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Chapter Text

Antioch, January 1176.

“What is father like?” Luceria asked Alice, the only sister she had in Antioch who shared Raynald de Chatillon's blood.

“Well, he isn’t at all like the stories you’ve heard about him,” was Alice's response.

Luceria was sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair which was flaxen in color and fell down her shoulders to her waist. Over her light blue chemise, she wore a woolen bedrobe to protect her skin from the biting winter chill. Her eyes were blue-green and her complexion was fair and unblemished.

She was only fourteen years old.

“Will you tell me more about him?”

“Father is not the maniac that people describe him to be,” Alice began, taking the brush from Luceria’s hands and began combing through the younger girl’s wavy locks, “He’s a bit on the stubborn side, I suppose. He can be hotheaded, and he does like to fight. But he’s not like what they say.”

“I am nervous.”

“He will love you, Luceria. You have a kind heart. He is going to be happy to see you.”

She wanted to believe Alice so dearly, but Alice had only been a young girl when their father was captured by the Saracens. Alice had not been old enough to form any sort of bond with him. She did not know what their father was like. All Alice knew was the man they spoke about in stories, an idealized version of a father in her head. She knew nothing about him.

Luceria would have asked Anna, who was just six years old at the time of their father’s capture, but their elder sister had moved to Hungary four years earlier after marrying the King.

“I hope you’re right, Alice. I want him to like me.”

But in truth, Luceria did not know how to feel about her father's recent release from prison, for she did not know the man. Raynald de Chatillon had been captured by the Saracens many moons before her birth. Her mother, Princess Constance, had died when Luceria was only three, leaving the toddler in the care of her eldest half-brother, Bohemond III. And now Raynald was being released after fifteen years of captivity.

“Do you think he will send for me?” Luceria asked pensively, looking at her sister's reflection in the mirror. Alice was said to resemble Raynald; with hair as red as rust and eyes as green as the Fatih hills.

The older girl laughed softly, shaking her head. “He is your father too. Of course he will want to see you. Perhaps he will even bring us gifts! Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Optimism came naturally to Alice—perhaps too naturally. She was always eager to meet the men Bohemond presented to her, her heart set on securing a favorable match. Negotiations for her marriage were already underway, and Bohemond would have arranged Luceria’s betrothal as well, had the news of their father’s release not reached them.

Now, Luceria’s fate was in Raynald’s hands.

A stranger’s hands.

“He doesn't even know me.”

“He knows you exist, Luceria. And that is something.”

Her half-siblings offered little insight to Raynald’s character; only mentioning that he was a formidable knight and a strategic tactician. Mary called him a hero, Bohemond called him ruthless.

And the others did not have much to say at all.

Occasionally, she would overhear the servants talking. Whispering about how strange it was that a woman of Constance’s beauty and standing would marry such a lowly knight. But Luceria knew little of her mother as well, so she could not be sure if the rumors were true.

Most concerning of all were the rumors she heard about her father’s temper. How he was described as the devil’s own, and how much better it was that he was locked up in a Saracen dungeon. Luceria hoped this was not true, but it would be a lie to say she didn’t have her doubts. And as Alice continued to comb her hair, Luceria decided it would be best to think nothing about it at all.

Alice was certain that he would return to Antioch to send for his youngest daughter and her prediction proved to be correct. As one month later, Luceria joined him in the great fortress of Kerak.

Kerak, April 1176.

Luceria was already missing Antioch.

Three months had passed since her father’s return, yet she had seen very little of him. He had worked quickly to reestablish himself in the Levant and had soon become the newly appointed Lord of the Oultrejordain and Hebron. They moved frequently between her father’s castles in Kerak and Montréal, both imposing fortresses that made Luceria feel smaller than ever.

Whenever Raynald was present, he was still absent with little space in his reclaimed life for his youngest daughter. He spoke to her, but always briefly, always in passing. His thoughts and their conversations were consumed by politics, alliances, and trade. And his brief moments of respite were spent with his new wife, Stephanie de Milly.

Luceria had attended their wedding. It was an ostentatious affair, as though both were trying to prove their love to the heavens. And though she did not know what true love looked like, she knew enough about politics to know that this marriage was a political move first and foremost.

A highly advantageous one at that.

Stephanie’s family held a lot of power, wealth, and influence in the Oultrejourdain—the main reason Raynald de Chatillon had his Lordship in the first place, and why he was now one of the wealthiest barons in all of the levant.

And Stephanie herself was a woman of beauty, wit, and grace, and Luceria found her difficult to dislike. She had never once been unkind to Luceria, even going so far as to help her navigate the difficult transition from Antioch to Kerak.

But Stephanie was not her mother. She was not Alice, or Philippa, or Mary, or Anna. She was not even Bohemond, and Luceria often found herself longing for home.

“You seem unhappy,” Stephanie noted, looking over at Luceria as they walked together through the courtyard. She had brown eyes that matched the color of her hair, and stood tall and slender, her linen skirts trailing behind her in the sand. “Is something the matter?”

Luceria felt ashamed at this. She did not want to seem ungrateful. She kept her head down, not wanting to meet Stephanie's gaze. “Forgive me, my lady. I am not unhappy. I just miss my family.”

But it was a lie. She was unhappy. Deeply so.

It was hard not to yearn for Antioch more and more with each passing day. She longed for the fertile plains and deep river valleys where she took her childhood pony rides. And the beautiful stretch of mountains surrounding the city where she would watch the sun rise and set.

She missed the Orentes, where Bohemond spent many hot summer days teaching her how to swim and how they would run home to the Bakras Kalesi, where they would leave wet puddles on the cool mosaic floors (much to the chamberlain’s displeasure).

She missed the sound of the servants chattering as they baked her favorite sweet cakes, and the way Alice would steal them before they had even cooled down. They would eat the cakes together in her sister’s room, telling stories about the knights painted on the ancient frescoes.

When she left, she remembered staring at the grand Gate of the Cherubim as it faded away into the distance.

Kerak was a world away from the life she was already accustomed to. They had traveled to the Southern reaches of the Levant, where the terrain was rugged, harsh and barren. There was little to admire beyond the sandy hills stretching out for miles and miles. The fortress itself was large and imposing, built of grey stone with tall, thick walls.

All the doors in the castle groaned when they were opened, and they were so heavy Luceria felt as though they could withstand a siege for centuries. The architecture was severe, unapologetically harsh, and she did not doubt that its builders had meant it to be, compensating what it lacked in beauty with strength.

Inside, the fortress was equally as severe, if not more so. There were no pretty decorations adorning the walls, no soft carpets on the floors. The furniture was minimal, muted in color and functional in design. The sun was scorching and the only stained glass windows were the ones in the chapel to the east wing. In the morning when she gazed out of her window to watch the birds sing, all she could see were the merchants crossing the roads from Damascus to Egypt.

Kerak Castle had no gardens. It had no waterways. No courtyards filled with flowers. Just stone-vaulted walls and endless passageways that stretched on forever and ever and ever.

It was not a home, not yet, but Luceria was trying.

A gentle touch on her shoulder interrupted her pensive thoughts. Stephanie was looking at her, observing with kind eyes as they walked together. “I understand your pain,” she said softly. “Perhaps I can do something to cheer you up. I have something for you.”

“You do not need to do anything for me, my lady.”

“I would like to. We are family now," Her stepmother countered. “I know it is difficult to leave your home and start somewhere new. Besides, I have an inkling that you’re going to like this gift. Now come, child, follow me.”

They walked through the fortress until they reached the stables where they kept her father's prized stallions. She could hear them snorting as she approached their stalls, each one a magnificent beast of battle. “My lady, what are we doing here?”

Stephanie smiled and gestured to a nearby stall where a beautiful black palfrey was standing quietly. The horse regarded her with big dark eyes, and Luceria's heart melted immediately. She could tell by its breeding that the horse was expensive, far more expensive than the rouncey she had taken to riding in Antioch.

“She is yours,” Stephanie announced, a smile tugging at her lips. “Your father made sure to reserve her just for you. She comes from the finest stock, so we hope you like her.”

“She…She is beautiful, My Lady. But—oh—I could not possibly accept such a generous gift,” Luceria stammered, her eyes still on the magnificent horse, which must have cost just as much as the destriers ridden by knights, “She is much too precious.”

“Nonsense, my dear. We can’t take her back now.” Stephanie insisted, patting Luceria's arm reassuringly, “I have no use for her myself, and she is much too small for your father and his knights. You will be doing us all a favor.”

Her stepmother was right. The palfrey would be perfect for her, and men rarely rode mares to battle. It would be foolish not to accept, and yet, Luceria still felt uneasy. This was the most generous gift she had ever received, and she did not know how to even begin expressing her gratitude. What could she do? How could she possibly repay them?

But Stephanie was already motioning for a groom to come over. Luceria opened her mouth, trying to think of a way to say thank you, but no words came out.

“Would you like to try riding her?”

“I…I would, yes,” She managed finally, after taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “My Lady, I would love to.”

She followed Stephanie and the groom as they led the palfrey out of the stables, where the groom helped her up onto the horse’s back. Luceria took hold of the leather reins, her hands steady and accustomed after years of riding. She raised them, and gently commanded the palfrey into a slow trot.

It was the first time Luceria hadn't felt so lonely.

They rode in circles around the courtyard, and she quickly became accustomed to the palfrey. The horse was eager to please; obedient and gentle in her gait. It didn't take the young girl long to realize that her father had chosen a mare with the same temperament as her own.

The notion made her heart swell. Perhaps, in some way, her father did think of her after all.

As they passed, she looked over and saw Stephanie watching her ride from a distance. A pleased smile tugged on the older woman’s lips as they slowed to a stop before her. “So? How is she?”

“Oh, she is wonderful,” Luceria breathed, her fingers still coiled around the reins, “Truly. Thank you so much, my lady.”

