A Petty Man's Plea

A week later.

"I'm hungry," Baldwin said.

"I'll go see what's in the kitchen," Cesar said.

In people's imaginations, a king's son and his attendant could surely obtain anything they wanted at will. Perhaps that was true. Amalric I was filled with love and pity for his only son, who might leave this world before him and endure countless humiliations and pains before that day came, and he was willing to satisfy all his requests.

But in this age, supplies were as scarce as a sheet of white paper with a few careless strokes across it. Even in the kitchens of Holy Cross Castle, there were only vegetables, smoked meat, dried cod, and pickled herring.

The kind of grand feast recorded by monks had to be prepared in advance, often many days ahead, so that the estate steward could gather enough livestock, wheat, beasts, and birds.

The castle steward and the master of the pantry also had to buy spices, honey, sugar, and salt from merchants; bake bread; cure meat; make candied fruit; and take out the silverware, porcelain dishes, linen tablecloths, and other utensils long stored in the storerooms. Polishing, washing, and air-drying them all took no small amount of effort.

On ordinary days, even kings and nobles ate simply, whether two meals a day or three during war, and the food was not always particularly fresh. When they were busy, they ate even more hastily: a bowl of wheat porridge with dried meat, or a piece of day-old bread dipped in wine, was enough to make do. Commoners had it worse. Coarsely ground wheat, or simply whole wheat grains boiled into porridge—if they could add a few dried peas or vegetables in season, that was a blessing beyond blessings.

People still avoided Cesar when they saw him, but compared with Witt, the prince's new attendant was far more likable. He did not deliberately spit at people, nor did he go too near the water-drawing places or the stove. Even when speaking to others, he stood four or five steps away. But the most persuasive proof was that his appearance had remained without the slightest blemish.

"He's a devout, good child," they said, firmly convinced that Cesar had escaped the illness because he was devout enough—especially the kitchen women and maidservants.

"What vegetables do you have today?" the black-haired young attendant asked politely.

"Onions, kale, turnips, pumpkins, and cabbage," a maid answered timidly. Vegetables had never been anything precious. They were piled carelessly on the ground at one side of the kitchen—today's share. Carrying a drawstring bag of cowhide, Cesar placed two onions, one cabbage, and some dried peas inside.

At the fruiter's recommendation, he took two apples that were surely the sweetest and juiciest. The butcher offered him a slab of roast beef as long as an arm. The milk freshly drawn that morning had already been boiled and was stored in a round-bellied clay jar.

"Would you like some ale as well?" The drink steward came running over, panting. "Ale just delivered from the monastery!"

Cesar hesitated. He disliked and disapproved of drinking. No matter how low the alcohol content, it was harmful to the body. The problem was that in Jerusalem, and in many other places, people lacked a stable source of clean water, so they had grown accustomed to using alcohol in place of water. Being able to drink freely was also regarded as a symbol of manliness. As Jerusalem's heir and his attendant, neither he nor Baldwin could avoid the matter.

The ones delivering the ale were several monks from the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist. They remembered Cesar and happily greeted him, shook his hand, and wished that God would bless him.

Seeing people who had once helped him and learning that they were all well was undoubtedly a pleasant thing, but Cesar's good mood was quickly ruined by an uninvited guest.

"Stop!" Cesar said with disgust. "Or I'll call the guards!"

The person who suddenly leaped from the shadows was Witt.

Back in the Left Tower, Witt had not looked like this. He had worn a fine cotton belted tunic, a goatskin cloak, and deerskin boots. His face had been rosy, his body fat and sturdy. Anyone who did not know better would surely have called him "my lord."

And now? It was as though a devil had sucked all his fat away through a straw. His eyes bulged hideously. He wore only a coarse linen robe that reached his knees, went barefoot, and reeked from head to toe. It did not seem as if the stink had clung to him from outside, but as if it had overflowed from the depths of his heart.

With one glance, Cesar knew that Witt must have taken advantage of the ale delivery, clung to the cart, and sneaked into the castle.

