Chapter 116: Lady Of Love And Beauty
“They really treat me like a child.” Baldwin said in a low voice, his tone carrying little indignation but rather a touch of helplessness.
Over these past months, he had come to understand clearly that even in a few more months, when he turned sixteen—as per Amalric I’s will—from that day on, he would possess all the rights and status of a monarch.
But in fact, even Amalric I himself had not won the full-hearted loyalty of everyone—at least the Grand Master of the Knights Templar and his members often opposed him. Now they were still opposing, but targeting Raymond and Bohemond—in Baldwin’s view, this was no good either, as it meant the Knights Templar did not yet take this young monarch seriously.
Even today, they were still debating how to launch an expedition against Mulai, despite Baldwin and Caesar having presented evidence that Nur al-Din could start a war at any moment; they remained unmoved, or rather, maintaining the safety of the Pilgrimage Road was the top priority.
No, more precisely, they might believe the intelligence brought by those merchants, but their analysis and judgment based on that intelligence differed greatly from Baldwin’s and Caesar’s—after fighting the Saracens for so many years, they were quite familiar with Saracen politics and military systems, if not knowing them like the back of their hand.
In the Seljuk Turkish court, there is only one master, and all others are slaves; once the master dies, before a new master emerges, chaos ensues. Nur al-Din has three sons and his nephew; once he dies, the Saracens will immediately fall into civil strife.
If so, knowing his days are numbered, Nur al-Din does not even dare leave Acre, let alone launch an expedition against Ayyarasa Road. Even if he suddenly went mad, how long could he last?
Whether Nur al-Din or Amalric I, preparing an expedition takes at least one or two years, and siege warfare lasts weeks to months. Yet they had already made an agreement with Emperor Manuel I of Byzantium: when they attacked Mulai, the Byzantine fleet would arrive simultaneously at Tarsus, a Byzantine city near Mulai’s territory, forming a pincer attack with the Crusaders.
If so, they could finish this war in three months, ensuring the Pilgrimage Road’s safety and using it as a base to attack the Seljuk Turkish sultans.
Even if the Saracens dared attack Ayyarasa Road, they could return to aid in time; Ayyarasa Road is not some small city with low walls—the Crusaders had attacked fiercely for a month and a half at great cost to take it, and over these decades, successive Kings of Ayyarasa Road had continuously reinforced the walls, added fortresses, making it more imposing and sturdy. As one priest put it, “unless God Himself sends down divine punishment, it cannot be destroyed.”
However, Raymond and the others did not see this as any great mistake; the new king was still an impulsive young man. Though he had participated in combats and expeditions, his accumulated experience was still insufficient.
Still, Raymond occasionally asked himself: would he willingly hand over the power in his hands a few years from now?
Five years, he thought, or possibly ten, until King Baldwin IV and his child grew up.
Given Baldwin’s current condition, his health was still manageable, but it could deteriorate sharply at any moment. Raymond had asked some priests: lepers might seem fine for a long time, but one day they could suddenly rot all over, suffer high fever, fall into coma, and then fail to hold on, needing anointing and confession—the whole process might take just one or two months, at most half a year…
Thinking of this, he grew worried. If Baldwin remained immature, too frivolous, or overly trusting of that boy of unknown origin by his side, his regency might last fifteen or twenty years, until Bohemond’s son Abigail and the princess’s child came of age, before he could rest.
In other words, his war with Bohemond might continue all the way to the grave.
Their rivalry had begun when they became attendants to Baldwin III and continued into Amalric I’s reign; unexpectedly, through Baldwin’s generation, it would extend to the next.
He was confident in himself. He was experienced, shrewd in action, and—at least he believed—even if not entirely upright or just, he was dutiful and diligent.
Bohemond? Hah!
A loud cheer shattered Raymond’s sweet fantasy. He came to his senses and realized he was sitting in the high stands. He remembered: to ease the young monarch’s anxiety and irritation, he and Bohemond had specially organized a small martial arts tournament during this time.
Though called small, the preparations before the tournament—proclamations, building stands, walls, fences, rooms, servants, stables, tents, and camps for knights coming from afar—lacked nothing. To make the tournament more spectacular, they had also hired musicians, minstrels, and gaily dressed prostitutes and dancers.
Along with dwarfs and clowns from various castles, numbering fully several dozen.
They had also asked the former queen, now Queen Mother, the Byzantine princess, to lend her animal trainers and those beasts; before the tournament, there were dazzling programs that left people dazzled. Moreover, he and Bohemond had each offered generous bounties.
“Is that your son?” A minor noble took advantage of the surging crowd to approach nimbly and flattered: “What a brave, handsome young man. In my view, no castle, no, all of Ayyarasa Road, even the entire Holy Land has a finer knight than him.”