“A horse this lovely will need a name,” her stepmother reminded her teasingly, and Luceria blushed in embarrassment. She had been so distracted, she had completely forgotten. But as she searched her mind, one name came to mind.

“Hosanna.”

Stephanie tilted her head to the side, “Hosanna. A fitting name, I suppose.” She was a little puzzled on the choice, but didn’t press it any further. All that mattered was that her stepdaughter loved her new palfrey. “Why don't you take her out of the fortress? I am sure she would love to stretch her legs.”

Luceria looked down at Stephanie smiling, grateful to leave the castle for even a few moments. “Yes, my lady. I would like that.”

“Good,” Stephanie nodded. “I will see you when you get back.”

Luceria nodded and urged Hosanna into a steady trot as they rode out of the courtyard and into the open air. But as they left the castle, the young princess felt the heaviness of her new home weighing her down once again.

For she began to think that the gift was not just a gift, but a distraction, for Raynald de Chatillon had not brought her to Kerak to explore the world.

He had brought her to Kerak to become a wife.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, August 1176.

Raynald de Chatillon insisted that his youngest daughter attend the wedding of Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem and William Longsword of Montferrat.

Luceria stood beside him clad in soft yellow silks from Damascus. The cut of the dress was modest and fell down to the floor, concealing fine slippers that curled up at the toes. She wore an expression of quiet contemplation. Her eyes were trained forward and focused solely on the altar, unlike himself who kept looking around at all the other guests.

It would be her first time being introduced to Jerusalem’s court. It was important that she became known, that the right people would see her and take notice. A daughter was the most prized of possessions, and Raynald was eager to display his youngest for the courts to see. ‘She needs to make a good impression’, he thought, eyeing his daughter.

After all, an unmarried woman had little worth in this world.

The music of the minstrels slowly washed over them as the procession made its way into the church. Sibylla looked resplendent in her fine golden silks, her dress layered with wide sleeves and a long train. Her matching veil was embroidered with pearls and rubies, which glinted in the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. She walked so gracefully down the aisle in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre she almost looked like she was floating. All eyes were on her as she moved.

William of Montferrat walked beside her, equally handsome in his fine white tunic and breeches. His blonde hair was combed back, his beard freshly groomed in the style characteristic of those from Italy. He stood tall and proud once they halted at the altar, and his eyes had never once left Sibylla's. Lord Montferrat would someday be King in due time.

But the reigning King of Jerusalem himself, Sibylla’s younger brother, was standing nearby, watching the procession with his mother, stepfather, and uncle. 

Raynald then glanced at his youngest daughter, observing her melancholy. From the moment he had met her, she was already so solemn and serious. She did not speak much at all, and he found himself constantly wondering just what she could possibly be thinking of.

She had grown into a beautiful young woman. Like most of her siblings she had fair skin and golden hair, though she was smaller than the others with her lithe build. Her eyes were turquoise, like the ocean. And she was quiet, almost too shy for a princess of her station. She had a gentleness about her, which was nothing like Constance, yet he saw his late wife in her face, especially in the color of her eyes.

The young girl had just turned fifteen, and she insisted on a simple celebration. Raynald found it amusing that someone as ambitious as he would sire such a humble child.

He placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder, drawing her attention to him.

“Are you well, Luceria?”

She looked at him, a small smile on her face. “Yes, father, I am fine.”

She was a girl of few words, and Raynald found himself wondering if she was afraid of him, or if she was just naturally reserved. What mattered most was that she was obedient, as an obedient woman would be easier to marry off, and he was in need of allies.

Luceria turned her attention back to the ceremony, and Raynald did the same. The ceremony itself was brief, reserving the true excitement for the banquet to be held in the Tower of David.

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, August 1176.

The Tower of David was perhaps one of the most impressive citadels in all of the Levant. Centuries ago, the Muslim rulers had fortified this hilltop, building a large, sturdy tower to defend against intruders. Once the Christian crusaders had claimed the land, they expanded the structure further. The result was an impressive fortress that guarded the King's palace.

Tonight, it was a place where men and women went to feast and celebrate. The King had clearly spared no expense for his sister. The courtyard had employed some of the best troubadours and minstrels. There were acrobats, jugglers on the high dais. Tables were filled with so much food—sweet cakes, pastries, various meats—and the wine was free flowing. The walls of the courtyard were draped with ornate blue and gold silks, making Luceria feel somewhat suffocated. This was the first time she was attending a party of this magnitude alone, and she had spent most of the evening simply observing.

There was no Alice to make light jokes with, and no Bohemond to watch over her. It didn't look like there were many people her age either, and those that were had no interest in her other than dancing, which she politely turned down. She never knew what to say, or what to do, and she wondered if she could just leave and go to her chamber in the palace apartments.

She loitered by the sweetcakes, calling over her stepbrother Humphrey. He was Stephanie's only child from her first marriage, a soft boy with a sweet demeanor. She liked him very much. “Have you seen father, Humphrey?"

He looked up from where he had been nibbling on a tart, “Talking to the king, I think.”

Her brows furrowed. Luceria had heard many tales about Jerusalem's leper king from her brother. Bohemond had said that God had punished Baldwin IV for sins committed in a past life. And despite Alice cautioning against rudeness (at the time, the king’s ailment was only considered speculation), Bohemond refused to be near the King when summoned to attend court in Jerusalem, and had never invited him to Antioch either.

On the contrary, their eldest sister Mary provided a different perspective rooted in Greek beliefs. In Constantinople where she now reigned, lepers faced no prohibition from entering the marketplace or church. The patriarchs preached compassion and care for those who had caught the disease. Mary even claimed that leprosy was not as contagious as commonly believed. She spoke of the Order of Lazarus, an institution known primarily for its leper knights, stating that not all members had contracted the Holy disease even after decades of service.

For Luceria, the King had become a phantom. More creature than man. She had pictured someone grotesque: covered in scars, severely ill, and falling to pieces. In her young mind he was a monster who carried the touch of death. She had never seen a leper, for they were kept away from the general populace, shunned and regarded as untouchable.

Raynald, on the other hand, did not concern himself too much with the King's condition; he appeared all too eager to engage in conversation and socialize with the King who sat on his throne of gold. Luceria observed from a distance as they spoke, and though her father always had an intimidating presence, the King remained unfazed. She walked a little closer, trying to catch a better glimpse of them, but a man and woman were blocking her path. She looked around, trying to find a way to get closer, and then it happened.

The woman moved. And her gaze fell upon the King of Jerusalem.

And he was beautiful.

Not just presentable. Not merely tolerable. But achingly, breathtakingly beautiful. It was hard for her to believe that the King was a boy no older than herself. His head was adorned with a mane of blonde hair, neatly trimmed, though strands of golden curls gracefully framed his face. Despite the relentless heat of Jerusalem's sun, his skin remained fair, and his hands were heavily gloved. He adorned himself in fine, loose blue silks that accentuated his lean physique. And his eyes were blue, so very blue.

Just like the endless skies.

Could someone so beautiful truly be cursed by God's wrath?

Luceria did not know, but what she did know was that the boy before her was not a monster. He was just a boy. A boy who bore a burden she could barely comprehend.

Her heart began to swell with guilt, and her stomach churned with the realization. In her mind she had already condemned him, and now she was ashamed of herself. What would Mary think? She began to ache with a sympathy she could not fully understand, and her chest felt heavy. Her father was still talking, oblivious to her presence, and the King sat there, looking out to the crowd.

Their eyes met. Luceria's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she stood there, frozen, her heart hammering against her ribcage. He smiled at her. Just a little, just enough for her to notice, and to her surprise, he held her gaze. He didn’t look away, and neither did she, until Raynald looked her way and broke the spell, gesturing for her to approach.

Luceria swallowed hard and obliged. She stepped forward slowly, lowering herself into a curtsy once she approached her father and the boy.

“Luceria, I would like to introduce you to the King,” Raynald said to the young girl. “Baldwin IV of Jerusalem.”

Chapter Text

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, August 1176.

He could not wait for the ceremony to be over.

While the wedding had been undeniably beautiful—with his sister being the star of the event—Baldwin found himself merely enduring the requisite pomp and circumstance. It was necessary, of course, for the King of Jerusalem to show his support for his heir and the future Queen. Yet he was absolutely exhausted by all this pageantry. All Baldwin wanted was to simply be left alone, but even he could not escape his obligations.

His eyes scanned the courtyard, taking note of the nobility in attendance. Each and every one of his courtiers were dressed in their finest clothes and jewelry. Drinking, laughing, enjoying themselves as they should; but the young king couldn’t share in their celebrations.

It had been like this for two years now. Ever since his diagnosis was made public.

His father had taken great care to keep his son’s condition hidden from the world. But when Amalric died, and the thirteen year old prince was forced to face his court, the truth had finally come out. The young boy who inherited his throne was afflicted with leprosy, a disease which would slowly eat away at his body until he succumbed to it.

He would not just become the King.

He would be the leper King.

And though the people were horrified by such a notion, he was still voted to remain on his throne. How funny the world was.

And so he sat there watching the crowd. Smiling. Nodding. Speaking to whomever felt like approaching him, which were very few indeed. He felt like a spectacle; an untouchable object who was only there to observe and be observed. Just like a porcelain doll; beautiful and uncanny and fragile and inhuman. But he was still the King, and he had to endure it.

It was the least he could do for Sybilla on her special day.

The King's gaze wandered around the room, and as he took note of the guests, his eyes fell on a girl standing in the corner, wearing a bliaut the color of fenugreek flowers. Her near-translucent veil was of the same color and adorned by many small sparkling jewels. She was watching the festivities, observing others just as he did. A few men approached her, perhaps to ask her to dance, yet it seemed like she turned them all away.

Baldwin didn’t know this girl—he had never seen her before—but he was curious about her. And the young king couldn’t help but wonder why such a pretty girl would prefer to stand all alone in the corner.