While Cesar assessed Witt, Witt was assessing Cesar as well. When Cesar had first arrived at the Left Tower, none of them had thought much of the little slave. So what if he was the prince's attendant? The prince was only a leper! He should have been driven to the valley outside the city and left to live or die with those abandoned by God...

But because he had a king for a father, they, devout good people that they were, had been forced to serve him—they completely ignored how, when the castle steward had questioned them, their minds had been dazzled by the generous reward, and how, after obtaining the position, they had been overjoyed and beside themselves.

Who could have known that after Cesar arrived, the prince, who had remained silent no matter how brazen they were, would suddenly drive them out of the Left Tower and refuse to hear any of their pleas? They were neither knights nor attendants, not even blacksmiths or carpenters. As ordinary servants, they had no right to reside permanently in the castle.

But once one had entered a castle, who would willingly leave? Work within the castle, even handling dung, was easier than quarrying stone, farming, or herding outside. Not to mention that when war came, the castle was the safest place to be.

They—they had only been driven out of their minds by the devil because they had no other choice! That was why they had done such things!

His hand clawed emptily above his head several times, as though seeking a hat, but his hat had long vanished without a trace. He could only kneel and place both hands against his chest. He lifted his head, his greedy eyes roaming over Cesar's body. Cesar was dressed no differently from a nobleman's son: a dark-blue silk belted tunic, gold-and-silver-thread lace at the cuffs and collar, white woolen hose, brown tall boots, and a broad leather belt—commoners were permitted only cloth belts. A dagger hung from the belt, and a silver cross rested against his chest.

If he had not... If he had known, those clothes and the favor they represented should have been his!

"Please," Witt cried hoarsely. "Please, my lord attendant, don't call the guards, don't call the guards! Heaven have mercy, I came to beg forgiveness. I came to repent!"

When he had learned that he had been "chosen," Witt had been ecstatic for a time, and arrogant for a time as well. He had thought he could escape purgatory, return to the world of men, perhaps even soar straight into the heavens. But the cruel hand of fate soon slapped him across the face. He had indeed received absolution and become a monk, but after arriving at the monastery, he quickly realized that he held far fewer cards than he had imagined.

He had once been unable to become a knight or even serve well as an attendant. Now that he had been chosen, he could only treat the tiniest ailments and wounds. It was no exaggeration to say that scabies, scratches, chills, and fevers could be cured by rubbing on a little spit, drinking some hot wine, or, if nothing else worked, letting a bit of blood. There was no need for a monk at all—and praying for holy grace cost a great deal of money.

If Witt had possessed an appearance and character like Cesar's, perhaps some wealthy lord or king might have kept him at court. He would at least have been pleasing to the eye. But he was such a wretched sinner...

His life in the monastery was nothing like the comfortable existence he had imagined. He had to work like a peasant, sleep on the floor, and eat and drink little, and poorly.

He truly could not endure such hardship, so he had racked his brains and found a way to run back.

Compared with before, Witt's present appearance did indeed inspire a little pity. But leaving aside the trap he had laid to harm Cesar, Cesar had heard quite a few accounts of his misdeeds after becoming familiar with the castle servants.

This little weasel's malice seemed aimed at everyone. "Like a stinking wineskin full of bad wine," the cook had said. His belly was full of sour, bitter sludge. He delighted in bullying anyone he could manage, from those around him to his masters.

He had been the first to complain and curse. He had also been the first to use trivial matters for extortion and blackmail, the first to incite the other servants to loaf about and make snide, cutting remarks. In a short time, he had successfully turned the Left Tower into a foul den of scoundrels.

"...I know there have been some misunderstandings between us," Witt said. "But I can swear upon the Holy Sepulchre that at least I, my lord attendant, sincerely wish to befriend you and serve our good master together."

"There's no need to say any of that," Cesar said. "When your accomplices were hanging from the gallows, they probably never expected you, the mastermind, to throw every crime onto their heads."

Witt had been very cautious. He had merely brought the other servants the terrible news that they would be expelled from the castle, then hinted that Cesar was behind it. He had then procured wine and pies and summoned prostitutes. Those simple-minded, vicious creatures naturally knew what to do. "What do you want?"

