Chapter 247: William Marshall And Caesar’s Sparring
“Lord?” a knight asked strangely, because his master suddenly stood there motionless.
Caesar of Jaffa Gate had passed through it countless times, whether leaving from here or returning to Ayyarasa Road from here, but today he involuntarily stopped in front of that stone slab engraved with a proverb. He discovered that even after passing through so many times, the most profound scene etched in his memory was still when he first came here: King Amalric I of Ayyarasa Road lifted him up, placed him on his own horse’s back, sat him in front of himself, and slowly advanced through the torch-lit night.
At that time, Caesar still did not know what fate he would face, but he still had to be grateful for the patience and benevolence Amalric I showed him that night, even though this affection was not truly for him, but rather a grace extended by association—the king looked at him and thought of Baldwin, who was the same age as him.
“Let’s go,” Caesar said. As if sensing his mood, Castor, who was usually a bit mischievous, was extremely docile and calm this time. Only until Caesar gently patted its neck did it step forward again.
Once Caesar moved, the crowd before and behind him began to flow again. Only then did Caesar realize that he had unintentionally blocked the city gate traffic. He smiled apologetically, intending to pass through the passage quickly, when he saw the crowd ahead suddenly prostrating themselves, like wheat bowed by a gentle breeze.
He was only slightly stunned before immediately dismounting. Sure enough, approaching was Baldwin, escorted by knights. Baldwin rode Pollux charging swiftly, making a splendid emergency stop before Caesar. The black steed reared up on its forelegs and neighed displeasedly, earning Baldwin’s hearty laugh.
Caesar was about to bow when Baldwin pulled him in. He was yanked into a fervent but somewhat thin embrace, then a hand in chainmail gloves clapped heavily on his back twice.
“I heard,” Baldwin asked eagerly, “Boccia is with child? Have the priests confirmed how long? Have they tested with wheat and barley to see if it’s a boy or girl? （ At that time, people believed that soaking wheat and barley in a pregnant woman’s urine—if the wheat sprouted, it was a girl; if the barley sprouted, it was a boy. ）
It doesn’t matter, you’re still young. If this one is a girl, the next will surely be a boy. You needn’t worry about it.
Does she have someone to care for her? I asked Maria. She has several trustworthy handmaids who can be sent to Cyprus. Do you want to meet them first?
They may not be great at caretaking, but these handmaids come from the Grand Imperial Palace in Constantinople. They have expertise in preventing conspiracies against pregnant women and their fetuses. Or… when we leave, should we bring Boccia to Holy Cross Castle? My mother—I mean the Countess of Jaffa—is also willing to care for her.
My mother has plenty of experience. Perhaps by the time we return from the expedition, there will be one more person to welcome you.
But you only just found out—how many months? Your previous letters didn’t seem to mention any related omens…
Baldwin spoke quickly and urgently. If Caesar hadn’t been listening intently, he might have been left dizzy and confused. Fortunately, he was always patient with Baldwin. Yes, yes, everything is fine, no need to worry. Boccia will stay in Cyprus, my sister is caring for her, but more handmaids wouldn’t hurt.
He trusted Baldwin and Queen Mother Maria. Although before leaving, he had already instructed his sister on some matters, having more trustworthy people guarding Boccia would be good for them all.
As for why it took so long, only realizing the long-awaited little life had quietly arrived in the world after Boccia fainted at the banquet?
That was because Boccia was one of the few women with no obvious symptoms in early pregnancy.
Although the last time, the bleeding was relatively light and lasted fewer days, she had no discomfort then. The handmaids thought it was just an occasional mishap. Apart from lamenting that there was still no good news, they paid it no more attention.
And Caesar had always thought Boccia was just tired and under too much psychological pressure, while Boccia’s robust health similarly obscured people’s perceptions.
At this time, people always assumed women became extremely sensitive and fragile when pregnant—indeed, most women were like that.
But Boccia’s strong body kept her spirited and sharp-minded. Not only did she show no vomiting, nausea, or loss of appetite; her appetite even improved. Her grandfather even teased that since arriving in Cyprus, not only had she not lost weight, but her cheeks had grown even rounder.
He thus earned a few eye-rolls from Boccia but also failed to realize this was a sign of pregnancy—the fetus in Boccia’s womb was sharing the nutrients she took in.
Caesar was unsure if, after discovering the pregnancy, Boccia might develop fatigue or other discomforts due to psychological issues, but at least before Caesar left, she had regained her usual vitality. She even insisted on escorting him to Larnaca, watching his large ship depart.
Although on this journey, she couldn’t ride a horse. Her grandfather and Caesar would never allow that, so either carriage or sedan chair. But aside from slight fatigue, Boccia showed no other adverse symptoms.