If he had said other flattering words, Raymond might have smiled and accepted, but speaking of the handsomest and bravest made him unable to laugh. “And our king,” he said coldly.
The noble faltered, but with his unparalleled thick skin, he immediately continued, “Besides the king.”
Raymond snorted. “No, not just the king—you must add one more: the Knight of Bethlehem.”
Sure enough, in the next moment, the crowd roared with cheers; the red flag unfurled in the arena, and the herald stood up, loudly announcing the Knight of Bethlehem’s name.
“It still sounds a bit strange: Caesar of Bethlehem.” Baldwin muttered.
The Franks of this era did not place much weight on surnames; their names were generally given name plus territory or birthplace. Caesar had always been criticized for lacking a surname for this reason, but now as the Knight of Bethlehem, he could be called Caesar of Bethlehem.
Caesar’s opponent was none other than David; the result needed no explanation. Even though the competing parties had agreed beforehand not to use the powers granted by saints, when Caesar first arrived at Holy Cross Castle, he could already defeat David in the target-striking game—by then David had three years of knight training, while Caesar had only two months of horsemanship and spear.
Even David knew that facing Caesar inevitably stirred fear in him—along with some frustration. He believed he would become a brave and fearless knight in time, but Caesar had indeed endured more brutal combats. On the first day of the siege, he had unfortunately fallen from a scaling ladder; though blessed by God and spared lifelong disability, he could not participate in the subsequent battles.
He was sent back to Ayyarasa Road.
If Caesar was a sword tempered multiple times in battle, David was merely an ornament hanging in the hall. He might achieve greater merits in the future, but at this moment, he was no match for Caesar.
Caesar struck David off his horse with one blow; the prepared cheers erupted instantly. Raymond’s face showed displeasure, but he had to perfunctorily clap.
Pitiful was that noble who came to fawn; he might not know much about the Knight of Bethlehem or misunderstood him, thinking he rose so high only due to his prior bond with the new king. He stood rigid and at a loss; Raymond even felt some pity. “Go away,” he said, then turned to watch his own child.
“It’s fine,” Raymond said to himself. “David, you will be Count of Tripoli in time.”
Perhaps—even more… A thought involuntarily surfaced in his mind. Sibylla and Abigail had cohabited for months, yet the princess’s belly showed no sign. Though he knew women do not get pregnant overnight—a newlywed couple might see the wife’s belly swell in one or two months, or go years, even over a decade without hope, by God’s will, teaching their marriage lack of smoothness.
Like Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Louis VII of France.
But if they truly could not have children, or could only bear daughters—daughters’ inheritance rights always come after male heirs. And as Bohemond said, he was Amalric I’s cousin, his son equally Baldwin’s blood kin. In over a decade, when Baldwin IV was bedridden and failing, if Abigail and the princess still had no child…
Of course, there was Princess Isabella. But by then, Princess Isabella would just barely be of age, while his David would be a man of about thirty, a knight, a noble. If he could establish merits in these years, like capturing a city or recovering territory—as his father, Raymond was confident of gaining the support of the Knights Hospitaller and Knights Templar.
By then, perhaps his rivalry with Bohemond could reach a true ending.
When he looked at David again, the irritation in his eyes was gone. He even personally removed his son’s helmet and wiped his sweat, but David was downcast, having disappointed his father once more.
“It’s nothing,” Raymond said. “Everyone has their strengths, and yours may be beyond their reach.”
David could not grasp his father’s meaning for a moment; he wanted to ask further when he heard crisp cheers and shouts, plus the thumping of leather shoes on the wooden stands— it was the tournament’s champion today, the Knight of Bethlehem, following tradition, hanging a wreath on his spear.
He was to present this wreath to the fairest and noblest woman here.
Generally, this ceremonial homage and gift—unless the knight had already sworn to a noble lady, knelt at her feet, vowing to defend her honor— the wreath was usually given to the highest-status woman in the arena.
The highest-status woman present today was the Countess of Jaffa.
Since Amalric I’s death, she had frequently traveled between Jaffa and Ayyarasa Road; after losing her father, she naturally wished to give more maternal comfort to her children. But in her view, the only one needing soothing was Baldwin—Sibylla was growing ever more paranoid, arrogant, capricious.
The Countess of Jaffa had already smiled; she saw the boy having his attendant hang a wreath of forget-me-nots, purple flowers dotted with small white roses, tied with bright red ribbon. She considered, then removed one of her bracelets— a noble lady’s return gift to a knight.
“I remember the last time I was ‘Lady of Beauty and Love’ was twenty years ago,” she turned to her female companion excitedly: “Amalric I won that martial arts tournament’s championship and gave me the wreath. Unexpectedly, after twenty years, I can be ‘Lady of Beauty and Love’ again.”