William of Tyre, his adviser and confidant, approached him. He was a wise man in his forties, with dark hair and piercing grey eyes. William had been watching over him since he was nine, and oftentimes, he felt more like a father than his adviser. But Baldwin could not find it in himself to admit it.

“Your Majesty,” William greeted, bowing his head.

Baldwin looked up at him. “Archbishop.”

William smiled, “You look bored, your majesty.”

Baldwin chuckled, “I am.”

“This is a grand occasion. You should be enjoying it.”

“I am, in my own way.” He sighed, glancing around the courtyard again. He was silent for a moment, not entirely sure what to say. “Sibylla and her new husband seem taken with each other.” He said, observing his sister batting her eyes and laughing at something Lord Montferrat said. A jest, perhaps.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t happy for Sibylla, but something about the sight made him feel a pang of enviousness. He couldn’t help it, nor the feeling of guilt that came after.

“What do you think of him, William?” Baldwin asked. “What do you think of Sir William Longsword?”

“Well, I believe him to be a good man, Your Majesty.” The archbishop said, scratching his chin.

“You think so?”

“He is a noble and decent man, well-liked by many.”

“I know all that. But what do you think, William?”

The archbishop tilted his head slightly, pondering for a moment as Baldwin observed him with interest. The archbishop always had something wise to say, and the young king valued his opinions more than anybody else.

“From what I’ve observed in the Haute Cour, he isn’t afraid to speak his mind, and he articulates himself well. He most certainly does enjoy his wine, but there are many other indulgent lords in your court, Your Highness.” The archbishop smiled, “And I have never once seen Lord Montferrat lose his composure.”

Baldwin paused. “Do you believe he’ll make Sibylla happy?”

“Only time can tell, but I believe so. She does seem quite taken with him.” The archbishop smiled, “He won’t betray her, if that is what concerns you. It is a good match, Your Majesty. He’ll make a good husband, and perhaps, just as fine of a ruler.”

Baldwin chuckled, satisfied with William's assessment of his brother-in-law, “It brings me great relief to know that when I can no longer rule, there will be someone worthy to succeed me.”

William nodded solemnly, “That day will not be here for many years, my liege.”

“We both know that day could come sooner than either of us would like.” Baldwin replied. There was no bitterness in his voice; only the coldness of acceptance.

“You are still young and strong, your majesty.”

But Baldwin knew better than anyone how quickly one's health could fail, for he had been cursed with the Holy disease since he was a boy, and it had been a perpetual reminder of his own mortality.

“Do you think Sibylla will mind if I leave the festivities early?” He asked, his eyes on the guests. “I do not wish to burden her with my presence. She is enjoying herself, and she should be.”

William smiled weakly, understanding the position the young boy was in. Throughout the evening (and perhaps even his whole life), Baldwin had witnessed his older sister relishing a life that lay beyond his reach. Leprosy would deprive the boy of a chance to become a husband a father.

Though it wasn’t obvious as of yet, it wouldn’t take long for Baldwin’s body to betray him, leaving the boy unable to fulfill even the basic responsibilities of his crown. Despite only being fifteen years old, Baldwin had already accepted the harsh realities of his condition with a grace that outshone the most seasoned knights twice his age.

It was all admirable if it wasn’t so tragic.

“She will not be angry,” William assured him.

Baldwin nodded, grateful for the archbishop’s counsel. He rose from his seat and began to turn to leave, but his gaze fell back on the girl from earlier. She was now standing near the table of sweets.

“Do you know that girl?” Baldwin asked, trying to keep his tone casual, “The blonde girl in yellow. I don’t believe I recognize her.” And he knew everyone who had attended his court, so it was unusual that he hadn't seen her before. And Baldwin certainly would remember if he had.

William turned to the direction Baldwin was facing, his eyes scanning the courtyard until he had found the girl the boy was asking about. “Hmm…I believe that is Raynald de Chatillon’s daughter, your majesty. She is here with her father.”

Baldwin nodded. Raynald de Chatillon had just been released from prison, and he had fathered three daughters with the late Constance of Antioch before he was captured. But Baldwin had never met the youngest one before.

“How old is she?” Baldwin asked, trying to mask his growing curiosity.

“She is fifteen, your majesty.”

“She is very…pretty." He tried to make it sound like a matter of fact statement, but he could not keep the note of interest from his voice.

William nodded knowingly, “She is.”

Baldwin looked at her for a moment longer, then turned to leave.

William was astonished, “Aren't you going to speak to her?”

“I have no business speaking to a girl I have never met before.” Baldwin replied flatly.

“But you are the King of Jerusalem,” William pointed out. “You can speak to anyone you want to.”

Baldwin sighed. “I do not want to speak to her.”

“Why not?” William asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Baldwin was silent for a moment. He didn’t know why he didn’t want to speak to her. Only that he didn’t. She was very pretty; but he knew that couldn’t possibly be the reason.

“I don’t know, William,” He finally admitted, “I just do not.”

William regarded him for a moment before nodding, accepting his king's decision. “Very well, your majesty.”

Before Baldwin could excuse himself, however, the ever opportunistic and newly appointed Lord of Oultrejordain approached them.

If there was anything that could be said about Raynald de Chatillon, is that he wasted no time. After his release from the Saracen prisons (and finding that he was no longer the ruling Prince of Antioch as his wife had passed away), Raynald had spent the months courting and marrying into another family of power and influence. Baldwin had approved of the marriage himself, and Raynald had become one of the wealthiest men in his court overnight.

The fifteen years of incarceration seemed to only fuel a fire in the man. Raynald strode over, standing tall and imposing. His green eyes were bright with ambition, and he wore a wide shit-eating grin on his face. Baldwin had no doubt that the self-titled Prince of Kerak was currently attempting to curry favor with the royal family.

“Your Highness,” Raynald greeted as he bowed his head.

“Lord Raynald,” Baldwin replied impartially. “It is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

There was a tense pause as Raynald took in the spectacle of the courtyard. He had spent the past fifteen years of his life locked away in a Saracen prison; and now Raynald de Chatillon was eager to reacquaint himself with the world he was denied for so long.

“You’ve truly outdone yourself, Your Majesty! The celebrations are splendid.”

“Thank you,” Baldwin replied, “Sibylla only wanted the best, and she would not let me hear the end of it if she had to settle for anything less.”

“I am sure,” Raynald nodded with a chuckle before his attention quickly shifted to William of Tyre. “I did not know you were attending the festivities, Archbishop,” He stated, his tone implying that William's presence was somehow unworthy. Most men at court could not stand Lord Chatillon’s condescending tone, and he had a way of making others feel insignificant. “I always assumed that you were the type to prefer the company of your books to parties.”

William was not intimidated. “The Princess has specifically requested for me to bless their marital bed, Lord Raynald. I was happy enough to oblige.”

“Well,” Raynald snorted. “I suppose a lot can change in a decade.”

Baldwin and William exchanged knowing glances. It was no secret that Lord Chatillon and the Archbishop had a strained relationship, and they both knew that the comment was intended to provoke. But the young king was determined to keep things civil. “A lot, indeed. I hope that you have been enjoying the celebrations?”

“I have, Your Highness, thank you,” Raynald said graciously as he cleared his throat, eager enough to change the subject. “If you don’t mind, Your Highness, there is someone I’d like you to meet,” He said, eyes wandering to the girl who was still standing idly by herself.

Baldwin’s eyes drifted to the girl, and when his eyes first met hers, his heart skipped a beat. She looked away first, and he could feel his heart already sinking. It wasn't the first time he had looked upon a pretty girl, and it most certainly would not be the last. Yet, somehow, he could not shake the feeling of disappointment from his chest.

“Of course,” He replied, forcing the words past his lips.

Raynald turned to his daughter, calling for her, and the young girl approached the throne. She dipped into a graceful curtsy towards them in greeting.

“Luceria, allow me to introduce you to the King, Baldwin IV of Jerusalem,” Raynald said, “Your majesty, may I present my daughter, Princess Luceria of Antioch.”

When she looked up, their eyes met again. And for a single moment, time stood still.

From this proximity, Baldwin could tell that her eyes were blue-green in color, just like the Mediterranean sea. Her skin was fair, and her hair was gold and braided beneath her veil. And he knew that if he were to rise, she’d likely stand just below his chin.

Luceria of Antioch was, perhaps, the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on.

And he knew instantly that he wanted to know her.

Baldwin wanted to say something. Anything. But he was too enchanted by her to form any coherent words. His tongue felt like it was swollen in his mouth.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, your grace,” Luceria spoke. Even her voice was sweet, just like a sunbird’s call.

But he could only nod in response.

William of Tyre, ever the diplomat, interjected. “Princess Luceria, what a pleasure it is to meet you. You are as lovely as your mother.”

Luceria's eyes seemed to widen at the mention of the late Princess of Antioch. She seemed at a loss for words, but managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

William then turned back to the King, “Perhaps, his majesty could give the Princess a tour of the palace? It’s a beautiful place, and Princess Luceria should experience it before she leaves for Kerak.”

Baldwin hesitated. He wanted to, but he did not know what to say. Would that be awkward? Surely she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary.   And surely Lord Raynald would be uncomfortable with the idea of his daughter spending time with a man alone, let alone someone like him.

But Lord Raynald, ever the opportunist, was quick to interject. “What a splendid idea, Archbishop! Your Majesty, I—We—would be honored if you would take my daughter on a tour of your palace.” He said, nudging the girl towards him, “Wouldn’t you like that, Luceria?”

She glanced towards him, and Baldwin was suddenly afraid.

Afraid of being alone with her. Afraid of her saying no.

What if he said something stupid? Or worse, what if he was unable to say anything at all? Was she disappointed by his appearance? He was certain the princess already knew of his condition; everyone in Jerusalem did. But would she be disgusted? Perceive him as something grotesque?

And yet, he could not deny his growing desire to speak to her.