Perhaps as Baldwin said, by the time they returned from the expedition—whether or not it achieved its expected goal—there might be one more person to welcome him.
They mounted and rode together toward Holy Cross Castle. Caesar cautiously kept Castor half a horse-length behind Pollux. But Baldwin had much more to say to him. When he turned and found Caesar not beside him, he deftly reached out, grabbed Castor’s reins, and forced the two horses to ride side by side.
“Open the gates!” A clear call accompanied the horn’s blast, and Holy Cross Castle’s gates swung open with a boom. Knights trotted in on horseback, followed by the two young rulers, bright as the rising sun and somewhat dazzling.
“Look, Holy Cross Castle is truly graced today by the presence of two kings.”
Hearing Bohemond say that, Raymond immediately showed displeasure. “Two kings? Who are you referring to? I only see one king and one landless count. The titles and offices bestowed by the Emperor of the Eastern Byzantine Empire are not recognized among Christians, unless the Pope in Rome is willing to place the crown on his head himself.”
“But he is already the Lord of Cyprus.”
“Will the people of the Byzantine Empire willingly accept the rule of a Crusader knight?”
“Even if unwilling, so what? He has already quelled all voices of disobedience in Cyprus. I hear he’s introduced some new numerical system, numbers, and tax laws, and intends to use them to curry favor with those heretics.
And you must have heard about his wife—that Venetian woman is pregnant. They will soon have one or even more children. Perhaps in a few years, when the current Alexander III answers God’s call and ascends to heaven, the new Pope will compromise with him. As long as our diligent king is around, obtaining a king’s crown through Cyprus shouldn’t be difficult.”
These words made Raymond’s face even darker. Though both he and Bohemond should go down to greet their king, upon seeing the young man beside the king, these two old subjects suddenly became sluggish and slow. But how long could they evade? They would have to appear at the upcoming banquet, council, and tournament, especially now that Baldwin ruled personally.
“That’s David, isn’t it?”
Raymond glared at Bohemond. Of course he had recognized his son, rushing out from a corner of the square with a beaming smile, overjoyed to greet them.
Toward David, Raymond always felt somewhat helpless. If only there were no Caesar, he thought—then David would be the most trusted and closest friend and brother to Baldwin. But due to twists of fate and heaven’s will, his forcing David away from Baldwin caused his son to lose the Crown Prince’s trust. After Caesar occupied that most crucial position, no one else could replace him.
Baldwin now regarded David more mildly than before, but never exceeding the boundary between king and subject. He couldn’t say Baldwin was unfair; in previous campaigns, every merit David earned was rewarded and honored. Even after returning from Constantinople to Ayyarasa Road, at his request, Mersin—that fine land occupied by Armenian Prince Mulai—was granted as David’s territory.
Raymond knew he should feel relieved and content, but thinking of how Caesar effortlessly gained all of Cyprus through marriage made his heart feel like it had been doused in spoiled wine—hot, burning, and sour.
Bohemond saw Raymond’s expression and knew he was comparing David and Caesar again. A mocking smile curled at his lips. If his son were David, he wouldn’t be so resentful of fate.
David was somewhat reckless, naive, and inflexible, but regardless, his combat prowess was acknowledged by the knights. In knight tournaments, he often won, claiming horses and armor from many, though he generously returned the spoils, earning much praise.
In contrast, his son Abigail—that “always in bed” joke still circulated among the knights. Not to mention whether Abigail had the courage to join the knight tournament—even if he did, no knight would answer his challenge.
How did Bohemond know? Hmph, need it be said? Abigail wanted to join the upcoming expedition. To pave the way for this disappointing son and wash away his past disgrace, Bohemond secretly hired wandering knights, trying to bribe them to intentionally lose to his son in the tournament.
But unexpectedly, even those wandering knights left with only armor, two or three weapons, and a horse laughed heartily and refused after hearing his request. They even told the intermediary: it wasn’t unwillingness to take the lucrative reward—they didn’t care if their reputation suffered, as every knight stumbles sometimes.
But the problem was, they couldn’t guarantee their performance would satisfy.
Though not said to Bohemond’s face, it was no different from slapping him. Their meaning was—perhaps Abigail would shamefully withdraw without even truly clashing, leaving them no time or chance to perform.
Bohemond naturally wouldn’t accept such nonsense, but after personally seeing Abigail, he suddenly thought those knights might not be exaggerating.
At first, he couldn’t even recognize the fat, bloated man. That was his son, blood of a knight and Grand Duke, who had also received the saint’s favor.
