to the center of the hall and gathered around him. Princess Sibylla's attendant strode up before him with head held high and presented him with a sable-fur cloak.

It was, of course, a magnificent garment. Had this been at the Frankish court, and a noble lady had ordered her attendant to do such a thing, Count Étienne would certainly have gladly accepted the gift brimming with affection. But could he still fail to understand now?

This was the first step in negotiating a marriage!

Though marriages at this time were mostly like transactions or alliances, with the man and woman possibly never having met at all, at most seeing portraits of each other, while the ones corresponding, negotiating, and haggling were either priests beside their fathers or capable ministers, there were still acknowledged customs meant to make the marriage seem more proper, or to drape it in a tender veil of affection. One of them was for a young woman to prepare a cloak for her future husband.

Count Étienne watched as the attendant stepped forward, spread open the cloak, and prepared to drape it over him. His face was numb and his limbs stiff, but he still exerted every effort to control himself and took a step back.

The attendant had never expected such a response from the count. With his hands spread wide, the cloak slipped down and fell to the ground with a soft whoosh, unsupported.

A chill spread outward from Count Étienne at astonishing speed. Wherever it reached, laughter and shouting vanished. The joy faded from people's faces, replaced by shock and suspicion.

When Amalric I saw Count Étienne step back, he too froze. But he was, after all, the King of Jerusalem, and immediately realized where things had gone wrong!

This was all Louis VII's fault. Louis VII himself was an incomparably devout believer. When Pope Eugene III issued the Crusader indulgence, Louis VII was the first person he notified. Nor did Louis VII disappoint Eugene III: he responded without hesitation, even expending enormous sums of money and manpower on this Crusade to the east. So much so that his queen Eleanor had insisted on divorcing him. The failure of that marriage completely severed Aquitaine from the Capetian Dynasty and France, and made Louis VII a laughingstock to the world—

No matter what, his marriage to Eleanor had given him only two daughters, and he had always claimed that Eleanor's poor health was why she had failed to bear him a son. Yet to everyone's surprise, Eleanor married Henry II, King of England, almost as soon as she divorced him, and swiftly bore Henry II three sons.

It could be said that if Louis VII had not finally gained an heir of his own five years ago, his predicament would have been even more embarrassing. A king so devout and steadfast had likely never imagined that his subject would regard the throne of Jerusalem as one might regard venomous snakes and savage beasts, fleeing from it as far as possible...

Count Étienne did not know whether to laugh or cry. He knew that Louis VII had meant well. Before this, the king had tactfully asked why Count Étienne had not remarried and whether there was someone he liked. The count had brushed him off with the excuse that he still missed his late wife.

If he had known that His Majesty had been planning at the time to send him to Jerusalem for a marriage alliance, he would certainly have shouted: "No! Your Majesty, I have no intention of remarrying. Even if I do remarry, I will only find a suitable match within the country, not travel thousands of miles to the Holy City to become a princess's husband!"

Amalric I felt a wave of dizziness and could not help raising a hand to press against his forehead. Fortunately, Count Étienne had already recovered. He immediately bent one knee and knelt, placing a hand over his chest. In the most earnest tones, he said that he had never imagined he could receive such favor and esteem from Amalric I. If he could marry Princess Sibylla, it would be God's grace, fate's gift, and the highest honor. He was overwhelmed with fear and gratitude, scarcely daring to believe it.

Only, he was ultimately still a subject of Louis VII, King of France, and his marriage required his sovereign's consent. He would ride at full gallop back to France as soon as possible to seek the king's approval, then return to formally ask for the princess's hand.

Almost everyone knew these were words of evasion. His reaction just now had already shown that he had no desire whatsoever to become Amalric I's son-in-law.

Amalric I pinched the space between his brows, rose to his feet, descended from the dais, and warmly linked his arm through Count Étienne's. He readily agreed to the request and declared that he would immediately write a personal letter for Count Étienne to carry to Louis VII.

Whether Amalric I cursed out the reckless Louis VII in that letter, there was no way to know.

The only thing known was that Count Étienne rose as though granted a pardon, immediately led his men out of the hall, and brought the banquet to a hasty end. Everyone, Amalric I included, tried their utmost to remain silent. Their eyes scarcely dared meet Princess Sibylla's. It was truly an incomprehensible farce, and in the end there might have been only one victim: Sibylla...

Even Baldwin and Cesar, curled up in the "gallery," did not dare make a sound. They sat utterly motionless until everyone in the hall had left, only then letting out a breath and rising to their feet. "This is awful," Baldwin said. But he did not dare, nor did he know how, to comfort his sister. To have a marriage proposal rejected on the spot was, for a noble lady, the most humiliating disgrace imaginable.

"I'll have the castle steward bring in a merchant," Baldwin said with a headache. "We'll see whether he has any gems or silk." Perhaps Sibylla would feel better when she saw such gifts.

Cesar did not think so, but he lacked experience in comforting women as well. "We could try other things too. Books, little birds, and the like."

Count Étienne ought originally to have stayed at Holy Cross Castle for some time, at least until after Epiphany. Otherwise, he would miss several important festivals while traveling. But because of this blunder, he took his knights and servants and hurriedly left Jerusalem early the next morning.

Amalric I saw him off with his men. It was not until the third day that Baldwin spoke to the castle steward about it. The steward accepted the order and departed. Before evening prayers, he led a gemstone merchant into the castle. Trembling with fear, the merchant opened his jewel casket before the prince and his attendant.

At this time, gems had not yet been cut with the techniques of later ages. They were generally polished into circles, ovals, or squares. But gems were still gems. Even with such crude workmanship, when one held them in hand and turned them beneath the sunlight, their dazzling colors and singular texture still made one sigh at the Creator's exquisite craftsmanship.

"You should choose one for Damara too."

Perhaps this world also had that saying: speak of someone, and they appear. Before Cesar could politely decline, a servant arrived, sent by Damara. Amid Baldwin's subtle smile, Cesar followed the servant down from the tower. At a glance, he saw Damara standing in the tower's shadow, twisting her hands with an anxious expression, even stamping her feet from time to time.

The moment she saw Cesar, Damara rushed at him and seized his sleeve. Cesar's heart stirred. He bent down and heard Damara say in a taut voice, "Something's happened, Cesar! I heard Abigail's servant say that they bribed Count Étienne's guide and told him to lead Count Étienne into the jackals' den!"

The jackals here did not mean the sort with four paws and two ears. Those would only become knights' hides, coats, and a rather unappetizing dinner. Cesar immediately swept open his cloak, wrapped Damara against his chest, and brought her up the tower. Baldwin's expression changed when he saw them. He immediately waved a hand to dismiss the merchant. "Damara, was it Sibylla..."

"It was Abigail. He swore he would wash away the princess's humiliation, but His Majesty has already strictly forbidden anyone from challenging the Count of Sancerre—" Some knights had also realized that it would be best to let the matter pass quietly; after a few months, no one would mention it again. "And he has not yet become a knight, so..." Damara took several hard breaths. "So he sent someone to bribe the count's guide, saying they would lead them into Mleh's territory!"