The Unlucky Count Étienne (Part Two)

"It's snowing."

Count Étienne's expression immediately turned ugly.

In truth, even if he had not said it, the people huddled together could feel it—though the dim light made it hard for them to see anything small, what else could those soft, rustling things continually falling onto their hair, eyebrows, and beards be?

Not to mention that peculiar chill of snowy weather, which kept pouring toward them. Like a Turk's dagger, it stabbed clearly and swiftly into the knights' joints, sliced their lips, thrust into their throats, so that even the slightest movement made them feel as if all the blood in their bodies were being drained away.

Count Étienne deeply felt that he must have been cursed by the devil to have fallen into such a predicament.

An envoy—even an envoy who came before the enemy bearing a flag and declaration of war while two armies faced each other—might not necessarily suffer humiliation or lose his life. And he was an envoy of the Holy Land. Exchanges between Francia, Britain, the Holy Roman Empire, and the Holy Land had never ceased. Especially before and after every expedition, each king, each lord, and each grand master of every knightly order had to remain in frequent, close contact, ensuring they could answer one another and that neither mobilization nor information would fail.

Envoys carrying letters and charters might face some danger, but without question, they also received the greatest respect.

When Louis VII had summoned him and handed him his appointment as envoy to the Holy Land, Count Étienne had wholeheartedly believed that this would be a worthy undertaking, a service to God, the king, and Christians. Though the journey was long, rugged, and filled with wild beasts and heathens... he had still proudly believed that he could complete the task perfectly and return home safely, just as every envoy before him had done.

He simply had not expected that not all dangers came from beasts and heathens. A young and beautiful princess could also land him in trouble. Faced with those unfriendly gazes, Count Étienne had not even dared remain until the next day—God knew that night, he had worn mail, kept an iron helmet on his head, sat with his eyes open and his sword in hand, staring at the door and enduring each moment like a year. Though Amalric I, after realizing his mistake, had promised that no one would challenge him to a duel or commit any despicable act against him...

But Étienne himself had been twenty when he stormed into a church and carried off Adela, the girl he loved. How could he not know what outrageous things a twenty-year-old young man might do?

He had no choice but to abandon his original plan—after all, no one who came to the Holy Land could possibly forgo pilgrimage—and leave early with his knights, squires, and monks. All they could do was look back from afar at that sacred hill in the pale golden morning light.

Those around him had also been sighing and lamenting. Every one of them had thought this a rare opportunity and had pulled every string they could simply to join the party—who would not want to see the silk workshops of Andros Island, tour the ruins of the Colossus on Rhodes, sing aloud in the semicircular theater of Myra, wander through the harbor of Phoenice, and enjoy the warm, cool sea breeze amid the cries of gulls?

They had also planned to pray before the Tomb of Saint Nicholas, seek Saint Peter's miracles in Cyprus, pass through the Gate of David, and gaze long beneath Temple Mount at its famous round golden dome. It was a heathen temple, now belonging to the knights of Christ. They would visit the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus had prayed with his disciples and where he had suffered Judas's betrayal.

They were to go to the holiest place of all: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They would crawl forward and kiss every inch of ground—the cell where Jesus had been imprisoned after his betrayal; the hollow left where the cross had been planted after he was hung upon it; the pillar to which he had been bound while being scourged; even the stone upon which his blood had dripped when he was forced to wear the crown of thorns; and the stone tomb where he had finally rested and risen again...

And the chapels built around that sacred place: Mary Magdalene, Saint John, the Virgin Mary, Saint James, Saint Peter...

They had come full of hope and had even paid much of their compensation in advance. Now it had all come to nothing, and Count Étienne inevitably received many complaints. He could only promise them aboard the ship that once they returned to Francia, he would give every man a gift worth one hundred gold coins. Hearing this, their anger immediately subsided, and their faces blossomed with smiles.

Naturally, Count Étienne could not bear this costly debt alone. At its root, this absurd affair had been caused by the arrogance and recklessness of Louis VII and Amalric I. It should never have been his responsibility in the first place. Amalric I had already promised him generous compensation, and Louis VII presumably would not be overly stingy either. Using that money to ensure his safety on the journey home was the best bargain he could make.

