Chapter 103: Funeral And Wedding
Bohemond hurried over.
He and Count Raymond of Tripoli, along with several other lords, were not in the Kingdom of Ayyarasa every moment. Although they were vassals and ministers of Amalric I, they also had their own territories to govern.
Unless Amalric I mustered the army and summoned them to join together against the Christians’ enemy, the Saracens, they would bring knights and place themselves under Amalric I to fulfill their innate obligations and exercise their power until death.
Or perhaps something major had happened in Ayyarasa, such as the prince’s misfortune before, the king’s death this time, and this marriage that would connect the Principality of Antioch with the Kingdom of Ayyarasa.
Bohemond was already accustomed to being disappointed in his son.
Sometimes he always felt that this son had not only failed to inherit his bloodline but also had not inherited the part from his mother. After all, his mother was a Byzantine princess—”Byzantine-style conspiracy” had long become a commonplace adjective, widely circulated among the nobles of the Holy Land.
He also knew full well how much trouble and crisis a fool could cause. So when Count Etienne got into trouble and it had been proven to be related to Abigail, he unhesitatingly beat Abigail severely and sent him back to the duchy.
In these years, even though Amalric I had forgiven Abigail and allowed him to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to complete his Choosing ceremony, Bohemond had not relented—Abigail’s Choosing ceremony was held at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Antioch. This church was certainly far inferior in sanctity and orthodoxy to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or even to the Church of the Nativity or Temple Church, but so what?
If Bohemond had a second child, even if it were a daughter, he might have disposed of Abigail, this useless little bastard, who disappointed Bohemond time and again, especially now that several young men his age were becoming increasingly outstanding.
When the Grand Duke walked into this hall, that feeling became even more pronounced.
Because he saw Caesar serving at the right side of the throne, the most trusted position, second only to the king. When people came forward to pay respects to Baldwin, it was as if they were also showing respect to this Knight of Bethlehem.
Although Bohemond only needed to nod slightly. When he saw that radiant young man, a hard-to-describe emotion still surged uncontrollably in his heart.
He still clearly remembered when this little Isaacite slave first took Baldwin’s place to receive the Eucharist, arousing Abigail’s jealousy because he could stand beside Princess Sibylla.
At that time, he only found it amusing, and his annoyance was due to his son’s short-sightedness.
What was it to stand beside Princess Sibylla when receiving the Eucharist? He was just a small gift that Amalric I casually gave to comfort Baldwin, like a piece of candy parents take from a jar to placate a crying child.
No matter how much Baldwin liked him, could he be accepted by the other attendants and knights in the castle? Could he follow beside his own father or elders to learn and absorb the various lessons and experiences needed by knights and ministers?
Could he openly appear in Amalric I’s retinue, carrying his flag or his cloak?
When they grew up, this black-haired little guy might still be a servant, at most an attendant. Abigail, David, and others might already have become true knights, even able to serve Amalric I in the Imperial Court and on the battlefield. Why should he care about such a minor character?
Thinking back now, Bohemond felt a slight pang of regret—yes, very slight. Because even to this day, he did not believe that Baldwin, plagued by chronic illness, could achieve any astonishing feats as Amalric I had hoped; he was merely a transitional figure.
As long as he held on for ten or fifteen years, until Abigail and Sibylla’s child came of age, he could naturally heed the call of God or the Grim Reaper and yield the throne of the King of Ayyarasa to the latter.
And in these fifteen years, he, Raymond, and the others would not allow this young king to act too recklessly, to go against the natural order, or to grant excessive power to an Isaacite slave. Bohemond believed he could achieve that.
He was the Duke of Antioch, the future grandfather of the King of Ayyarasa. As long as he could convince Raymond, Baldwin’s Regent, if that bull was willing to follow his arrangements, he could ensure that during this long period, Ayyarasa would belong to them.
However, at this moment, this cunning old fox by nature would not show any unusual expression; he even bowed respectfully to Baldwin, then turned to his son.
When he saw Abigail dressed in a bright red velvet coat, deep blue trousers, and a silver belt, his face grew even darker—Amalric I had been dead less than a week, the priests of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were still holding atonement Masses for him every night, the mourning ceremonies in the city would last a full fifty days, and the children had to observe four months of mourning for him.
There were no strict mourning requirements for those outside the blood family at this time, but everyone appearing before Baldwin wisely wore black or dark coats, dressed especially plainly, and wore almost no jewelry except rings, just to avoid hurting Baldwin’s heart.
Baldwin himself wore only a plain linen robe, a wool cloak, and a brown leather belt around his waist; his collar and hem had no embroidery or adornments. Caesar standing beside him was clad entirely in black, solemn as if ready to undertake asceticism at any moment.
He naturally knew that Abigail was dressed this way to see Sibylla.
Bohemond could not help but feel a surge of relief; he even thought he should thank those two knights who had beaten his son black and blue—if upon returning to Holy Cross Castle, Abigail had not gone to express condolences to Baldwin or the queen but had instead gone straight to Princess Sibylla—perhaps even saying witty remarks or giving gifts—that would have been both fatal and laughable.
“Since you have come,” Baldwin sighed, “then tell us what happened at the time.”
These two knights were tall and sturdy, their faces still bearing knife scars from mourning Amalric I. They eagerly recounted what had happened. Truth be told, Abigail had not been so foolish as to recklessly slander Amalric I and Baldwin during such a depressing and painful time.
He was not crazy.
It was just that while those two knights waited for the guards to inspect the documents, he happened to come in from outside. His overly flashy and exaggerated attire caught the knights’ attention, and then they heard him say that although he also regretted Amalric I’s death, he had to admit that if not for the king’s impending death, the princess’s marriage might not have been decided so quickly.