He was chosen. Yet he had ruined his body like this—Bohemond could only summon priests to treat Abigail.
What troubled him most was a priest saying Abigail’s condition was even worse than his father’s. At those words, Bohemond’s first thought was whether Abigail could still father the heir he desperately wanted with Princess Sibylla.
Though swayed by gold and prospects, the priest agreed to keep silent and prepare treatments using his knowledge, herbs, and power, Bohemond’s heart remained vexed.
This vexation spurred him to reignite Raymond’s jealousy.
He watched Raymond storm off, still leaning on the windowsill looking down. He saw Raymond’s son David going to greet the king and Caesar—no, wait. He might not be specifically greeting the king. Though he held the king’s horse, helped Baldwin dismount, and hugged Caesar, his main target was the legendary knight William Marshal.
David had indeed come for William Marshal.
Who didn’t know this undefeated legend famous across the lands by his twenties?
He treated William Marshal with even more diligence and humility than his own king. He even tried to take William’s cloak, leaving William bemused. Finally, Baldwin laughed and pulled David over, gripping his arm—one arm linked with David, the other with Caesar—as they entered the tower together.
This little interlude slightly eased William Marshal’s troubled mood.
But before the banquet began, he again fretted over the two gifts in their boxes.
Richard also desperately wanted to join this expedition. William Marshal’s permission from Henry II filled him with both jealousy and envy.
But this straightforward prince didn’t try to change his father’s mind or fill his own void with others’ disappointment. Instead, he prepared William Marshal a mighty steed, a suit of armor, and a cloak of squirrel fur.
William could only express endless gratitude, but then Richard made a tricky request: for Marshal to deliver a gift to his friends in Ayyarasa Road. When Richard first produced a long sword, saying this English broadsword was his gift for King Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road, William Marshal felt relieved.
But then Richard produced a second, virtually identical long sword. This too was a gift—not for the King of Ayyarasa Road, but for his friend and brother, Count Caesar of Edessa…
William Marshal was dumbfounded. Even if giving long swords as gifts fit Richard’s character, there should at least be some distinction in quality.
These two double-edged swords were like twin brothers. Same length, same width, forged from steel, with gilded brass crossguards and lead-weighted pommels inlaid with a gemstone—one emerald, one sapphire.
The emerald was even more valuable than the sapphire. Seeing William’s expression, Richard laughed heartily, clapping his shoulder: no matter, Baldwin won’t be angry—or rather, he’ll be delighted.
Indeed, Baldwin wasn’t angry. After William Marshal presented the gift, he immediately summoned Caesar, and together they girded both long swords at their waists.
Even so, unsatisfied, he had the chainmail forged by Queen Mother Maria brought. Once fully armored, Baldwin even amusingly suggested calling a painter to portrait them.
William Marshal was speechless, but he thought if certain people learned of this, it would cause an uproar.
William Marshal’s concerns weren’t baseless—in the banquet, because William Marshal and Caesar sat at the king’s high table, no one dared provoke easily. Even Abigail at the far end, though sullen-faced, controlled himself and said nothing offensive.
Only upon hearing Caesar would likely welcome his first child in months did Abigail nearly bite through his silver knife.
But this man’s malice and hatred toward Caesar were well-known. People didn’t care; they even joked about it often.
William Marshal keenly noticed visiting knights repeatedly glancing at the high table and whispering. Though soft-spoken, William caught Caesar’s name and saw eager challenge in these young, proud lads’ eyes.
He didn’t know if it was deliberate incitement or their own intent, but after the banquet, he had to warn Caesar that in the upcoming tournament, he might face many knight challenges.
Sure enough. Before the expedition, to test knights’ prowess, talents, and temperaments, pre-war tournaments were frequent: group and single, jousting and foot combat. Caesar indeed faced direct challenges from many knights.
He didn’t disappoint his admirers, winning bout after bout. Regardless of weapon, allies or enemies around.
William Marshal always avoided matching with him—not fearing loss of his undefeated name in battle with Caesar, but worrying someone might sabotage their fight—not for Richard, England, or God. Out of admiration for this junior, he didn’t want to be a hidden arrow aimed at him.
Marshal’s concerns became reality days later. As William Marshal again won a joust, raising the wreath on his spear to offer to the noblest woman in the arena—Queen Mother Maria—who had watched every match but remained lackluster (even perfunctorily clapping when her son David won)—Raymond suddenly stood.
“Gentlemen,” he strained his voice to reach everyone in the arena. Some noble ladies frowned, cupping their ears, but all knights and their escorts turned, eager for what this respected lord would say.