But Count Étienne had not expected that not long after his ship passed through the strait between Cyprus and Tarsus, it would strike a reef.

We have carefully described to you the routes of the First and Second Crusades. If you, like the kings and princes of Jerusalem, possessed a map related to them, you would discover something quite interesting.

That was, judging from the map, the Crusaders could clearly have boarded ships in Sicily or Athens, crossed the Mediterranean, and sailed straight to Jerusalem. Yet they insisted on seeking the hard path over the easy one, crossing most of Europe, Western Asia, and Central Asia, passing through part of Seljuk Turkish territory, and crossing Armenia before reaching Antioch...

Did they think God's trials were too simple, and thus wish to make them harder?

Of course not. The blame lay with the woefully backward shipbuilding and navigational techniques of the time. Ships great and small were almost all single-masted and single-decked, relying only on wind and human strength for power. They simply could not withstand the savage winds and waves of the open sea. And the resulting lack of cargo capacity also forced people into a difficult choice—either ensure room for passengers and goods, or ensure supplies...

Another thorny obstacle concerned direction and routes. Later generations often saw captains and lookouts of this era raising telescopes to scan the horizon. What were they looking for?

Land.

They needed landmarks on the mainland or islands to make sure they had not lost their way... There was no help for it; it would be another hundred years before the Saracens brought the Eastern compass, or south-pointing chariot, into Europe...

In short, ships of this era almost all had to sail close along the coastline. That ensured they would not lose their way, helped them avoid storms too difficult to resist, and made it convenient to stop for provisions. But it also created a problem: ships could easily run aground on reefs near the shore.

At this time, Count Étienne had not yet realized that this was no accident. But the captain was a decisive man. Once he discovered the ship had struck a reef, he disregarded everything and ordered the sailors to drive it toward shore. The vessel let out a groan of unbearable strain and, spending its last scrap of strength, finally did not sink but ran aground.

They could not be sure where they were. Perhaps it was Christian territory; perhaps it belonged to the Seljuk Turks. In any case, remaining here was not a good idea. This was especially so because of a rather infamous law of the time—the right of ownership over wrecked goods. No matter one's faith, if a wrecked ship washed ashore, everything aboard belonged to the local lord.

A heathen lord might even gladly take the survivors aboard the ship as well. After all, slaves were assets too.

You might think a Christian lord would be better? No. To avoid trouble afterward, they would simply kill every survivor and witness alike...

Count Étienne and his attendants moved quite swiftly. Not only did they escape with their lives and lead their own horses from the hold—several horses had broken their legs or necks in the fall, and they could only leave them there—but they also carried away as much food and wine as possible.

After walking some distance, they found that every sight before them was unfamiliar, and they could find no trace of human habitation. One knight climbed onto part of a broken dead tree and looked into the distance, but he could see neither smoke nor firelight rising from a village or castle.

Count Étienne tried to question their guide, but the man seemed to have struck his head in the crash. He had been groaning constantly and could say nothing at all. He could not even open his eyes, much less point them toward the right road. If they set him down and made him walk, he could not even travel in a straight line.

They could only put him on horseback and carry him along.

Everyone's clothes were soaked through. The sunlight was visibly weakening, no longer able to offer even a shred of brightness or warmth—the ominous white frost had already begun to gather on the pilgrimage road in December. Whenever the wind blew, they shivered from head to toe and could barely stand. Seeing this, Count Étienne had the knights dismount, with the horses shielding the outside while the knights walked in the middle.

Fortunately, they soon came upon a pine forest.

No one knew how long this pine forest had stood there. The ground was covered in a thick layer of pine needles. Only the uppermost layer was slightly damp; beneath it lay a rich, dry bed. At the sight, the knights immediately cheered. They raked and clawed together a great heap of pine needles, cleared out a small patch of open ground amid the shrubs at the edge of the forest, and lit a fire there.

The horses remained outside. The squires tied horse blankets and cloaks together and draped them over the animals, propping them up with longswords and spears. Thus they had a roofless tent, though it could at most shield them from the wind. They shared some of the food carried off the ship, cracked open several pine cones, and drank wine. Only then did their bodies begin to warm.

