Chapter 42: The Chosen One
Dawn broke.
The previous night, no one knew how many things had happened, but unlike us today, the people back then did not dare to casually “watch the excitement.” They were like rabbits or guinea pigs with keen senses of smell but timid hearts; at the slightest disturbance, they would shrink their heads and huddle in their burrows, not daring to move.
But once the wind calmed and the weather cleared, they would eagerly poke their heads out and snoop around for news.
This temperament led to the “Man Leg” tavern—that tavern with the sign of Saints Cosmas and Damian, featuring a human leg—being packed from early morning.
The tavern owner was a shrewd man; even in the midst of the frequent noises at midnight, he roused his son, wife, and apprentice to move empty barrels into the hall together, adding narrow wooden boards as stools. To be fair, there were already plenty of stools, but he just kept saying there weren’t enough, not enough, more.
Then, taking advantage of the still quiet time, they erected a flagpole in front of the door, signaling that this place not only had expensive wine but also good new ale. “But father,” his son said foolishly, “the ale isn’t ready yet.”
Ale is a light wine so simple that anyone with hands can brew it themselves; because it originally used malt like beer, people often confuse the two.
But ale uses far less malt as the main ingredient than beer; usually, brewers add strongly scented vegetables or fruits to bulk it up, and they don’t always bother boiling it with firewood—the final product is more like water with a wine flavor than actual wine.
Imperfectly fermented ale is basically… water.
The tavern owner immediately grabbed the poker and silently beat his son until the idiot stopped showing off his cleverness.
Meanwhile, the owner’s wife had lit the stove and boiled a pot of bran broth on it, adding plenty of water, filling the entire hall with steam.
This way, incoming customers wouldn’t see the thick dust and grease on the tables, the food scraps on the floor, the feces from humans and dogs, or perhaps a finger, ear, or nose or two—drunken patrons drawing knives over trifles was all too common.
Next, the tavern owner used a bottle of wine to knock on the neighbor’s door. The neighbor was a goldsmith who often dealt with nobles’ stewards and servants, making him well-informed. The goldsmith heard his purpose, took two silver coins—one as reward, one for bribery.
The two silver coins were well spent; the goldsmith actually found him a poet.
At first, the tavern owner was not too satisfied.
This poet had a full head of white hair, a hunched back, cloudy eyes, and lost a few teeth when he opened his mouth. His clothing wasn’t fresh enough; the color-faded velvet robe had passed through who knows how many hands, and he only brought a small pipa that was lucky to make any sound—hardly someone believable as a servant of nobles.
But he claimed he could recite fluently the deeds of “matters of France,” “matters of Rome,” and “matters of Britain”—that is, Charlemagne, Aeneas, the founder of Rome, and King Arthur.
The tavern owner just pursed his lips critically, glanced at his small pipa, figuring that even if he knew how to play other instruments, he couldn’t produce a harp or flute. As for singing… the owner thought his own son’s cries while getting beaten were more pleasant than that obviously smoke-hardened old bacon.
“Can you do somersaults or handstands?”
The poet looked at his skinny-as-dry-wood arms and legs and shook his head.
“Can you imitate animals or perform puppet shows?”
“An old goat is already standing before you—what more do you want?”
The owner laughed: “Oh, you have some talent for joking. I’ll give you a cup of ale, and we’ll call it even.”
“I want thirty silver coins.”
“Even the Savior wouldn’t cost that much,” the owner said disrespectfully. “Too expensive, I can’t afford you.” And he prepared to demand the two silver coins back immediately.
“I can convince you, you miser, with just one sentence.” The poet said.
The owner tilted his head, arms crossed, with a “try me” look.
“I am one of Gerard de Redford’s attendants; he is a noble lord and a valiant knight. I handle reading letters to him and drafting contracts…”
“For God’s sake, hurry up, I have things to do.”
“I know everything about last night because my master was one of the summoned knights; I followed him closely and didn’t miss a thing.”
The tavern owner showed an incredulous expression: “Are you sure?”
“If I lie, may the ground crack open right now and the devil drag me down immediately!”