William, sensing his apprehension, cleared his throat and spoke again. “His Majesty would be happy to show Princess Luceria around. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”

Baldwin nodded slowly, his mind still reeling. In his head he was cursing William, but in his heart he was thanking his advisor for making the decision for him.

“Wonderful!” Raynald exclaimed. “I will leave you to it, for I see my wife calling for me.”

“And I must prepare to bless the newlywed’s marriage bed,” William added. “Your Majesty, Princess Luceria, I will leave you two to get acquainted.”

Luceria and Baldwin exchanged a glance as they watched William and Raynald walk away. Baldwin cleared his throat, his eyes still on her. Finally, he gathered the courage to speak.

“Princess Luceria, if you are not too tired, I would be happy to show you around the palace.”

Luceria blinked, perhaps surprised to hear him speak for the first time. “I do not wish to impose, Your Grace.”

He shook his head, “It would be my honor.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, your majesty.”

Baldwin then rose from his throne, gesturing for her to follow him as they walked together through the courtyard towards the palace’s halls. He made sure to keep a reasonable distance from her, as he typically did with anybody in his court. He didn’t want to afflict anyone with his condition, and most people were grateful for the distance anyways.

They walked together in an awkward silence, both teenagers unsure of what to say for each other.

It was completely unlike himself to be at a loss for words. Despite the leprosy, Baldwin was usually charming and charismatic. He had no trouble speaking in the Haute Cour, or telling others what to do. When he rode Asad in the tiltyard, he could command a crowd with his presence. But somehow around her, no words would come out of his mouth. And he knew he needed to say something soon, unless he wanted to appear utterly foolish in front of her.

But his thoughts crippled him, and as he thought of something witty to say, or a lame joke that might make her chuckle, he began to wonder if she only agreed to accompany him in the first place because she felt pressured by William or her father. He didn’t want her to feel obligated to spend any time around him, but before he could say anything at all, Luceria began to speak.

“Your palace is very beautiful, your majesty. You have done well with the decorations.” She said, her eyes taking in the sight of the gaudy blue banners draping to the marble floors—all of which were his mother’s idea for Sibylla’s wedding. They had decorated it with so many flowers and pennants, it almost made Baldwin feel nauseous. But his sister had wanted the best.

Baldwin smiled, “Thank you, Princess. I’m pleased that you’re enjoying your stay so far,” He said, there was a hint of pride to his voice. “I can’t take credit for the decorations, however. The praise belongs to my mother.”

“Oh,” She replied shyly, “She has a good eye.”

Baldwin only nodded, struggling to come up with another topic of conversation other than the decor. He was usually very good at small talk, but now he wasn’t so sure.

They continued walking until they passed through another corridor, and Baldwin was grateful to be leaving the festivities behind them. The music faded away until it was nothing more than an afterthought.

“So…” He began, “…You are from Antioch?” He finally asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Internally, he wanted to groan.

“Yes, your majesty,” Luceria replied. “I was born in Hatay.”

“Oh.” Another internal groan. “…Do you miss it?”

“Very much. It is a beautiful place.”

“I have heard it is the jewel of the Levant.”

“It is,” Luceria agreed, her lips curving into a smile. “There is no place on earth quite like it.”

“Oh?” He asked, his curiosity growing as he had never been able to make the journey to Antioch, “What is it like there?”

“Hmm…It is breathtaking.” Luceria replied shyly, her blue-green eyes lighting up.

“Different from this side of the Levant, I presume?”

She bit her cheek, seemingly not wanting to say the wrong thing, “Well...yes, I suppose so, but not in a bad way. You simply cannot compare one to the other.”

He smiled at her diplomatic response, and she blushed in reply, looking away. Compared to the reputation of her parents and family, Luceria was remarkably gentle. The late princess of Antioch was said to be as bold as any knight, and the opportunistic Raynald de Chatillon was known to many for his vile temper. Even her brother, Bohemond III, had a reputation of being impulsive and quick to anger. But Luceria seemed to weigh her words before they even left her lips.

“What makes them different from the other?”

“The plumbing for one,” She seemed to murmur under her breath, before her eyes widened and she quickly added, “Forgive me, that is not what I meant!”

Baldwin looked at her incredulously, and he couldn’t help himself when a loud laugh burst past his lips. Perhaps he misjudged her. Luceria covered her mouth, clearly embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to imply that the water here isn’t satisfactory, your majesty. I only meant that—”

“Go on.” Baldwin gestured with his hand. “I am curious now. What about the plumbing, Princess?”

Luceria was mortified, and she lowered her gaze to the floor, “Well, our bathhouses you see, have water that flows in straight from the Daphne.” She cleared her throat, trying not to sound so awkward. And for a moment, he felt guilty for teasing her. “And I just think that’s...nice.”

He nodded, a wry smile still on his lips. He was still chuckling to himself when he realized just how much he liked the sound of her voice. “Do you miss Antioch, truly?”

She looked up at him, “I do, yes. Very much so.” The homesickness in her voice was palpable.

“It would be nice to see it one day.”

Luceria returned his smile. “I think you would like it very much, your majesty.”

“Perhaps you would be the one to give me a royal tour?”

“Hmm…” Luceria glanced up at him from the corners of her eyes, “I will have to think of things more interesting to show you than the decorations and the plumbing.”

They continued their walk together and the young King could feel the awkwardness beginning to melt away. She was shy, but not painfully so. Polite and respectful, but not in a way that felt cold or distant. And Once Luceria began to really talk, he found that it was so easy to converse with her. She told him about the cats that roamed outside the castle walls; St. Peter’s Church where her brother had married his late wife; and the Port of St. Symeon where she had always wanted to go, but never permitted to.

Baldwin in turn told her about how he snuck out to the vault—the Hospitaller’s warehouse—to play with swords when he was young. The Grand Commander had caught him red-handed and tattled to William, who then lectured him endlessly on responsibility. She had laughed, her voice like a small bell, and Baldwin had to hide his own smile as he watched her face brighten.

“You know, Your Majesty, you share the same name as one of my brothers,” She said shyly, “He’s a knight in the emperor’s army.”

He had heard of a Prince of Antioch who served under Emperor Manuel I. It was even said that this Baldwin of Antioch was Manuel’s most trusted adviser, though perhaps, it also helped his status that his sister was the Empress.

“I’ve heard of him, princess.” Baldwin nodded, “He’s a good man, is he not?”

“Usually, and when he isn’t being annoying he’s a good brother. But he looks after me, and he doesn’t quite tease me as much as Bohemond does.”

“You are fond of him,” Baldwin noted gently.

Luceria nodded, “Of course, your majesty. Are you not fond of your siblings?”

“We are…not very close.” He confessed, “My older sister and I did not grow up together, and my younger sister isn’t often around.” He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy, wishing he had the same closeness as Luceria did with her siblings. Sibylla had been long distant since her schooling in the convent of Bethany, and Isabella lived in Nablus with his stepmother. They tried to be present as often as possible, but now even Sibylla was starting her new life with her husband.

He was eager to change the subject. “Your name is quite unique.”

“I've been told, your Majesty," She replied with a sheepish smile. “It was my mother's idea.”

“Is it Italian?”

“Yes, an ancient Italian city. My mother has these old coins you see, and she was fascinated by their stories. And my father wasn’t around to stop her from naming me so.”

“Ah…It is a beautiful name. It suits you.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Luceria blushed, averting her gaze for a moment. “If I may ask, were you named after your uncle, the late king?”

“I did, my father told me that during my christening, my uncle promised me this city as a gift. At the time, it seemed an unlikely promise.” He chuckled, “My uncle passed without an heir, and then my father ascended to the throne. Then, all too soon, he too was gone.”

Luceria blinked, “I-I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn't mean to remind you of... unpleasant things.”

He shook his head. “It's fine, Princess. It was a long time ago.”

Luceria nodded, and just like that they fell into another awkward silence, neither one quite knowing what to say next. He couldn't remember the last time he'd struggled to fill in the gaps in a conversation. He was normally so adept at it.

“How long are you staying in Jerusalem?”

“Um…I’m not sure yet, your majesty.” She replied, her gaze shifting toward the window, “I came with my father, so I will leave when he does.”

He didn’t want to end their walk like this. On small talk and simple conversation. He didn’t want her to leave before he could make a lasting impression. A good impression.

Baldwin’s mind scrambled for something to say. Something to impress her.

“Do you like horses?” He blurted out.

“Horses?” Her eyes widened, “Yes, I quite like them.”

“If you aren’t too tired yet, princess, I’d love to show you the royal stables before we end this tour.”

She was quiet for a moment, and Baldwin was certain she was about to reject him. To his surprise, she nodded. “I would love to see the horses, Your Majesty.”

His shoulders sagged in relief and he looked around before gesturing for her to follow him, suddenly grateful for his own ingenuity. He lead her down another set of halls, before they reached the stables; the familiar scent of hay and horses filling their lungs.

In all of Jerusalem, there was no place Baldwin loved more than his stables. He had learned to ride a horse long before he could even run. Even as his body was growing numb, he was still a formidable rider, something Baldwin prided himself in. There were many different horses in the stable, but the one he loved the most was Asad, his beautiful Arabian.

“They’re all beautiful, your majesty.” Luceria said, eyes filled with wonder as she was immediately drawn to Asad. She carefully approached him. “You have an Arabian?” She gasped.

Baldwin nodded, “This is Asad.” He could not deny the pride in his voice.

“Even my brother does not have an Arabian,” She said, her gaze locked onto his horse. She approached him curiously, her hand lifting to the stallion's face, gently stroking his snout. Baldwin was surprised, for horses could be unpredictable, but Asad seemed to enjoy her company.

“He likes you, princess,” Baldwin noted, amused by the sight.

“He’s beautiful,” She blushed, her eyes fixed on the horse. “Where on earth did you get him?”

