Chapter 101: Funeral And Wedding
Saladin was quite right; Amalric I’s death made him a hero rather than a clown.
His first attack on Egypt ended in failure. Although he paid all the knights’ wages with his own money, he was still criticized for being too trusting or too cowardly. And the second time, he had made up his mind; he borrowed from the nobles and merchants, and appropriated the Byzantine Princess’s dowry.
He could be said to have staked everything on this one throw, and he was only one step away from success. If he were still alive, this expedition would become an even more indelible stain than the previous battle—if the first expedition could be excused as a lack of experience, then the failure of the second expedition would nail him thoroughly to the pillar of shame.
But he died.
A knight dying on an expedition was tantamount to reserving a saint’s place for himself—that deep black sedan chair had just left Ghazalafa when they encountered pilgrims who had heard the news and come in droves; they followed the king’s coffin along with those knights who were supposed to board ships in Ghazalafa to return to their homeland, all the way to Ayyarasa Road.
The people of Ayyarasa Road had already crowded every street and alley, vying to shed tears and pray for their king, and they lit countless candles and torches.
And on the day he was formally buried, as far as the eye could see, there was only a sea of somber darkness.
Not everyone could afford mourning clothes, but as soon as the sad news was heard, some began donating dyes and black cloth; poor residents and pilgrims might have only a single piece of cloth, which they draped over their heads, clasped their hands together, and watched as six black-clad pallbearers placed the king’s coffin on their shoulders and slowly proceeded toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, surrounded by monks, priests, and nobles.
The dark brown coffin was draped with two pall cloths: purple silk and golden velvet; the gold belonged to the King of Christ, while the purple came from the last garment sewn by the Byzantine Princess for her husband.
When people heard that in the king’s will, these two pall cloths would be donated to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—for use by all the deceased whose funerals were held there—they couldn’t help but shed tears.
To them, Amalric I was the kind of king who was neither particularly good nor particularly bad; he did not tax heavily or shrink from battle cowardly, but this bland impression was completely different after Amalric I died on the expedition.
The people of this era had very peculiar expectations of their monarch; they did not expect him to be particularly benevolent or particularly wise, because benevolence could be found among priests, and wisdom should be applied by ministers and judges, while a king should lead his knights charging across the battlefield; if he could seize territory for the secular crown, that was certainly a good thing, but if he could fight for God’s authority, punish those detestable heathens, and ensure the safety of the faithful, that was true glory.
Therefore, whether it was the knights who came endlessly to mourn the king, or these ordinary residents and pilgrims, their sorrow and pain were genuine, with little hypocrisy.
“Will Your Majesty be canonized?” a pilgrim asked, watching the coffin recede, crossing himself, as if murmuring to himself or praying.
“Probably,” his companion replied. Although they had failed to seize Saracen territory this time, Amalric I had indeed captured Bilbeis and Mistat; they drove out the Saracens, converted their temple into a church, and held Mass there—in fact, if Ayyarasa Road were a theocracy now, Amalric I would probably already be hailed as a saint, just waiting for the formalities.
But Amalric I clearly had no intention of leaving Ayyarasa Road to the Church, whether of Ayyarasa Road or of Rome.
The two leading pallbearers were recognized by the people of Ayyarasa Road: the young Prince Baldwin—who would soon become the new King of Ayyarasa Road—and beside him, Caesar; ordinary people might not think much of it, but those who understood power struggles couldn’t help but change color slightly.
Because pallbearers were generally of only two statuses: friends of the deceased or colleagues of the deceased; even an adult son who greatly loved his father would have to go through some dispute to bear the coffin, let alone Baldwin, who by age had only just left childhood, and his companion beside him was even more so.
Although Caesar was already a Knight of Bethlehem, Prince Baldwin had yet to participate in any state affairs, let alone him.
Both Bohemond and Raymond thought this honor was far too much.
At that time on the battlefield, with no close nephew to tend to Amalric I’s appearance, it was excusable for Baldwin to have Caesar do it. But now they were in Ayyarasa Road, and by no tradition or law should there be a place for Caesar among the pallbearers, yet Baldwin insisted strongly, and Patriarch Heraclius, the Countess of Jaffa, and the Queen also expressed support; the ministers finally had to yield.
After all, in a funeral, the deceased’s family had the greatest say.
The people seeing off the king were almost all kept back at the foot of the stairs in the Place of Suffering; Heraclius sent over a hundred priests, holding candles and holy water, to pass through the crowd and guide them to disperse gradually, lest, as Caesar had warned, someone intentionally or unintentionally cause chaos, leading to terrible accidents like a stampede.
Gerard’s guardians also found several stewards; interestingly, these stewards were the ones who had stepped forward to maintain order when Caesar was doing asceticism in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; later some returned, some stayed here; they all had a craft, and with Caesar’s care, they had become the leaders among the pilgrim workers.
Under the calls and control of the priests and stewards, the crowd departed amid sighs and sobs—they did not just leave like that; by custom, after the funeral, there would be widespread almsgiving, of money and food, possibly at different locations, but ensuring everyone received something.