Her companion was her longtime friend, who burst into uncontrollable laughter upon hearing this; she was about to say something when her expression suddenly froze.
The Countess of Jaffa turned at once, her face turning cold; she saw her daughter—Princess Sibylla.
The Countess of Jaffa had once been mistress of Ayyarasa Road, but after divorcing Amalric I, she was just an ordinary noble lady—as Sibylla had blurted in anger—her status now below her daughter’s. Thus, at this moment, Sibylla was the noblest woman in the arena—this realization immediately gave her a bad premonition.
“What do you want to do?” she asked in a low voice.
Sibylla stood before her, face stern. “You should curtsy to me.”
The Countess of Jaffa’s lips trembled, but she bent her knee and lowered her head. Before fully standing, she gripped Sibylla’s arm fiercely. “Have you told your brother? Told the Knight of Bethlehem?”
Now Caesar was no longer an ordinary servant; he was a knight with territory, a close minister to the king. Though Gerard’s Damara had written to release him from his oath—upon returning to Ayyarasa Road, Caesar had sworn it to her, fulfilling his promise—though the oath lasted briefly, everyone knew the Knight of Bethlehem was a man of his word.
When Damara made her request in Bilbeis, he was still a novice knight, not yet formally sworn; he could have refused.
But he did not; he accepted that difficult task, thanks to his courage, wisdom, and strength. Another knight might have wasted time, even lost honor and life there.
If he gave the wreath to Princess Sibylla here, he must swear to her, become her knight. From then on, he would bear all the obligations and duties of every sworn knight.
The Countess of Jaffa knew well that with Sibylla’s temperament, she would never easily let go of the Knight of Bethlehem, such a useful tool.
By now, the Knight of Bethlehem had turned toward the stands; the previously noisy crowd fell quiet, exchanging glances and murmuring. Baldwin even stood from his seat. For the first time, he looked at his sister with cold, sharp eyes. He loved Sibylla, but he would not tolerate anyone exploiting and humiliating his best friend and brother through their bond—especially in his presence, almost a provocation.
He regretted it. Not long ago, Sibylla had hinted to him—wanting Caesar to swear loyalty to her—but then, he had firmly refused, without further warning or rebuke.
If he wanted Caesar to become Sibylla’s knight, he would have done it long ago. The uninformed might think becoming a princess’s knight was no bad thing for Caesar.
But though Baldwin was often blinded by family ties, he could sense Sibylla’s subtle malice toward Caesar. He had also seen how Sibylla “used” Abigail—that ruthless, reckless way chilled even him. If Abigail were not the only son of the Duke of Antioch, Amalric I would have personally beheaded him when it happened.
Let alone Caesar being an upright, resilient good person.
If he were Abigail, would he agree to Sibylla’s request? Not only no, he would try to dissuade and stop her—but to Sibylla, that would be betrayal.
But if Caesar did not give the wreath to Sibylla, that too would be betrayal to her; he would face her endless revenge—he was not yet a count or a grand duke’s son.
“Everyone, why are you all standing here?” A pleasant voice suddenly broke the arena’s silence.
When people saw who it was, a long collective sigh swept the stands and arena. Everyone looked at those around them, then chuckled wryly. It turned out the voice was their simultaneous sigh. “God preserve us,” someone murmured.
The speaker was none other than Queen Mother Maria, who should not have been here. She wore a white robe, black cloak, holding the young Princess Isabella, no crown, just a simple headscarf slightly askew, as if in haste.
Her features were not strikingly beautiful, but now everyone felt except Sibylla she was as lovely as the Virgin Mary.
Now, who was the noblest woman in this arena? Of course, Queen Mother Maria.
Sibylla stood frozen, her face paling, flushing, then turning ashen, while the Countess of Jaffa loudly reminded: “Curtsy, princess.” The noble ladies around could not help laughing, even those brought by Sibylla. After curtsying, the Countess of Jaffa ignored the princess and calmly returned to her seat.
Queen Mother Maria had not come on foot or by carriage; she rode a tall Arabian—one of Amalric I’s legacies—her handmaids on horses behind her. She trotted directly into the arena, facing Caesar.
Caesar gave her a grateful smile, slowly directing his spear tip toward the Queen Mother. She calmly took the wreath and placed it on her little daughter Isabella’s head. Looking down, she realized in her haste she had nothing to give Caesar, so she took a ribbon from the little princess’s hair and tied it to the spear tip.
It looked a bit comical—a sharp, long spear with just a thin ribbon—but when Caesar raised it, the cheers from the audience far exceeded any before.
