Count Étienne's Advice (Part One)

Mleh's horse shifted its hooves slightly.

After several months of riding lessons, and having truly turned riding from a pastime into a necessity of life, Cesar could now tell at a glance that Mleh had shifted his body in the saddle.

A disciple of the devil, a shameless traitor, a dog-bastard of the heathens—upon seeing a group of Christians like this, if all he wanted was to seize them, drag them back to his castle, and demand ransom for each of them, selling off anyone unable to pay to Isaac's slave traders—well, that would not have been strange in the slightest.

Even if they had almost nothing to do with him and had committed no sin, they would still suffer disaster because of his greed, and he would not care in the least. He might even be smugly delighted, thinking himself blessed by fortune—his target today had been another group, but who would refuse a fat little lamb with barely any strength to resist?

But if the other party was the only son of Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, that was another matter.

As we have said before, this was indeed Mleh's territory, but his previous vile deeds had earned even the Turks' contempt. Toghrul II, intending to set tiger against wolf, had granted him lands in the triangular region where the Principality of Antioch, Armenia, and the Seljuk Turks frequently clashed. If Mleh wanted to hold on to his territory, he had to labor for Toghrul for nothing.

Of course, how could a vicious wretch like Mleh willingly allow himself to be used in such a manner? He preferred raiding pilgrims passing through his territory or nearby regions. At times, he attacked Isaac's merchants, and even Turks or Saracens who recited the name of Allah just as he did.

Someone might point at him and call him an apostate, but faith was merely a useful tool to him, and he had every confidence in this—after all, he had paid homage to Saint Matthew in Jerusalem's church, and received the blessings of the prophet Lot in Aladdin Mosque. Since saints and prophets themselves did not care, what was there for a mere mortal to care about?

But when his own interests were involved, Mleh had far more to consider.

The current Prince of Antioch, Bohemond III, was no easy neighbor to deal with—and that had something to do with what had happened during his childhood and youth. His father was Raymond, son of William IX, Duke of Aquitaine, while his mother was Constance, daughter of Bohemond II. This marriage, too, had been utterly mismatched in age: Constance had been ten, while Raymond had been thirty-six.

Although they had borne a son and a daughter, Constance neither respected nor loved her husband. After he died in battle, she swiftly married a Crusader knight—the man who would later become Prince Raynald of Antioch. Whether there had been true affection between them, we did not yet know, but after Raynald was captured by the Saracens, Constance had shown little enthusiasm for rescuing him. Perhaps by then, the noblewoman had already tasted the sweetness of power.

That desire had destroyed the relationship between Bohemond III and his mother. In particular, when he came of age and demanded that she return power to him, Constance had adamantly refused. Had she not earlier done something foolish—marrying her daughter to Manuel I, the Byzantine Emperor, thereby giving him overlordship and succession rights over Antioch—the Crusader knights within Antioch would not have angrily stripped her of her regency, and Bohemond III's accession might not have gone so smoothly.

Bohemond III naturally loathed Manuel I, who watched him like a tiger eyeing its prey. But several years earlier, he had been captured by Nur ad-Din of Zengi, and had only been released back to Antioch through Manuel I's mediation and gold. Thus, he had no choice but to accept certain conditions, such as receiving Manuel I's priests and officials—and marrying the Emperor's niece.

And the only son of Bohemond III and that imperial niece was Abigail. Mleh had naturally heard his name. If the child's mother had been anyone else—even the illegitimate daughter of the Pope of Rome or a princess of the Holy Roman Empire—he would have carried every one of them off without hesitation, and the child would have fetched the highest price.

But this child was the key by which Manuel I extended his influence into the states of the Holy Land. If Mleh did such a thing, he would face attacks from Byzantium, Armenia, and the Principality of Antioch on three sides—not to mention Toghrul II. The Turkish Sultan would not spend a single soldier to rescue a former enemy.

But if one asked whether he could willingly accept that outcome, the answer was certainly no. The heir to a principality was worth at least several thousand gold coins, and with such a special status, perhaps even more.

Mleh was now like a wolf pacing before a trap, coveting the hunter's fat bait while fearing the sharpened bamboo stakes in the pit.

He also had doubts. The son of a prince held no lowly position, and he was so young. Even if he was not in his father's castle, he ought to have been in the castle of the King of Jerusalem or the Count of Tripoli. How had he appeared here for no reason at all? And with only some ten men at his side—moreover, Mleh could tell at a glance that they were two separate groups.

"One of my father's guests encountered a wolf pack. His attendants returned to ask for help, so I came out with some attendants," Cesar said.

Though he said so, there was still a hint of weakness and uncertainty in his voice, and his eyes unconsciously lowered.

Mleh guessed that the child had probably slipped out to play behind his father's back, using the search for the guest as an excuse.

"We found him, and we were just preparing to return," Cesar added.

Mleh's gaze lingered again upon Count Étienne. He saw the twisted leg, then turned his gaze back to Cesar. "He is injured," he said. "Impressive, my little knight. Were you the only one who found him?"

"Of course," Cesar said, raising his head proudly. "My father sent many people out, but I was the only one who found him."

"Your father... sent many people?"

"Many people," Geoffrey said this time. "We have already released the little falcons. They will be here very soon."

Mleh's expression shifted uncertainly. He had also heard that several parties of knights were searching for someone. He held the advantage in both strength and numbers, certainly, but the other side had eight or nine people, all mounted. They could flee, or tangle with his men in a fight, and at any moment, the knights from Antioch might catch up.

He had always prided himself on caution, though in truth he was cowardly by nature: greedy, yet unwilling to take the slightest risk. After thinking it over again and again, he lightly pressed his heels to his horse's belly. "Then let it be so."