“He was a gift from my mother. He’s my favorite one.”

“He’s adorable,” Luceria giggled as Asad nuzzled her palm, “I can see why he’s your favorite.”

“Indeed, though he usually isn’t so kind to strangers.”

Luceria grinned, “When my sister Alice and I were young girls, we would sneak into my brother’s stables to play with the colts. We would bring figs to bribe them with. Bohemond never did understand why his horses mysteriously always loved us so much,” She laughed, “He was so jealous of it.”

Baldwin grinned, “I do wish I had your bags of tricks when I was a boy,” He said, sitting down on a bench, while Luceria took the bench opposite from him. “The first time I tried to ride a horse was my father’s destrier. He didn’t like me much, so he threw me off and almost twisted my arm. Maybe I would have faired better if I had some figs in my pocket.”

She laughed again, and Baldwin felt a sense of pride at having been the one who had brought out the beautiful sound. “Perhaps, but you did learn to ride eventually, did you not? Or are all these horses just for show?”

Baldwin scoffed in mock indignation. He was an accomplished jouster, and could race his horse faster than any of his knights. But he didn't want to boast. At least not right now. “I can hold my own, princess.” He said modestly. “My father taught me how to properly ride a horse when I seven. We would go down the shores of Ascalon, or across the plains of Acre, riding side by side. There were few things I looked forward to more than our rides together. It was when he was most at peace. And it was where we were most alike.”

“You are lucky to have those memories,” She said gently. He had never shared that memory with anyone, and he was surprised to find himself sharing it now.

“Do you like riding as well, princess, or do you prefer to bribe others’ animals?”

“I do, very much so,” She replied, “I have a palfrey of my own in Kerak. Her name is Hosanna.” She smiled wistfully, “My father and stepmother gifted her to me. She is a beautiful black mare. Very kind.”

“Perhaps we can ride together someday.”

“I would like that, Your Majesty.”

They continued to talk, the topics ebbing and flowing between them. They spoke of everything and nothing. Time slipping away from them like the wind. It was easy to lose himself in moments like this. Moments where he did not feel like a King nor a leper.

He just felt like a boy talking to a pretty girl.

“It is getting late, your majesty.” Luceria spoke gently. “I should be going. My father may be searching for me soon.”

Baldwin did not want her to go. He did not want this moment to end.

“Oh. Of course, princess.” Baldwin replied softly. “Let me escort you back to the courtyard.”

“Thank you, your highness. I had a wonderful time.”

“I did as well, princess.”

They walked in comfortable silence back to the courtyard, where the festivities had died down, and he could only assume it was because Sibylla and William Longsword had gone to engage in their bedding down revelries. But music and laughter still filled the air, and the remaining guests were enjoying themselves on whatever wine was left. The distance between Baldwin and Luceria was palpable, and they both seemed to be reluctant to say goodbye.

“Good night, your majesty,” Luceria spoke, her eyes meeting his as they reached the courtyard.

“Good night, princess,” He replied.

Luceria turned to leave, but she paused, turning back to look at him again. She was hesitant, but there was something in her eyes that Baldwin could not quite read.

“I hope we get to speak again, your highness.” Luceria spoke gently.

Baldwin felt a twinge of happiness at her words. It was nice, he realized, to have someone to talk to. To share stories with. Someone who wasn’t William, or his squire, or his mother. Someone his age. Someone he liked.

“I would like that very much.”

He swore he saw a flicker of a smile play on her lips. But Luceria lowered into a curtsy, before turning to join her father and stepmother, leaving the king standing alone in the crowded courtyard.

As Baldwin watched her go, his heart swelled with a strange feeling he couldn’t quite place.

He could only hope to get the chance to see her again.

Chapter Text

Kerak, August 1176.

“Pray tell, my lady, what was he like?” Miriam asked as she delicately combed through Luceria’s flaxen locks.

The princess reclined, savoring the soothing touch that untangled the knots in her hair. Among her handmaidens, Miriam was the sole companion Raynald had permitted to accompany her to Kerak. Luceria found comfort in Miriam’s presence, as the older woman had also attended to her late mother and often told her stories of the woman she had never known.

Plus, compared to the others, Miriam was much gentler at unknotting her hair.

“Hmm?” Luceria tilted her head to the side, “Who do you mean?”

Miriam rolled her eyes, “The king, of course. Who else would I be asking about?”

“Oh.” Luceria felt her cheeks blush. “Well…I suppose he was very kind.” She began, feeling the dissatisfaction in Miriam's dark eyes begging for her to continue. “And…Um…He adores horses. His knowledge for them is quite remarkable.”

It was probably her favorite part of her stay in Jerusalem. She had never been to the Holy City before Princess Sibylla’s wedding, and while the rest of the festivities were glamorous, meeting Baldwin’s Arabian, Asad, had been the highlight of her trip.

“I see.” Miriam said, still unsatisfied with the answer. She had been serving Luceria since she was a child, so she could tell when Miriam wanted gossip. Unlike her sisters, Luceria didn’t often engage in such talk, but she could understand Miriam’s curiosity about the king. After all, she had been curious herself.

“Is it true, princess, that the king is a leper?”

“Well, that’s what they say, but I truly do not know.” The young girl replied with a shrug. “He didn’t look like a leper to me.”

Miriam sighed, “It is a terrible disease. You must be cautious, princess.”

“He doesn’t even seem ill,” Luceria insisted, “But Bohemond and Mary said that he has the Holy Disease, so I suppose he must be sick.”

“Well, what did he look like?”

“He wasn't like what I pictured him to be or what the stories described him as,” She replied adamantly. “He looked...just like a boy. A little taller than me. A little paler. And he had kind blue eyes.”

“That is all?”

“Well, I didn’t see any sores or unusual scabs if that’s what you’re looking for,” Luceria added, though she did recall the thick gloves the King had worn during the festivities. Even though Winter hadn’t come yet and Summer had just ended, she simply assumed he felt cold easily. “To be honest, he was quite handsome.” She added shyly.

But Miriam’s expression turned grave, making Luceria feel as though she had said something wrong. “The lord has cursed him for his sins, princess.”

“But what sins could he have possibly committed?” She countered defensively, “He is only fifteen.” Just like me.

Miriam sighed, a weighty sigh bordering on vexation. “I do not know, princess. But I’m sure he has sinned. The Lord would not afflict him otherwise.”

Luceria lapsed into silence, contemplating Miriam’s words. Throughout her life, she held a steadfast belief in the Lord’s Justice; it had been drilled into her through her studies time and time again. God never made mistakes, and we were all made according to His design. So if Baldwin indeed bore the burden of leprosy, Luceria reasoned that there must have been a purpose behind it.

It was not within her place to challenge the Will of God.

But she couldn’t help but dwell upon how hard the King’s life must have been. She had only spent a few hours with him, but already she was facing such scornful questioning from Miriam, merely from associating with someone marked by lepra. The king must have endured a lifetime of the same kind of inquiries and societal stigma.

It must have been so lonely for him. To be a leper king, surrounded by a world that did not understand his condition, yet expected so much from him. It was a heavy burden to bear, and she could not imagine how he had managed it so far.

Her heart ached for the gentle boy who had showed her his beloved stallion.

“Father wasn’t afraid of him,” Luceria pointed out, her eyes wandering to Miriam’s reflection in the mirror, “And the King had kept his distance with me the entire time he showed me the palace.”

“Yes, but your father is a brave man,” Miriam said reverently, shaking her head in disapproval. “He’s survived over a decade in the Saracen prisons. He has fought and lived through many wars. He isn’t afraid of anything.”

Luceria could not deny her handmaiden’s logic. Her father was an unshakable force. So much so that even his enemies feared and respected him. Raynald had conquered multiple territories across the Levant, so surely God was on his side. He could not have accomplished so much otherwise.

“Miriam,” She began hesitantly, “Do you know why father has brought me here?”

The older woman paused, shook her head, and sighed, “It is no secret, princess. Lord Raynald is a powerful and ambitious man. You’re a beautiful girl, and he means to find you a favorable match. It would be advantageous for all of us if he can marry you off to a suitable man.”

But Luceria already knew this.

She understood, of course, her role in the eyes of the man she called ‘father’. She was a young woman of noble birth, a princess of Antioch—and now she was old enough to entertain suitors. To her father, who coveted power and riches above all else, she was another bargaining chip in his relentless pursuit of power.

She did not blame him, for Luceria comprehended that such were the ways of the world. Her eldest half-sister, Mary, had wed the Ruler of the Byzantine Empire. Raynald’s eldest daughter, Anna, had entered matrimony with the Hungarian King. Philippa had been joined in marriage to the Lord of Toron, and Alice was in the midst of negotiations to marry a Marquis. If Raynald de Chatillon had his say, he would arrange for his youngest daughter to marry the man of the highest rank he could secure.

Miriam did her best to comfort the young lady. “Do not fret, princess. I am sure Lord Raynald will choose someone gallant and handsome. Someone worthy of a princess.”

Luceria nodded, a faint smile on her face. She wanted to believe Miriam's words, but she knew that Raynald's priorities did not align with her own. She was not so naive to think that he would choose someone who would love her, and that she would love in return. No, her father was not a man who valued love. He valued power.

Her only wish then, was to be betrothed to someone whom she could tolerate. Love was not a necessity for her; she had not been a romantic for a long time, especially growing up under Bohemond's care. She sought a practical marriage where she would be content; where he would never raise his hands to her or their future children. Ideally, she preferred a man of the same age, perhaps even sharing some of her interests. If such a man could also be handsome, she would not complain.

Deep down, it did not matter to her if this man was worthy of a princess. Only that he was worthy of her.

“Perhaps he will even have a castle much larger than Kerak!” Miriam added, her eyes shining with excitement. “And you will have many servants to serve you. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Indeed. Truly lovely.” Luceria echoed, her tone and thoughts already distant.