Meanwhile, Baldwin and Caesar’s group continued deeper into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where generations of Kings of Ayyarasa Road were interred—not quite buried, as the current practice was tomb niches with lead-lined stone coffins, quite similar to the Romans, except the corpse was not cremated.
The oak coffin was placed into the stone coffin—if it were an ordinary person’s funeral, the coffin lid would need lifting poles and crowbars to close, but here the six pallbearers were all “Chosen by Michael” knights; they lifted it together lightly, sliding the coffin lid silently into place—”Wait,” Baldwin said: “Let me look again… father.”
Raymond sighed, Baldwin leaned down and kissed his father’s cheek, while removing a reliquary box and placing it in Amalric I’s clasped hands; the reliquary box contained hair clippings from him, his sister Sibylla, and his little sister Isabella.
“That’s enough.” Baldwin said. Before the coffin lid closed completely, he took one last look at the king; the king was surrounded by fragrant dried flowers, his face serene, only his lips slightly upturned from a ancient Roman gold coin placed upon them.
“Bless us, father,” he prayed silently in his heart: “As you did before.”
————
After they returned to Holy Cross Castle, the first thing Baldwin did after a simple wash was to go see the ladies.
Beyond what later generations might imagine, women were not allowed in the funeral procession at this time, especially noble ladies; some women might be permitted at the end of the procession, but they were generally dishonorable “mourning women,” professional wailers; in families with few heirs, their presence was merely to heighten the atmosphere.
In the Queen—that is, Byzantine Princess Maria’s—living room—a very large room—the Queen dressed in white sat by the window, while the other noble ladies in black sat around her; the eldest Princess Sibylla sat subtly opposite her on an exquisite chair carved with grapes, while she and Baldwin’s little sister Isabella were held in the arms of the Countess of Jaffa; she seemed very accustomed to the Countess’s embrace, neither crying nor fussing.
The Countess of Jaffa looked at Baldwin with concern. If Baldwin were still a prince, she would certainly go up and hug him, but he was about to become a king! Fourteen-year-old kings were not unheard of, but she couldn’t help worrying whether this burden would exacerbate her child’s already very frail health.
Upon seeing Baldwin, the Queen immediately stood, took his hands, and had her stepson sit beside her—she had borne only a daughter before the king’s expedition, disappointing many; now that Amalric I was dead, her hope of bearing another heir had vanished, but on the other hand, Baldwin was unlikely to have heirs of his own—
This meant that if Princess Sibylla bore a son, he would of course become king after Baldwin, but… who knew how things would turn out? If her daughter Isabella could bear a son, that son would likewise have inheritance rights to Ayyarasa Road! No, more precisely, if Sibylla died before Baldwin and unfortunately had no heirs, then her daughter Isabella would be queen!
Even if this queen had to share Ayyarasa Road’s kingship with her husband, so what—her bloodline would flow forever on this holy land!
The Queen told herself there was time yet; Isabella was too young, but being young had its advantages, such as ensuring she would not choose a fool like Abigail of Antioch as a husband for her daughter.
But on the surface, the Queen’s demeanor was impeccable; her eyes red and swollen, her face grief-stricken, she listened intently to every word Baldwin said, occasionally asking about details of the funeral procession, especially inquiring specifically whether Baldwin had placed the reliquary box containing hair from each of the king’s children in the coffin.
“Though I know this may overstep,” the Queen asked: “Might we have the Knight of Bethlehem by your side paint a portrait of the king?”
She was of course referring to Caesar; Caesar could paint—his talent had been discovered by priests back in the monastery, where he was even pulled to repair frescoes and wooden board paintings; after coming to the castle, he had been constantly busy, showing it only recently when copying a map—after all, painting techniques at this time were still very crude and childish; even if he had only learned a bit out of interest and need, it was enough to amaze people now.
“My Isabella has never seen her father,” the Queen said.
Baldwin’s heart immediately softened; Amalric I was not attentive to this daughter—to be precise, he was not very caring toward any daughter; he even somewhat disliked them, especially after Baldwin fell ill; seeing them reminded the king that henceforth his nation and army would be handed to a stranger… for an ambitious man, it was almost like a curse.
“Of course,” Baldwin immediately had Caesar come over; Caesar bowed to the Queen, then at her gesture sat at her feet—a quite intimate position; little Princess Isabella saw him and immediately abandoned the Countess of Jaffa, toddling unsteadily toward Caesar; Caesar scooped her up, deftly turning her to sit against his chest.
The noble ladies couldn’t help but smile, though loud laughter was clearly inappropriate at this time; the smile on the Queen’s face was like a ray of sunlight through thick clouds, fleeting; she pointed to Baldwin: “This is your brother,” then after a slight hesitation: “This one can also be called your brother.”
Everyone looked at Prince Baldwin; Baldwin only showed a gentle yet melancholic faint smile: “Yes, Isabella,” he said softly: “He is Caesar; he will always love you and protect you.”