“If what you say is true, these thirty silver coins—even if I have to borrow from the Isaacites and mortgage the flesh on my chest—I’ll pay up,” the tavern owner glanced at the surging golden light on the horizon and stopped haggling. “But if you made up even one word, I’ll beat you with a wooden stick, and you won’t get a single penny.”
He then immediately called his son and apprentice, sending them to spread the news everywhere. Before sunlight fully lit the flagpole, people swarmed in. The tavern owner occasionally glanced at the poet, thinking that if he was just lying to scam money, he should be panicking by now.
It was common for dissatisfied audiences to drag actors off stage and beat them to death.
The poet showed no sign of panic; instead, he sat at the best central table, right by the stove, and asked for an extra chair.
The tavern owner brought him a cup of murky ale.
Once the tavern was packed, he forcefully strummed the pipa to make a crisp sound, drawing everyone’s attention. Without any theatrics or delay, after praising God, he got straight to the point: “Last night, a fierce battle took place here.”
The crowd was somewhat stunned, as they hadn’t been slaughtered or plundered.
“Not all wars are loud and grandiose,” the poet patiently explained. “Sometimes, conspiracy and trickery are like a crossbow—despised and scorned—but the arrow it shoots is real and deadly.”
“Was it the devil or heathens?”
“Both,” the poet said. “In that highest hill, in that most brilliant and glorious palace.”
“What did they do?”
“They assassinated the King.” The poet said, and everyone in the room gasped, shouting in unison: “May God protect him!”
“God protected him; they did not succeed. Amalric I is Christ’s strongest warrior, like an angry beast, stabbing the assassins one by one.
Those cowardly and vile accomplices saw it going badly and heard that the King’s son, Prince Baldwin, was in the church undergoing trial from God and the saints, so they fled from him, set fire to the Temple, trying to burn the child to death and break his father’s heart.”
The people let out cries of alarm. Though the Patriarch said Prince Baldwin was sinful, and Amalric I as well, most felt some mercy for the young prince; even hard-hearted ones would say that since his father fought for God, his sins should be forgiven.
Even if some still doubted Prince Baldwin, others retorted that the “Little Saint” of Ayyarasa Road had stood by his side from start to finish without leaving.
Then someone mentioned the priest who lost his hand and life. Strangely, no one thought Caesar harmed him; after all, this pious child was so merciful, so gentle, benefiting a whole city—people even vaguely felt his rejection of the Patriarch was due to his pure character and firm will.
“Truth be told,” a merchant said sincerely, “if the Patriarch, no, even a priest, reached out to me to come to his side, I’d go immediately—no need for lords to invite. No, no invitation needed; if they’d accept me, I’d prostrate under their robes at once.”
Becoming a priest or monk was likely the only way for these poor folk to rise in status. Though Caesar was the prince’s attendant, everyone saw Prince Baldwin’s position was unstable; if serving the prince still meant becoming a monk, better to go to the Patriarch.
With his appearance and character, a holy office above fourth rank was no problem.
“So you’re still here selling cabbage.” A craftsman jeered loudly, sparking laughter and mockery.
The Patriarch did command some respect on Ayyarasa Road. But compared to the Pope in Rome, it was like midnight fireflies to noonday sun—utterly insignificant. Both commoners and knights trusted King Amalric I most.
The tavern owner brought the poet a cup of clear beer.
“So,” the craftsman asked again, “since those heathens set fire in the Temple, did the ceremony fail?”
At his words, the crowd’s smiles faded. They knew once the Choosing ceremony began and the doors closed, they couldn’t be reopened. If opened early without the tested one receiving blessing, the trial was wasted, with no second chance.
“Life is more important.” Someone emphasized.
“I think having that child by his side shows God’s favor is still there; he should be safe.” Another clearly sided with Prince Baldwin and Caesar, finding such talk grating.
“Indeed,” before the two could argue, the poet slammed the table again, pulling them back: “Amalric I was like a lion driving off the wolf pack; the knights like hunters set nets and traps, wielding clubs and swords, leaving those terrified beasts nowhere to go. Seeing no escape, they lit fire at the Temple’s porch; flames rose, blood, thick smoke, and curses flooded the hall…”
“That poor child must have been frightened,” a sturdy woman said. Women were rare in the tavern, but exceptions existed, like a butcher’s daughter who looked almost like a man, even more barbaric and robust, yet her heart was soft: “They should have been brought out immediately, wrapped in blankets, given wine, hot lard.”
