Chapter 22: Sibylla’s Humiliation
Count Etienne felt as if he had been struck by lightning.
He had always thought himself a good person who kept to his place and loved peace.
The only outrageous thing he had done in his life was taking away his beloved Adelaide at the wedding site, but he had to say that the marriage between Adelaide and Anslo II had not been established, and his behavior had not violated doctrine.
He had also accepted punishment, accepting the challenges from a king and two counts, and afterward purchasing five hundred years of indulgences from the Church—two hundred more years than the sin of marrying his own sister.
He felt he had done everything with utmost benevolence and righteousness, with nothing to criticize, but since then people always saw him as a frivolous, licentious man.
But at least his liege lord Louis VII should understand him, otherwise His Majesty would not have entrusted him with such an important duty as Envoy to the Holy Land; he had not expected that Louis VII chose him for other intentions… God preserve him, he had never thought of becoming son-in-law to King Amalric I of Ayyarasa Road, nor of becoming Christ’s knight, Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre!
He was not that pious!
He complained to his personal servant, who immediately removed his hat, pressed it to his chest, and expressed infinite sympathy to his master. Just moments ago, Count Etienne had done something irreparable; he did not think he was wrong, but it had indeed made the scene at the time utterly… absurd.
In the Francia Court, the Count of Sancerre had always been a popular figure—because of the incident of charging into the church to steal away the bride, people’s view of him was almost completely fixed: men saw him as a tricky and detestable enemy, while noble ladies saw him as a challenging yet rewarding lover.
He admitted he had never kept chaste, but both he and the women could guarantee that they were merely immersed in an atmosphere of elegant loftiness, neither too intimate nor leaving evidence in letters; they were like skylarks, meeting on branches at night and parting at dawn.
He was accustomed to the ambiguous atmosphere in the Francia Court and thus overlooked the strangeness in the Ayyarasa Road Court—the eager gazes of the high officials, the provocative looks of the young knights, the whispers of handmaids and attendants.
They had seated him to the left of the princess, so he treated her as the mistress of the castle, like a knight serving a noblewoman: fetching water for her to wash her hands, handing her a towel, cutting meat for her, serving her the spice plate, peeling nuts for her—but he could swear he had been utterly proper, without a single transgressive word or deed!
After the last dish was cleared, the servants cleaned the long table and tidied the hall. A spacious area was cleared in the center of the great hall for dancing. This was also a standard part of the banquet; people looked at him and at Princess Sibylla, and as the most important guest, he should dance with the hostess here.
So he stepped forward to invite the princess; he had to admit that Princess Sibylla was indeed a beauty. And her beauty differed from those in the Francia Court; perhaps because she was the only daughter of the King of Ayyarasa Road, she lacked the humility and gentleness required of women in this era. Though she had to tilt her head up to see his face, she did so without the slightest shyness, even with a hint of appraisal.
Count Etienne even thought for a few minutes that he was going mad from too much wine or moldy bread; the way she looked at him was intent, as if eyeing a piece of jewelry in a jewel box. She extended her hand to him, seeming to offer herself, but in fact pulled him toward her; Count Etienne felt he was the one being seized.
Even so, Count Etienne still clung to a shred of hope: he was thirty-seven, while Princess Sibylla was only thirteen. To put it bluntly, he could not only be her father—if the marriage of children were more hasty, he could even be Sibylla’s grandfather; he was well aware of his own position.
But this self-awareness was soon shattered. They danced, and then the Duke of Antioch Bohemond stood up, suggesting he compose a love poem for the princess; poetry was also one of the required subjects for knights. And at a banquet, a knight offering a love poem to his admirer was commonplace and something people enjoyed.
This did not involve morality or doctrine; many husbands even enjoyed such scenes, as it showed their wives were admired by many, and as husbands they shared in the glory. The problem was that Princess Sibylla was not yet married; for a gentleman, especially one not in a marriage relationship, to publicly express love to an unmarried woman at a banquet was almost a proposal.
Count Etienne instantly felt a chill run through him, but the gazes focused on him forced him; he could not rudely refuse or stay silent—he could only “cheerfully” stand up and compose a love poem for Princess Sibylla:
“Under the tree shade lies a scroll of poetry,
A bottle of fine wine, a bit of bread,
With you beside me singing in this wasteland,
The wasteland itself becomes heaven!”
The poem was short, with simple words; the count recited it dryly, without emotion, but everyone present was thrilled, clapping hands vigorously or banging on tables.
Except for Sibylla’s admirers, everyone beamed with smiles; they ushered Count Etienne to the center of the hall, surrounding him, as Princess Sibylla’s attendant strode forward proudly and presented him with a cloak of black mink fur.
This was of course a luxurious garment. In the Francia Court, if a noblewoman had her attendant do this, Count Etienne would gladly accept the gift full of affection. But could he not understand now?
This was the first step in marriage negotiations!
Though marriages at this time were mostly like transactions or alliances, with the bride and groom possibly never having met, at most exchanging portraits, letters, negotiations, and haggling—handled not by priests near their fathers but by capable ministers—to make the marriage seem more formal or veil it in romance, there were recognized customs, one of which was for the young woman to prepare a cloak for her future husband.
Count Etienne watched the attendant approach, unfurl the cloak to drape over him; his face went numb, his limbs stiff, but he exerted all his effort to control himself and stepped back.
The attendant had not expected such a reaction from the count; with hands outstretched, the cloak fell unsupported to the ground with a whoosh.