With the immediate crisis resolved, the knights became more animated. One bold squire—the bastard son of the Count of Champagne, and thus, by blood, Count Étienne's nephew—could not help complaining, half in jest and half in earnest, that Count Étienne had not needed to be so heartless.

Jerusalem was the cradle of the Church, the center of the world, the place every Christian regarded as "most sacred." To be king elsewhere was to possess secular power; to be king in Jerusalem was to possess secular power and receive God's blessing, health, and glory, and in the future surely ascend to Heaven surrounded by saints.

In response to the young man's doubts, Count Étienne merely shook his head. "I can answer you with a Saracen verse: 'Jerusalem is a golden basin full of scorpions.'"

Whoever coveted it, whoever reached for it, would be bitten.

Though Count Étienne had only remained in Jaffa for three days and Jerusalem for one night, he had seen things with perfect clarity. Amalric I was indeed a formidable ruler, but he no longer possessed the vigor or spirit of his former days. He was like a tree struck by lightning, rotten within, with only the outer bark barely holding intact. The reason he insisted on remaining standing was perhaps his promise to Christ—before choosing a suitable heir, he could not easily give up.

But who would that person be?

Prince Baldwin? A leper who would not live to thirty?

Or Count Raymond of Tripoli? Bohemond, Prince of Antioch? Auger de Balben, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller? Philip de Milly, Grand Master of the Knights Templar? Or perhaps himself, a French nobleman come from afar?

Count Étienne did not believe that these people were truly as virtuous as they appeared, or that they would willingly place Jerusalem's crown upon an outsider's head. If he truly fell for their scheme, if the gains before his eyes clouded his reason and he remained to become Princess Sibylla's husband, the most likely outcome was that these men would gnaw him to the bone, drain every drop of use from him, and then have him "die in battle," "die of illness," or even "disappear"...

But he could not say these things to anyone.

"But Princess Sibylla truly is a beauty. I can hardly believe you could be so hard-hearted."

This time, Count Étienne truly laughed aloud. "It was precisely because I saw her that I became determined to flee."

"You doubt her love?"

"Love? Princess Sibylla may only be thirteen, but I could see none of that in her eyes." Count Étienne looked around. The young squires and knights wore curious expressions, while the older men smiled as if their hearts had understood the count's. "Did you not sense the danger?"

"A beauty like Princess Sibylla always has ways to make young lads cast away helmet and armor," a knight older even than Count Étienne said teasingly. "Forget danger—even if Satan dropped a basket at their feet, they would leap into it without hesitation."

"Then I can teach you something here," Count Étienne said, raising one finger. "At any time, in any place, when facing any person, you may as well put yourself in her or his position and think: if you were her or him, would you be willing to offer benefits to a stranger for no reason at all?"

"Odysseus's sailors came to a deserted island, where a beautiful woman greeted them and prepared a lavish feast of wine and food. They ate and drank, and became the pigs of the witch Circe;

"There was also fierce Medea. To help her lover escape after stealing the Golden Fleece, she had not hesitated to dismember her own younger brother and scatter the pieces along the road. Yet when Jason fell in love with another, she had been willing to weave a magnificent robe and craft an exquisite crown for his new beloved. In the end, the poor princess died when the poison took effect;

"And there was Delilah, whom we all knew well. Though Samson knew she was the enemy's daughter, he still held her in his arms and revealed his secret. In the end, the Philistines gouged out his eyes, took him to Gaza, bound him in bronze chains, and made him turn a millstone like a beast..."

"Gentlemen," he said with a sneer, "Princess Sibylla is only thirteen, while I am already thirty-seven, older even than her father. No matter how others flatter me, I know I am walking toward the grave. Did she not have companions at her side who were near her in age, fitting in status, and handsome in appearance?

"For her to lower herself to me was a bargain that lost beyond all measure. I can scarcely imagine how much I would have to repay in the future to satisfy her if I signed that contract."

After he finished in one breath, the atmosphere in the clearing became somewhat stifled. The knight who had spoken earlier pitied these young men bewitched by beauty, and suggested that while daylight remained, they enter the pine forest. There might be a covey of grouse there, perhaps even a few rabbits or a deer. Though they still had some food now, it would all be gone by tomorrow.

The knight's suggestion won everyone's approval.