William sensed trouble. He shook his spear, handing the wreath to Queen Mother Maria, who had also stood. She seemed to take it, but her focus stayed on Raymond.
“Gentlemen, hear me,” Raymond smiled at William Marshal, then continued, “In these days, we’ve seen three grand tournaments, each match splendid and astounding.
Every knight has shown our king and Queen Mother their superior military force, exceptional courage, indescribable piety. Unquestionably, two have excelled: the distinguished guest William Marshal from afar, and our familiar Little Saint, deeply respected and beloved by the people.”
He said the term with subtle sarcasm, hard to detect. “He is the king’s brother and best friend, hailed as Shield of the Holy City. True to the name, he has countless times on the battlefield protected our king and knights, thwarting those evil heathens’ breakthroughs.
His merits are undeniable; he is invincible in the tournament arena too. But gentlemen, aren’t you curious? If Ayyarasa Road’s shield clashes with England’s spear, will the spear shatter the shield, or the shield snap the spear? No rush, Your Majesty…” He turned to Baldwin, who had risen: “The expedition looms; I don’t want them injured or dying for honor.
My suggestion: let them do a personal duel, but without praying to God or seeking saints’ favor—like two unchosen knights fighting truly with God-given flesh, blood, and resilient will.
There are plenty of priests here. As long as they don’t sever limbs, fatally pierce eyes or throats, minor bruises and impacts are harmless, with no effect on future battles.”
Raymond’s words were reasonable and stirred the crowd’s interest—especially distant visitors unseen Caesar fight, and those defeated by William Marshal or Caesar. They were convinced, as neither used tricks; but everyone knew William Marshal was undefeated, Caesar the Shield of the Holy City…
Some noticed either Caesar or William Marshal deliberately avoided each other—never on the same field. Wanting to see who was strongest, the crowd followed Raymond’s lead, cheering loudly.
Queen Mother Maria raised the wreath, about to speak—as the arena’s lady of love and beauty, she had the right. But Caesar stood, proclaiming: “Then, Sir William Marshal, will you accept my challenge?”
William Marshal faced him across the field. He tossed his spear to an arriving escort, removed his helmet, stared into those green eyes, laughed suddenly, and replied loudly, “Of course, my honor!”
Since a duel between two, the melee was canceled.
William Marshal was told to rest an hour to recover stamina—though he felt no need. Then they donned armor, vibrant surcoats. William peered through his visor slit, seeing a vivid flame leaping on Caesar’s chest—his coat of arms.
Red-field coats of arms were rare then; it was like a heart presented to all. He marveled inwardly.
Then, served by escorts, he mounted. His horse was taller and stronger than Castor, but Castor showed no fear. As the knights passed, saluting, the white horse even snorted, stamped, and postured challengingly at the other.
William Marshal’s mount didn’t yield; it was the one from Richard, living up to “king’s gift.” In days, William had won three knights’ armor with it.
They spurred to the arena’s ends, wheeled, facing off afar. No modern barriers then; knights charged directly like battlefield, victory in an instant.
This simulated combat demanded high balance, quick reaction, and prediction from knights.
They used best-of-three: three charges.
First, William Marshal’s experience unhorsed Caesar instantly. Caesar fell; Castor reared but missed him.
Second, Caesar used two-handed upright grip, popular in the East, unfamiliar to William Marshal, who misjudged reach and was struck in the ribs.
Caesar won this. He dismounted immediately, helping William up before escorts. In their eye contact, though silent, they seemed to reach an agreement.
Third charge faster, more resolute: standard one-handed upright spears, knights’ favored couched charge. Some nobles stood involuntarily, leaning to see the decisive moment.
But as the two tempests collided, a sharp crack rang out. Two broken spearheads flew upward then fell; the knights veered apart, quickly slowing. When they circled back, cheers erupted in delighted surprise.
In modern jousts, knights often shatter hollow spears on armor over barriers—but don’t misunderstand: in shows, fragile spears snap easily, like toy guns of matchsticks. Audiences see splinters and think it’s authentic, great value.
In fact, beyond falls, show jousts are low-risk. But William Marshal and Caesar used real spears—not so fragile; they’d kill foes on battlefields.
Spearheads true steel, shafts tough white ash. Theirs didn’t snap on armor; in that passing instant, with eyesight and skill, they tacitly struck each other’s spear shafts mid-charge for this result.
People saw they intentionally tied, yet were moved by the peerless skill and knights’ mutual respect.
They clapped, tossing wreaths, ribbons, cloaks, jewels—picked up by Caesar and Marshal’s escorts. The knights circled the field, thanking the crowd.
Though some said since jousting tied, they should dismount for foot combat, no one heeded their provocations now.