Sensing her apprehension, the older woman sighed, “You will be happy, my lady, I am sure of it.”

Luceria forced a smile in return, not wanting to disappoint her handmaiden.

“Yes, Miriam, I am sure I will be.”

Jerusalem, August 1176.

William of Tyre entered the palace gardens as he always did before midday. It had been a peaceful morning. A completely uneventful one, just as he preferred. He had awoken, prayed, ate breakfast, and was now on his way to the gardens to read.

It had been exactly one week since Princess Sibylla had wed Lord William Longsword of Montferrat. It was a strategic alliance, as Longsword was the cousin of the Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa and King Louis VII of France. Sibylla seemed pleased with her new husband—who all agreed was comely and gallant—and the archbishop was happy to hear that the newlyweds were now settling nicely into the fortress in Ascalon.

After all, the young princess deserved a chance at happiness.

But his grey eyes fell onto the young King who was sitting alone by the fountain, shielded from the sun by the fronds of a date tree. There was a faraway look to him, lost in thought with his eyes fixed onto the palace. He looked so lonely, that William couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He approached the boy, and Baldwin’s eyes lifted, a small smile on his face.

“William.” He greeted warmly.

“Your Majesty,” William nodded, returning the small smile with a faint one, “You are alone? Where are all your attendants?”

Baldwin shrugged, “Oh, I dismissed them. I needed some time to myself.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” William noted. Though summer was ending and winter would soon come, the sun was still pleasant in the sky. He took a seat beside the boy, and they both stared at the palace in front of them.

Baldwin leaned back, his eyes squinting in the sun, “I am enjoying it while it lasts.”

William regarded him for a moment. He’d been tutoring the lad since he was nine. The boy king had even lived under his roof for quite some time so William knew Baldwin as though he were his own flesh and blood. And he could easily tell when something was upsetting him. “You seem troubled, my liege.”

“It is nothing, Archbishop.”

“I do not believe that one bit, Your Majesty,” William replied, gentle but playfully, “I know you. And I know when something is bothering you.”

Baldwin’s eyes shifted to the water in the fountains, signaling that he didn’t want to talk about it. But the boy rarely kept his worries close to his chest, especially not from his advisor. William was a patient man, and he would not leave until Baldwin shared what was on his mind.

“…It’s the princess.” Baldwin finally admitted in a hushed whisper.

“Princess Luceria? Lord Raynald’s daughter?” William raised his eyebrows. “Did something happen?”

“No, no.” Baldwin sighed, turning himself towards the fountain. “Nothing like that. It’s just…She’s beautiful, William. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful.”

It wasn’t the first time the young king had noticed a girl, and though he may never experience the pleasures of a woman, he was aware that the boy’s mind yearned for such delights.

As did his body, for Baldwin was still a man.

William had first noticed the changes in Baldwin months before. He had grown taller, just a few inches shorter than himself. Baldwin’s shoulders had broadened, his voice began to deepen—and on occasion, crack—and he had lost most of the softness and fat in his cheeks.

He also knew that Baldwin was lonely. The young king had sworn off marriage long ago, and his childhood companions had gone off to become soldiers, scholars, or clergymen. The closest companion he had was the archbishop, as well as his squire. He had no real friends, only subjects and subjects to be. And while William loved the boy like his own son, Baldwin was in desperate need of a real friend.

“I see,” William said, trying his best to sound neutral. In a different world, the princess would have been an ideal match for his protégé. But the world they lived in was not so kind, and Baldwin was a leper. He did not know of any parents who would willingly hand their child over to such a fate, nor would Baldwin himself allow it. “She is, isn’t she?”

Baldwin sighed again, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s pointless to even think of her like this, William. She is a princess.”

“And you are still a king, my liege.”

“It is not the same,” Baldwin insisted. “I cannot be with her. Not like that. It is impossible. She is a princess, and I am a leper. I can never give her the life she deserves.”

“I am sorry, your majesty.” William spoke with a frown. Had he know just how taken the young boy would be with Luceria, he may have been less impulsive in his decision to suggest a tour of a palace. “I should not have asked her to accompany you.”

The archbishop hadn’t harbored any ill intent in his suggestion. He simply sough a glimpse into the life that Baldwin should have experienced. But the torment and shame all etched into Baldwin’s face made William’s heart ache with guilt. He should’ve known that even such innocent flirtations were off-limits to the young king.

“It’s alright, you meant no harm.” Baldwin said reassuringly, “I truly enjoyed speaking to her. It was nice. She was…very kind. Besides,” Baldwin’s lips curved into a cheeky grin, “If you had not suggested it, I am sure Lord Raynald would have.”

The archbishop chuckled in amusement. “You are probably right, my liege.”

“I do not regret it,” Baldwin’s tone softened, “I am glad to have spent some time with her.”

William was relieved, glad that Baldwin had found some happiness, even if it was only temporary. But it wouldn’t do good for the young king to grow up so lonely, “You could always write to her, your majesty.” He suggested.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Baldwin shook his head. “It would only be a distraction. I have to focus on my duties as king.”

“Your duty is not only to the kingdom,” William responded gently, “You are only fifteen, and you are allowed to have friends.”

Baldwin was silent for a moment, considering William’s words. “Perhaps…Perhaps you are right.” He finally admitted. “I guess, at the very least, I would like to be her friend.”

“Then write to her.”

Baldwin glanced at the Archbishop before turning his gaze back to the palace, a fleeting smile gracing his face.

“Perhaps I will.”

Kerak, August 1176

Raynald de Chatillon sat up on his wife’s bed, white linen sheets rumbled over his naked form. The curtains were drawn over the bedroom window, but the candles flickered brightly in the dark room. He took a sip of wine and let the bitter, red liquid roll down his throat before turning to his wife. She lay beside him, propped up against the headboard, hair disheveled and her face flushed. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips as she traced lazy circles across Raynald's bare chest with her fingertips.

Even before being released, Raynald already knew that he’d have to remarry. It was the most logical thing to do. His stepson had taken over as the Prince of Antioch, and Raynald himself held no titles. So when he met Stephanie de Milly, Raynald knew immediately that she was going to be his next wife. He had pursued her relentlessly for weeks, and when the Lady of the Oultrejordain didn’t spurn his advances, he went and asked the king himself for her hand in marriage.

She was a comely woman, with dark hair and equally dark eyes, but her wit was what truly captivated him.

“What is going on in that fine little head of yours?” Stephanie asked curiously, moving her hand to scratch the rust colored tufts of hair on his chest.

“Matters of state and family, my dear.” Raynald met her gaze, “Specifically, my daughter’s future.”

“So serious this late at night,” She yawned as he wrapped a burly arm around her. He had lost so much weight when he was held in captivity, but over the past few months, he had been training to regain his form. “And what are these ‘matters’ that you speak of?”

“Luceria's betrothal must be arranged.”

“Do you already have someone in mind?” Stephanie asked, her hand tracing the jagged scars on his arms. “Eschiva's son has expressed his interest during the wedding even after Luceria turned down his invitation to dance." She laughed softly, "Poor boy, he's so shy, but he is a good person.”

“The scrawny thing from Tiberias?” Raynald snorted in amusement. “I cannot stand his stepfather and I will not have my daughter married off to some lowly lordling. No, my dear, she will have to do much better than him. She will have to marry royalty, like her sisters have.”

Stephanie shrugged. “The boy is a prince from a wealthy family. And there are not many other eligible men left in the Levant. Do you plan to send her westward?”

“We have a king in Jerusalem, do we not?”

Stephanie almost choked. “You would have your daughter wed the leper?” She asked, trying her best to stifle a chuckle as soon as she realized her husband was being completely serious. “Would the people of Outremer even accept such a match?”

“He is the King of Jerusalem,” Raynald shrugged. He didn't care what the people would think; he cared only for his own interests, and right now, he saw a great opportunity in having his daughter marry the boy whether he was a leper or not. “Who would dare to challenge him?”

“But there are whispers at court, Raynald,” Stephanie said, weighing her words carefully, well-aware of her husband’s notorious ambition. “From what I gather, Baldwin has no desire for marriage. Perhaps no desire for women at all. His infirmity…Well…it may render him—”

“Impotent?” Raynald finished bluntly, “Heresy. Those are merely rumors. My daughter is a pretty girl. It won’t be difficult to entice that boy with her. He’s a leper, he isn’t blind. Yet.”

Stephanie sighed, “And what makes you so certain that Baldwin would want this?”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at her. I’m sure he will be more than amenable to such a match.”

“You are willing to risk your daughter's happiness for this?”

“If it means she becomes the Queen of Jerusalem, then yes. Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

Baldwin being a leper was not a concern for him. In fact, he viewed it as an advantage for there was barely any competition for such an offer. He was also well aware that there was a chance that Baldwin may never be able to consummate his marriage—or produce an heir—but Raynald was not after this kind of legacy.

No, there were more pressing matters.

“Agnes would never agree to this, Raynald.”

“Agnes has no power here,” Raynald’s mocked, “She is the Countess of Jaffa, not the queen. Sure she may influence her son, but ultimately if he wishes to marry Luceria, he will. I was a boy at that age once.”

“Are you not at all concerned about your daughter catching leprosy?” Stephanie asked, her voice filled with concern. “It could happen to her too, and no man would ever want to touch her again.”

“God will not punish such a beautiful and innocent child, Stephanie,” Raynald replied confidently, his gaze fixed on her as though he was convincing himself as well. He did not want his beloved daughter to suffer from that wretched disease, but he would also not limit the opportunities that lay before her. “And she will not have to lay with him. Not if I can help it. There are plenty of ways for her to avoid it. I will make sure of that.”

After all, why should his daughter not be queen? She was more worthy of the crown than Sibylla, that much was certain.

Stephanie watched him closely, her calculated silence a weapon more precise than words. When she finally spoke, it was in a hushed tone, but her eyes bore into his with the intensity of wildfire.