He rode forward, slowly passing through the group. The "son" of the Prince of Antioch watched him curiously, turning his head to say something to the attendant beside him. The tall, solidly built knight answered with a few words carrying more than a trace of contempt. They were certainly not kind words, but Mleh had lived comfortably until now precisely because he did not care about such empty reputation.

As he passed the guest, he confirmed that he was a Frank. White or blue cloak or short coat, red trousers, boots gilded and patterned—knights who had stayed here long always carried some Eastern touches upon them. Count Étienne gave him a slight nod, as though he had never heard Mleh's notorious name.

"You truly are a warrior," Mleh flattered him hypocritically. "How many did you encounter?"

"We encountered two groups. One was a pack of wolves, the other a pack of jackals. There were at least fifty of them. They were truly cunning and vicious, but God blessed us, and we drove them off while singing. If you continue ahead, you may still see the corpses they left behind."

Mleh stared at him for a while, uncertain whether the man was mocking him. Although Count Étienne had used the names of beasts, Mleh was more concerned about small bands of wandering bandits than real wolves or jackals. He cared not because he wished to ensure peace in his territory, but because he feared someone might compete with him for prey.

"Then I truly ought to take a look," Mleh said. This time, he did not linger. He led that group of soldiers—whether Turks or Saracens, none could say—past Cesar and the others. Only after the tail of the last cavalryman's horse had swept past the edge of the pine forest did Geoffrey nod to Count Étienne. "Let us go as well."

One of the Count's knights was about to step forward, only for the monk to seize his reins and give him a stern glare. He was rather confused, until he saw Count Étienne step forward and bow slightly to the "son of the Prince of Antioch." Then the two set off side by side at the head of the party, and he understood—after they had traveled more than a hundred feet, a Turkish cavalryman hurried up from behind.

"The prince said that he forgot to ask you to convey his greetings to your father, the Prince of Antioch. May Allah bless him with health and strength." He held out his hand. Geoffrey took the item he offered: a gold ring in the style of the Fatimid dynasty, its band and bezel wound with threads of gold and dotted with gold granules. The workmanship alone was worth far more than the gold itself.

Geoffrey tossed a gold coin into the Turkish cavalryman's hand. The man was instantly overjoyed. He leaped from his horse and bowed deeply, hand to chest, before the "prince's son" clad in a black sable mantle. Then he sprang back onto his horse and vanished in the blink of an eye.

Only then did Count Étienne's knight realize that he had nearly made a grave mistake.

After that encounter, they could no longer spare concern for Count Étienne's leg. Once they had left Mleh and his soldiers' line of sight, they galloped at full speed. They had no guide or messenger, and could only run toward the coast as best they could. This time, God had finally favored them, allowing them to find a Christian village.

The village steward sent a messenger to lead them all the way to Zephyrium, an ancient port city. Though it belonged to the Byzantine Empire, to avoid further trouble they disguised themselves as pilgrims protected by Templars. From Zephyrium, they sailed to Cyprus, then went straight from Cyprus to Jaffa.

Only upon reaching Cyprus did Geoffrey send word to Jerusalem. Another day and a half passed before Count Étienne finally returned to Holy Cross Castle.

At the sight of the three lion-headed towers, Count Étienne was overcome by a thousand feelings. When he had left, the King here, Amalric I, could be called the thorn in his side—though it had been he and Louis VII who had made the mistake. Yet when he returned, he had become Amalric I's thorn in the side.

He was taken to the main tower and lodged in a room second only to the King's. The bishops of Jerusalem had long been waiting. They took turns praying over and treating Count Étienne's leg, assuring him that within a week he would walk as freely as before, with no lingering effects. In the future, he would still be a valiant and fearless knight.

The King personally placed a collar around his neck. That collar, set with rubies and sapphires, was roughly worth the price Count Étienne had fetched this time. There was no need to mention the other comforts and gifts. The King and the Prince of Antioch had also generously borne the cost of all the rewards—this affair had stirred up three knightly orders and half the Crusader knights in the city.

Men such as Geoffrey, his soldiers, and his attendants were to receive additional commendations.

"That... child?" Count Étienne asked.

His monk hesitated. "I do not know." He remembered that when they had first entered Holy Cross Castle, the King had put an arm around Count Étienne's shoulder, and together with the Count of Tripoli, the Prince of Antioch, and other nobles, had ushered them inside. That green-eyed little attendant had been left behind them. No one paid him any extra attention; only Geoffrey the Templar had turned back, pressed a hand to his shoulder, and said something to him.

But if the monk had to describe it, the little attendant did not look as if he had been forgotten or abandoned. Rather, he seemed to be waiting for something.

And he received what he was waiting for. The monk saw that after everyone else had left, a boy in white robes with a fine gauze veil ran out from a corner of the tower. He rushed straight at Cesar and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace!

"You saw that person?"

"Baldwin, Amalric I's only son, and also Cesar's master," the monk said. "It was obvious that they were very close. Prince Baldwin treated him not as a useful attendant, but as an affectionate brother."

Count Étienne nearly laughed aloud. "Ah, my dear Anuncia," he called to his monk. Generally speaking, such monks could be considered a lord's trusted confidants, and he never concealed his true nature before Anuncia.

"You were born into a peasant family. Had you not become a monk, you would have been nothing more than an ordinary farmer. Tell me, if you were still a farmer, would you allow a leper to embrace you so intimately, rest his chin against your neck, breathe upon your skin, and touch you with fingers like dead branches?"

The monk shuddered. "No, never!"

"What if he were a prince?"

"Let him go to hell!" the monk said without the slightest hesitation. "No matter how much gold or how many titles there are, I must first live long enough to spend them!"

"Then," the Count asked lazily, leaning back into the soft, fluffy furs, "do you think Cesar would want that so-called 'affectionate brother'?"