“Indeed, someone suggested that.” The poet sighed deeply: “But the King said, perhaps this is the trial God gave them.
Abraham once placed his Eldest Son on the altar. Today I too shall place my Eldest Son on the altar. God is benevolent; He could not bear Abraham’s Eldest Son truly dying and substituted a lamb.
I believe He will treat my Eldest Son with the same mercy.”
The poet took out a quill, plucked a string. “He refused, just guarding the door; he didn’t open it nor let others do so.”
Not just the knights and nobles around the King then, but even the listeners now frowned with worry. Though they believed the two children should be safe—after all, God was so benevolent, how could He let His pious and valiant warrior suffer such heartbreak?
The crowd’s acquiescence had another reason.
Behind the Temple Church—that Omar monastery we mentioned—stood a huge stone with a depression in it. Though heathens said it was their Prophet’s horse ascending to heaven, Christians firmly believed it was Abraham’s altar for sacrificing his Eldest Son.
With such significance, and the King’s oath, no one could say: open the door.
They waited until morning prayer; the door opened, and people eagerly surged in. But no matter how they searched—even breaking walls and climbing beams—they couldn’t find the two children. Where had they gone?
With a thousand eyes and ears here, every witness checked before opening; the wax seal on the door was only slightly melted at the edges, otherwise intact, neatly inscribed with each witness’s name in iron pen.
Then the Templar Knight Grand Master and Provost took keys from their chests to open it together.
The King was extremely anxious; people scattered everywhere searching.
“So that’s it!” One man suddenly realized and shouted, “I was woken in the middle of the night, terrified, thinking I’d evaded taxes, stepped on someone’s dog, or my ugly mug scared some noble.” People saw his indeed grotesquely ugly face and burst out laughing.
But he said seriously, “When soldiers drove me from my home, I was petrified, thinking I’d be hanged from the beams next. Luckily, they just searched my room everywhere.
Oh, how they suffered for it, those lords.
My room was dirty, broken, stinking, tiny. If I’d known then they sought those two nobles, I’d have told them not to bother; my hovel couldn’t fit even extra dogs, let alone two children.”
“Did the devil take them?” Someone interjected.
“Alas,” the poet cut in immediately: “Speak no blasphemy. This is the Holy City—rather than the devil, don’t you think it was God who saved them, delivering them from peril?”
“Tell us, tell us,” the people urged, “we can’t wait any longer.”
The poet obligingly continued, “The nobles and their knights searched fruitlessly, deeply dejected, but had to report to the King. A monk by the King thought and asked, are you sure you’ve checked everywhere?
They said yes, every place—even birds’ nests or fish lairs.
But the monk said no, one place remains: the most sacred of the most sacred.
They looked at each other; someone said the path to that most revered place has three doors, not yet time for pilgrimage, none unlocked—who could have sent the children in?
Doubting, they went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Monks had just finished morning prayer; three noble pilgrims waited at the pine wood door of the Place of Suffering—they’d be first to enter the sacred halls with priests. Seeing so many with King Amalric I enter and hearing his humble request, they were surprised.
So they said, let us witness too.
Priests opened the first pine wood door; no children on the Place of Suffering. Priests opened the second cedarwood door; people searched but still no precious treasures. Finally, priests opened the third ebony door, but the hall was empty.
As they despaired, a priest suddenly said, look, look! The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!
They rushed to the Holy Sepulchre, like the saintly women anointing Jesus’ body after Sabbath, prostrating. A bold priest lifted the wool cloth over it; pure white light filled the cathedral, as if heaven descended to earth in an instant.”
At that moment, a man suddenly jumped up.
He had received the first ring from Caesar in that grand parade and used the money from it to save over a hundred people, many relatives and friends.
Hearing the crowd saw holy radiance in the Holy Sepulchre, he couldn’t help shouting, “Was it the Little Saint?
It was the Little Saint, right!”