"I want to return to His Highness's side," Witt said, then hurriedly added, "I know I truly did... make a small mistake before. But, my lord attendant, I have now been chosen. I am a monk. If I serve at His Highness's side as his personal secretary, like Heraclius, it can only be a good thing for His Highness, who is still not permitted to take part in any sacraments."

Fearing that Cesar did not understand, he hurried on. "You know, don't you? Lepers are not allowed to participate in the sacraments, so when inheritance and succession are required, their rights are stripped away. But if I am there, I will prove that His Highness has fulfilled every duty to God just like any other Christian."

As he spoke, he stared fixedly at Cesar. Cesar was the only thing he could rely on now. His uncle had never paid him any heed again. The monks regarded him as a prisoner who needed watching. As for great personages such as Abbot John, the Count of Tripoli, and Amalric I, he did not even have the right to request an audience.

"Very well," Cesar said after considering for a while. "I'll mention it to His Highness."

"You're back?" Baldwin was sitting before the fireplace, reading a heavy book by firelight. "What did the kitchen have today?"

"Some good vegetables," Cesar said. "Have some milk first, then I'll make soup."

Baldwin moved away from the fireplace. They first shared the milk from the clay jar. Cesar lifted a two-handled pot and poured some water into it, then took the poker and looped it around the hooks on either side of the pot. With practiced ease, he hung it from the iron bar above the fireplace hearth. At once, the flames danced around the clay pot. Before long, the water inside boiled. Holding the roast beef, Cesar drew his dagger and shaved it bit by bit into the boiling water. Then came the cabbage and onions.

Baldwin came over to help. Cesar glanced at him. "You don't need to wear the veil and gloves in the room."

"But you're here, aren't you?" Baldwin said. His eyes reflected the firelight, a pair of blue eyes calm as lake water.

"If I could be infected," Cesar said, "I would have shown symptoms long ago. I told you, I won't get sick." He rose and removed Baldwin's veil, then his gloves. They were both made of soft, thin silk and could catch fire from the smallest spark. Wearing them while sitting around the fireplace was far too dangerous.

"I saw..." Baldwin said.

"What?"

"Witt. That was Witt, wasn't it?" Baldwin turned and looked at his little companion.

Cesar briefly told Baldwin about the terms Witt had proposed.

"You may not know this," he continued. "Witt and those people were originally new attendants Father had prepared for me. The servants were only a temporary measure." He smiled sadly. It was difficult to imagine such a smile appearing on the face of a nine-year-old boy.

"After it was confirmed that I had leprosy, David and Abigail, as well as my former friends and attendants, were no longer suitable to remain at my side. So Father intended to find suitable candidates among wandering knights and their descendants, trading prospects and honor for their loyalty. Take Witt, for example. He originally had no qualification to serve me, but who could have expected matters to change so violently?"

"They weren't forced," Cesar said. "They aren't slaves. They have no master, though they certainly sold themselves for a good price." Only after arriving at the castle had he learned that the castle servants were hired workers. They were paid daily, and Witt and the others had demanded ten times the usual wage.

Baldwin's smile became a little more genuine, then he shook his head. "But they soon regretted it. They were afraid every moment. Even though my face has not yet ulcerated and my bones have not yet twisted like those lepers who have been ill for years, I must say they did try hard to control themselves. But afterward...

"Not everyone can be as fearless as you, and accept a life that is practically half imprisonment." He looked toward the flames. "Unlike other people's servants or attendants, anyone known to be at my side cannot escape rejection and loathing."

"Couldn't they leave?" Cesar remarked sarcastically. "A bloodsucking leech, yet it still complains that its victim's skin is not thin enough."

Baldwin laughed. "So it seems you won't let Witt return to my side."

"Who would dare trust such a petty man?" Cesar said. "But this matter..."

"I'll speak to Heraclius. His dialectics lesson is this afternoon anyway," Baldwin said lightly. If Witt had possessed only malice and stupidity, perhaps the matter might have ended there. But he seemed exceptionally gifted at doing evil, so he could not be allowed to remain. Still, dealing with someone who had been chosen was not work they could accomplish themselves.