“Your boldness is a double-edged sword, husband,” Her fingers trailed along his jaw, knowing he would not listen to reason if he felt like he was being challenged. “To force this arrangement would be to risk everything. You do not want to risk alienating your stepson and stepdaughter, or you could lose the Emperor as an ally. And Baldwin is volatile, what do you think will happen if he senses any reluctance from Luceria? She must believe this path is of her own choosing.”

Raynald’s jaw clenched, the muscles betraying his internal struggle between pride and pragmatism. He was a practical man, and though he did not like it when his wife had a point, he understood that she did. He could gamble and win or he could lose everything. But if he won, the prize would be magnificent.

“Fine,” He conceded. “So what do you suppose I do?”

Stephanie’s eyes glinted with mischief.

“You must make her believe the crown is her destiny.”

Chapter Text

Kerak, 1 September 1176

The first letter came as Luceria was practicing her embroidery. It arrived by way of a messenger from Jerusalem, a courier of about eighteen years, and Miriam had been the one to relay it to her mistress.

“A messenger arrived for you, princess.”

“For me?” Luceria asked in surprise, “Do you know from whom?”

Miriam only shrugged. “I’m not sure, my lady. But it does bear the King’s seal.”

Confused, Luceria put her needle down and beckoned for Miriam to approach. Her eyes remained fixed on the scroll. There was no mistaking the king’s seal—a ruler wearing on a crown, sitting on a throne with a scepter in one hand and a holy orb in the other. But Luceria had only seen such a seal on official documents before.

She reached for the scroll, and Miriam surrendered it into her hands.

“It’s from Jerusalem,” Luceria confirmed, holding the parchment gingerly. She had received many letters from her siblings before, but this was different. It would be her first time receiving a letter from someone outside of her family.

Let alone a king.

A part of her wanted to open the scroll and devour the words written for her inside, but another part of her was cautious. She hadn’t even been in Jerusalem that long, and her interactions with Baldwin had been brief, if pleasant.

Did she really make such a strong impression?

Miriam was staring at her expectantly, “My lady, are you not going to read it?”

“Not at the moment Miriam, I still need to finish father’s tunic. You know he will not like it to be done improperly.” Luceria said, setting the letter aside and reached for her embroidery tools once more. But her thoughts drifted to the letter. She wanted to read it so badly that the wait was almost unbearable, but she did not want Miriam to see her excitement. It was probably just a letter thanking her for attending the festivities.

When the older woman did not leave, Luceria cleared her throat, “Was there something else you needed, Miriam?”

“No, my lady,” The handmaiden curtsied, her curiosity unsated. “I shall leave you now.”

But soon the door clicked shut, and as soon as she was certain her handmaiden was completely gone, she gently folded the tunic on her lap and eagerly reached for the letter. Her heart pounded in her chest as she broke the seal.

As was expected from a king, Baldwin's handwriting was elegant and neat.

Dearest Princess Luceria of Antioch,

I would like to start by expressing how much I enjoyed our conversation at my sister’s wedding. I trust that you enjoyed my little tour of the royal palace, and by extension, the royal stables. I was pleasantly surprised, and delighted, to find someone else who prefers the company of horses. And if you would have me, princess (as well as look past my awkwardness) I would very much like to be your friend.

I have no doubt that you must be quite busy with your own responsibilities. But, if you are amenable to corresponding with me, I will be sitting here eagerly awaiting your response. If you are not, I will respect your wishes.

However, to entice you to reply, I have also enclosed a drawing of Asad. I thought you might like to see it.

I wish you and your family well.

With highest regards,

King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem

Luceria couldn’t help but grin as she unrolled the crudely executed drawing of Baldwin’s beautiful stallion. It barely resembled a horse at all, she thought, as it looked much more like some strange dog.

He wasn’t a talented artist—or any sort of artist at all—but she found the effort he put into writing a letter and drawing a ‘horse’ for her endearing.

“Adorable,” she found herself saying aloud, her lips still curved into a smile. There was something about the sincerity of the boy's words that made her heart full, and his request of friendship was enticing for Luceria had not a friend her own age since she left Antioch.

It would be nice to have someone to write to. It would be nice to have a friend.

Jerusalem, 9 September 1176

Baldwin could feel Abul’Khair’s watchful gaze on him as he rode Asad through the courtyard. He was a stern man with dark skin, brown eyes that saw everything, and hair that was half-grey. He was the brother of Baldwin’s most trusted physician, and had been the one to teach him how to ride a horse without needing any reins.

“Don’t hesitate, your majesty,” Abul’Khair called out sharply. Baldwin gripped his sword tighter with his left hand. Despite his condition, he was still a graceful rider. He controlled the horse with ease, commanding the animal to move with fluid motions of his feet and legs. A riding style not usually practiced by the Franks.

His sword clashed with another soldier’s, a boy who was the same age as Baldwin if not a little bit older. The boy was strong, strong enough to push the young king back, but the King was quick to regain his balance. He countered with a swift strike, and the soldier struggled to block the bow.

“Good, your majesty! Keep fighting!”

Baldwin swung his blade again, this time clashing against the soldier’s armored arm, causing him to drop his sword. He winced, and Baldwin pulled away, lowering his blade.

“Excellent,” Abul’Khair said, voice filled with pride and Baldwin smiled back at him triumphantly. “You are getting better at this, Your Majesty.”

Baldwin couldn’t help the growing grin on his face, “I’ve been practicing.”

“I can tell.” Abul’Khair replied with a chuckle. “But your form could use more work. You are still too tense, your movements are stiff. You do not wield a shield when you ride, so you must make sure your movements are fluid, and you must be able to strike and block with ease.”

The young king nodded. Since his right hand was growing number, he had learned to fight with his left. He trained relentlessly, and he had been making great strides in his abilities. But he was still a long way from being the skilled warrior that he desired to be.

Baldwin sheathed his sword, and his gaze lifted to the sun. The afternoon was still young, and he wasn’t tired at all. In fact, Baldwin felt as though he had more energy than he had in a long time. Ever since spring, his leprosy hadn’t progressed besides the development of macules on his back.

Perhaps now, his condition was finally stable.

Before he could ask to fight again, his squire, Anslem had approached. He bowed his head in respect, and then held up a scroll. “Pardon my interruptions, Your Majesty. But this just arrived from Kerak.”

Baldwin’s face brightened, his previous desire to continue training completely forgotten. He dismounted his horse, and quickly approached his squire, a grin already forming on his face as soon as he saw the wax seal.

He turned his gaze back to Abul’Khair, trying to think of a way to leave the courtyard without being so obvious.

“Go on, your majesty. It is time we end the practice session anyway. I will see you tomorrow.”

The young king nodded with a wide grin, “I shall be in my chambers if you need me.”

Abul’Khair bowed his head, but the king was already striding away.

He took light, slow steps at first. And once he turned and left the crowded hallway he practically began to sprint, mind racing as he gripped the parchment in his hand. He couldn’t help the smile that persisted on his face. When he sent the princess his letter, he had no expectations for her to write back. He had hoped in his heart that he would, but he had prepared himself for the expectation that she would never write him at all.

Once he got into his chambers, he quickly shut the door behind him. He hadn’t even stepped into the center of his room when he eagerly broke the seal, clumsy fingers unrolling the parchment as his eyes drank in every word on the page.

To the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin IV

I must confess, I was not expecting you to write me. So when Miriam (my handmaiden), brought me your letter, I was quite surprised and more than delighted.

Your drawing of Asad made me smile, thank you for sending it. It was more than enough to win over my decisions, as I would be honored to be your friend.

I suppose I should tell you more about myself and how my life has been since we last spoke. Days in Kerak can be rather uneventful, so I tend to occupy my time with books and embroidery. When the weather permits, father graciously allows me the pleasure of riding Hosanna around the fortress. I tried to draw her as well, but I lack your artistic skills.

I am curious to know what your hobbies are, your majesty, and what occupies your time.

I wish you well.

Yours, Princess Luceria of Antioch

“Liar,” Baldwin chuckled under his breath, staring at the drawing of Hosanna, the black Palfrey. He appreciated the irony of her modesty, given that her sketch was significantly superior to his. He began to suspect she was playfully joking with him.

Baldwin leaned back against the wall, pondering what meaningful token he could send back in return.

Kerak, 29 September 1176

Luceria eyed the rock in her hands with a hint of confusion. It was an unexpected gift, certainly not what she had imagined the king of all people would send. She couldn't help but giggle as she pictures some poor messenger being told that this box contained something precious; only for it to just be this unremarkable rock.

Over the past few weeks, she found herself looking forward to Baldwin’s letters. Life in Kerak had started to feel monotonous, and the king’s writing was a wonderful distraction.

She learned that besides writing, he enjoyed reading and playing chess. She was pleasantly surprised to discover that they shared a similar fondness for parlour games and board games. He enjoyed songs played on the Oud—as harps often put him to sleep—and his favorite food was a good roast. He preferred the cool winters to the hot summers, his favorite color was a deep blue (was it a coincidence that those were the colors of his banners?), and he was born on the 14th of May. He had also asked her more questions about her life and the city of Antioch, and Luceria was excited to answer them.

The rock, Baldwin stated in his letter, was something he picked up as he was out riding. It was the most ordinary rock in the world, and Luceria loved it.

Jerusalem, 13 October 1176

Baldwin was not a fan of comfits. They were too sweet for his tastes. But Luceria sent him a jar of her favorite confections, so he had to try them.

His face scrunched up at the saccharine taste, and his tongue immediately demanded he chase it down with water. He had no idea how she could possibly enjoy them.

He gingerly gathered the jar and her letter, carefully placing them into a wooden box where he stored all of their correspondence and gifts. Every letter, every trinket was another reminder of her, and that was more than he could ask for.

Still, he made a mental note to ask her not to send him any more sweets in the future.