He also said that although he had received many rewards from the king before, nothing was better than this.
These words seemed harmless at first glance. But for the two knights who had just left Baldwin and witnessed the frail prince’s deep and sincere mourning and grief for his father and monarch, completely moved by such profound emotion, they were extremely grating.
So they immediately spurred their horses forward and demanded how this young man could say such vile words.
How could Abigail look up to these two out-of-town knights? He had seen countless such knights in the Holy Land, not to mention that he was there to marry Princess Sibylla. In a few years, he would share Ayyarasa’s crown with Sibylla and become the King of Ayyarasa. These people should all prostrate themselves before him, begging his forgiveness and offering their loyalty.
He did not think he had said anything wrong; he even felt extremely wronged and somewhat fearless. Even if Baldwin punished him unjustly, he would marry Sibylla in a few months—could they throw the princess’s husband into prison?
“I am willing to apologize,” Abigail said dryly, “but not for my words—I said them completely from my heart. I had no intention of disrespecting the king.”
He argued, “Your Majesty is almost my father. I grew up under his care; he often stroked my head, praised me, encouraged me, and I am to marry his daughter. I can swear that I came with heavy grief and sorrow.
Perhaps these two gentlemen were too eager for credit—having sworn oaths to Your Highness before—that caused this misunderstanding…”
He spoke with ill intent, and everyone present could tell; he did not think he was wrong and intended to shift the blame to those two knights, deliberately leading people to think they had intentionally stirred up trouble before Baldwin to claim unearned merit by pinning a fabricated charge on an innocent person.
Baldwin did not look at him; looking at Abigail even once made him feel nauseous. He only looked at Bohemond, his blue eyes shooting out the same light as Amalric I’s—equally cold and equally hard. “Thirty lashes.”
Bohemond silently accepted the order, while Abigail did not even realize for a moment that this punishment was for him. The impatient knights beside him immediately stepped forward and grabbed his arms; only then did he understand and begin shouting.
The knights were furiously angry. Even their mortal enemies, the Saracens, would pause negotiations and war upon Amalric I’s death and allow them to see him off, letting the king peacefully embark on the road to Heaven.
But this guy, a Christian, one protected by Amalric I—even the future son-in-law of Amalric I, whose child might become King of Ayyarasa.
He, on the other hand, showed no due pain or grief; he was even full of joy, behaving more disgracefully than their enemies.
The handmaid hurriedly ran up the tower to report this to Princess Sibylla. She thought the princess would plead for mercy, but Sibylla only placed her hands on her knees. “All of you, leave.”
The handmaids did not dare speak and quickly stood up and exited the room. Once only Sibylla remained in the room, she rose and walked to the window. This was their little sewing room with ample light, overlooking the square below.
The knights directly dragged Abigail to the dusty center of the square, where curious people gathered. After all, his attire showed he was a noble, but soon someone recognized him, even though he had left Holy Cross Castle for several years.
“Isn’t this Abigail, the only son of the Duke of Antioch?”
“How come—he doesn’t know the king has passed away?”
“He has a betrothal with the princess; it was promised by the king… but… ha!”
Sibylla stood coldly at the window, overlooking the scene below.
The knights treated Abigail like a sinner or a pig; they stripped off his luxurious bright red velvet coat and milky white silk shirt, bound him to a crude frame, and then, per Baldwin’s order, gave him exactly thirty lashes without mercy.
This flogging was of course not as haphazard as beating an animal. One knight served as executioner; his arms were thick and clearly very strong. He wielded the whip with the skill of priests reciting scripture—not hurried, deliberate, pausing before cracking it on Abigail’s bare back.
Abigail was also one of the chosen, but he evidently had not endured great hardships and could not bear it. Moreover, his saint seemed unwilling to heed him. By the third lash, he was already howling loudly, begging for the saint’s protection, but nothing came.
Amusingly, the executioner knight even looked up, glanced around, and only after confirming nothing unusual, grinned and continued.
The other knight standing by counted methodically for Abigail. He fainted around the seventeenth or eighteenth lash.
The knight seemed to want to consult Baldwin—whether to continue—but was stopped by Bohemond, who stood by with arms folded, watching coldly. The Grand Duke looked as if he wanted to deliver the remaining dozen lashes himself, but he merely instructed the knight to finish it.
Sibylla watched as Abigail was taken down from the frame like a heap of messy trash. Two servants came out and carried him away, full of anger and despair.
She had long known she would inevitably marry—not Abigail, then someone else, like David or a noble come from afar from Francia.
The princess had never fantasized about her marriage like other noble ladies. She was prepared, even indifferent if her future husband was old, brutal, or ambitious, but she truly could not tolerate that her future husband was such a useless coward.
She blankly sat back in the chair. The sky outside was rapidly darkening. Without her order, the handmaids did not dare enter to light candles. She sat like this for a while until the cold night wind pierced her thin clothing, and she doubled over in violent coughing, almost missing the sound outside the door.
The handmaids were exclaiming and curtsying. Few in this castle received such treatment, but she guessed it was Baldwin, come to comfort her, after all, he had just punished her future husband.
“Sister?”
Sibylla grabbed the water cup and drank a large gulp of cold water, then said in her gentlest voice, “Come in, brother.”
The door opened, and Baldwin entered. Sibylla stood to curtsy to him, but having maintained a stiff posture, her knees were numb. She stood fine, but when she tried to kneel to Baldwin, a sharp pain shot through, and she uncontrollably pitched forward.
Amid the handmaids’ exclamations, someone firmly caught her.