A cold atmosphere centered on Count Etienne spread rapidly outward; wherever it reached, laughter and shouts vanished, smiles fading from faces, replaced by shock and doubt.
Upon seeing Count Etienne step back, Amalric I was stunned, but as King of Ayyarasa Road, he quickly realized what had gone wrong!
It was all Louis VII’s fault; Louis VII himself was an exceedingly pious believer, the first notified after Pope Eugene III issued the Crusades indulgence, and he did not disappoint Eugene III, responding without hesitation—even expending vast money and manpower on this Crusades expedition. This led his queen Eleanor to insist on divorcing him; the failure of this marriage caused Aquitaine to completely detach from the Capetian dynasty and Francia, making Louis VII an object of ridicule—
In any case, his marriage to Eleanor had only given him two daughters, and he had always claimed it was due to Eleanor’s poor health that she bore him no son. But who would have thought that after divorcing him, Eleanor married King Henry II of England and quickly bore him three sons.
It could be said that if not for Louis VII finally having his own heir five years ago, his position would have been even more precarious. A king as pious and resolute as His Majesty probably had not expected his subject to view the throne of Ayyarasa Road like a venomous snake or scorpion, shunning it…
Count Etienne was torn between laughter and tears; he knew Louis VII meant well, and earlier he had tactfully asked why Count Etienne had not remarried, if he had anyone he liked; the count had brushed it off with the excuse of still mourning his late wife.
If he had known then that His Majesty was planning to send him to Ayyarasa Road for a marriage alliance, he would absolutely have shouted: No! Your Majesty, I do not intend to remarry; even if I do, I will find a suitable match domestically, not travel thousands of miles to the Holy City to become the princess’s husband!
Amalric I felt a wave of dizziness, unable to resist raising his hand to his forehead; fortunately, Count Etienne had reacted by then, immediately kneeling with hand to chest, sincerely saying—he had never imagined he could have such an honor, to win Amalric I’s favor and approval; if he could marry Princess Sibylla, it would be God’s grace, destiny’s gift, supreme glory; he was immensely fearful, scarcely daring to believe.
However, he was ultimately a subject of King of France Louis VII; his marriage required his liege lord’s permission. He would ride posthaste back to France to seek the king’s approval, then return to formally propose to the princess.
Almost everyone knew this was an excuse; his earlier reaction had shown he had no desire at all to become Amalric I’s son-in-law.
Amalric I pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, stood, descended the dais, warmly took Count Etienne’s arm, gladly granted his request, and said he would immediately write a personal letter for Count Etienne to deliver to Louis VII.
Whether Amalric I would curse the reckless Louis VII in that letter, we can no longer know.
The only certainty is that Count Etienne stood as if granted a great pardon, immediately withdrawing from the great hall with his men; the banquet ended hastily, everyone including Amalric I maintaining silence as much as possible, scarcely daring to meet Princess Sibylla’s gaze—this was truly an inconceivable farce, and the ultimate victim might be only one: Sibylla…
Even Baldwin and Caesar perched on the “gallery” dared not make a sound; they sat motionless until everyone in the great hall had left, then breathed a sigh of relief, stood, and said, “Too awful.” But Baldwin now dared not, and did not know how to comfort his sister; to be rejected in marriage on the spot was utter humiliation for a noble lady.
“I’ll have the castle steward summon a merchant,” Baldwin said with a headache, “to see if he has any gemstones or silk.” Perhaps Sibylla would feel better seeing such gifts.
Caesar did not think so, but he also lacked experience in soothing women: “We can try others, like books or small birds.”
Count Etienne was originally supposed to stay at Holy Cross Castle for a time, at least until after Epiphany, or he would miss several important festivals on the road. But because of this blunder, he left Ayyarasa Road early the next morning with his knights and attendants.
Amalric I saw him off with men; on the third day Baldwin told the castle steward about it, who obeyed and before evening prayer led a gemstone merchant into the castle. The gemstone merchant tremblingly opened the jewel box before the prince and attendants.
The gemstones of this time had not yet adopted later cutting techniques, mostly polished into rounds, ovals, or squares, but a gemstone is a gemstone; even with such crude processing, when held in hand and rotated toward the sunlight, their brilliant colors and unique textures still made one marvel at the Creator’s exquisite craft.
“Pick one for Damara too.”
Perhaps this world also had the proverb that speaking of someone summons them; before Caesar could politely decline, an attendant arrived, sent by Damara. Amid Baldwin’s subtle smile, Caesar followed the attendant down the tower and immediately spotted Damara; she stood in the tower’s shadow, wringing her hands, anxious, even stamping her feet occasionally.
Upon seeing Caesar, Damara rushed up, grabbed his sleeve; Caesar’s heart stirred, he bent down, and heard Damara say tensely, “Something’s happened! Caesar! I heard Abigail’s servant say they bribed Count Etienne’s guide to lead him to the jackals’ lair!”
The jackals here were not the four-clawed, two-eared kind, which only became knights’ leather pouches, cloaks, and not-so-tasty dinners; Caesar immediately threw his cloak around Damara, took her up the tower; Baldwin saw their faces change, and he waved the merchant away. “Damara, is it Sibylla…”
“It’s Abigail; he swore to wash away the princess’s shame, but His Majesty has strictly forbidden anyone from challenging the Count of Sancerre—” Some knights realized it best to let the matter quietly fade, and in a few months no one would mention it: “He is not yet a knight, so…” Damara gasped hard: “He bribed the count’s guide to take them to Mulai’s territory!”