Kerak, 18 October 1176

“A letter for you, princess,” Miriam spoke gently.

Luceria looked up at her handmaiden, a curious and eager smile on her face. “From the King of Jerusalem?”

Miriam shook her head. “No, princess, it is from your brother.”

The princess instantly recognized Bohemond’s distinct seal. She broke the wax and read the words, her eyes taking in the familiar handwriting.

Her face paled and her body stilled as she finished reading the letter.

“Princess, are you well?” Miriam could not contain the concern in her voice.

“I am fine, Miriam,” Luceria replied, “You may go.”

But the princess was not fine.

For her brother, Baldwin of Antioch, was dead.

Chapter Text

Kerak, 25 October 1176

A daughter was meant to be given comfort. That is what Stephanie had told him.

Raynald listened to his daughter's muffled sobs as he stood outside her chambers; her grief palpable through the heavy door. He had considered opening it many times, but whenever his fingers reached for the brass rings, they froze before they could even touch it.

It had been a week since they received news of his stepson's death, but the Princess’ mourning had shown no sign of abating. Each day was a silent, solemn march from her bedroom to the chapel. Each night was a symphony of wailing and wailing, wet tears churning into choking sobs. Her food returned to the kitchen untouched, and the few words she exchanged were only to her handmaiden.

But Raynald was not one to offer condolences, not to her or anyone else. He knew the sting of loss all too well, but he also knew that it would pass. Time, after all, healed all wounds. It was a hard lesson to teach a delicate child, and perhaps if he had been present for more of her life, Luceria wouldn’t be so weak. She would be prepared to face life’s challenges without the weight of her grief.

Perhaps in her, he saw a reflection of his own failures. And as she mourned her brother’s loss, he wondered if she had ever mourned his absence.

The pitter-pattering of feet drew him from his thoughts, and were expectedly followed by a head full of dark curls that bounced around the corner. Raynald raised his hand to his stepson and shook his head, “Not today, Humphrey. Your sister is not well.”

The boy looked up at him with large doe-like eyes, clearly disappointed. But Raynald was unphased. “You should be with your mother,” He said sternly, “She is worried about you, boy. Be gone.”

He watched as Humphrey ran away, his little footsteps echoing against the cold, stone walls. He was a timid boy, and Raynald pitied him. This fortress could not be filled with fragile hearts. They had to be hardened like stone.

The Levant was unkind to those who lacked the fortitude to endure it.

Kerak, 9 November 1176

“You must eat something, princess.” Miriam said, pushing the bowl of pottage in front of her. She had tried many things to entice the young girl to eat, but no amount of candied fruit could get her to eat more than a spoonful.

The physicians had recommended the princess receive a diet free from dairy, eggs, and spices to improve the girl’s behavior. And though she was unconvinced, Miriam eventually complied. But Luceria’s melancholy only worsened, and the handmaiden feared for the girl’s health.

“I’m not hungry.”

“My lady, you have barely touched your food for the past few days.” Miriam chided, concerned. The girl was already quite thin, and a lack of food would not help her. “Please, just eat a little bit?”

But the princess simply stared at her bowl, pushing the pottage around with the spoon. Miriam had hoped that as the days passed, her mood would improve. But she seemed to only grow more despondent and withdrawn. She would ride out to the stables on Hosanna and stay out there all day. Sometimes, she would simply lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling for hours.

“Princess, I do not know what else I can do. You must eat, my lady, or you will fall ill.”

Luceria remained quiet; fidgeting with the spoon and staring at the beige blandness in the bowl with an expression of utter distaste.

“What happens when we die, Miriam?”

The question took her by surprise. Miriam could only stare at Luceria, mouth hung open in disbelief as she tried her best to answer, “We…We go to heaven, my lady.”

Luceria did not reply, and Miriam wasn’t sure if she even heard her response. The princess’s stare was now fixed on the window, and Miriam followed her gaze, but saw nothing but the pale blue skies.

“I must go to the chapel to pray now,” Luceria announced, rising from her seat rigidly. Miriam’s eyes fell onto the pottage, which remained uneaten.

“Princess,” Miriam began, but Luceria was already walking away, leaving the food behind.

Kerak, 13 November 1176

All the words were like a ringing in her ears; all the faces blurred into one. Food was tasteless, sleep was fleeting, and the sun brought her no joy. The grief had settled into the marrow of her bones until she could feel nothing else. Her tears had dried and her heart felt hollow.

Still, the days passed, whether she wanted them to or not, and each morning she found herself standing under the arch of her window. Summer was long gone, but the sky was her only source of comfort as she looked out to the horizon, longing for a place beyond. Any tangible sign of heaven.

In her hand was the King’s latest letter, but Luceria did not dare to open it.

What could he possibly say to her to ease such a loss? He, too, was a child. She had no interest in his letters, and the stack of unanswered correspondence on her desk had started to gather dust.

But the king was persistent in his attempts to communicate and she did not have the heart to tell him to stop. Perhaps he hoped that his words would bring her the comfort that she so desperately sought. But there was little he could do to mend her broken spirit, and it would be a while until she felt ready to face the world once again.

The wind raged behind her but it was the firm knock at her door that startled her from her thoughts. Luceria quickly tucked the letter beneath the sleeve of her dress. “Enter.”

“Princess,” Miriam spoke, voice soft as it usually was these past weeks. “Lord Raynald is here.”

Her father stood behind the handmaiden, his face grim as it usually was. He rarely made visits to her room, and her mind raced to what he could possibly want with her now. Perhaps once she longed for his company, but all she wanted was to be left alone.

“Leave us.” Her father said, and Miriam immediately turned on her heel and disappeared. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning her face, “You are getting worse.”

She swallowed. “I feel better.” It was a lie, but it was easier to believe than the truth. Luceria could see her father’s eyes narrow, and she knew he didn’t believe her. Not for a second.

“You must understand, Luceria, that in battle, there are casualties. Your brother died in glory fighting the infidels. I cannot see a more noble way to meet God.”

Luceria’s hands trembled. “He was too young.”

“He was a man. The right hand of the Emperor, and you would be wise to remember that.”

The princess blinked back tears. “He was my brother,” She whispered, “I am allowed to mourn him.”

“I didn’t say otherwise, did I?” Raynald snapped, his voice sharp and startling her, causing her to flinch. “You think that I do not mourn him? He was my stepson. But I have no time to wallow in this self pity. You need to accept that he was a soldier and soldiers die. This is the life we have chosen and this is the world you live in. It is either the sword or the cross, and your brother chose the former. Do not allow his death to be in vain.”

Luceria bit her lip. Her father had never raised a hand to her before, but his words were sharp enough to cut. She felt the sting of the disapporval and disappointment in his eyes.

“Forgive me,” She choked, taking a step back to create distance. “I did not mean to offend you.”

Raynald sighed, the anger leaving his body as quickly as it had come. “I understand that this is a difficult time for you, daughter, I truly do. But it is time for you to put aside your grief and return to your duties.” He moved forward, his hand cupping the back of Luceria’s neck and squeezing gently. She flinched, but did not pull away. “The physician will come again tomorrow to help rid you of this melancholy. I’ve asked him to prescribe something stronger.”

The princess looked at her father, trying not to let the tears fall from her eyes, “That is not necessary.”

“I am not taking any chances,” He stated, his voice firm and his grip tightening. “We cannot have you wallowing in despair like a mad woman. It is not befitting of my daughter. Now, be presentable and return to your normal duties. And for heaven’s sake, child, eat something.”

The wind raged loudly outside, and though it was the start of winter, Luceria barely felt the cold.

Chapel of Kerak, 17 November 1176

The chapel was built on the east wing of Kerak. It was not very grand, but it was quiet enough for prayer, and she was grateful for the small moments of solitude.

She had not slept well in the night, and she was exhausted. It felt like everyone was always fussing over her, and she was tired of it. She just wanted to be left alone.

She was tired of people being overtly nice to her, expressing tactful mouthfuls of condolences. She didn't want her father to look at her with that same sternness in his face, that same disapproval that was always there. And she didn't want to be coddled by Lady Stephanie or Miriam or any of the physicians that came to see her.

When they were not coddling her, they were pitying her. And Luceria did not know what hurt more, being pitied or being smothered. Perhaps, even worse of it all, was how they tried to fix her.

She had diligently started on the tonic prescribed by the physician, hoping it would quell her noon-day demons. And though she wasn’t sure at all about its efficacy, she desperately hoped it was making a difference; if only to avoid being subjected to leeches.

Luceria found herself grappling that she even harbored some kind of affliction. She was certain she recognized her own grief; yet her father’s impatience for a sqift recovery weighed heavy in her own heart. And Luceria felt she may never recover at all.

Luceria did not need fixing. She just needed her brother back.

She knelt down at the altar and closed her eyes, attempting her best to pray but no words came. And she felt as though there was nothing left for her to say.

For days and days now, she begged the Almighty for signs of the afterlife. Any sign at all. Anything to affirm the presence of her brother. There were many stories of ghosts in these ancient lands, but all she had was the silence if not the lingering dread. She often imagined his last few moments in the battlefield, hoping at least if it was not peaceful then surely it was short and quick. Did he even have time to confess to the Lord before he died? How many prayers would it take for her to rescue him from the trials of Purgatory?

“Lord,” She whispered, “I know…I know You are just. But please. Have mercy on my brother. Surely he lived a righteous life.” She wept, lighting another candle. She had already lit so many for his soul.

She had prayed so much, that she surely the Good Lord could hear her now in the silence of the chapel.

Her eyes fluttered open, gazed fixed to the large crucifix hanging on the wall.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Kerak, 20 November 1176

“You are too hard on her,” Stephanie chided her husband over their supper in the solar, “She is still a child.”

Raynald looked up at his wife, his fork hovering over his plate of roast. His eyes narrowed. “And you are too soft with her,” He countered. “It’s time for her to move on. She has other siblings.”

Stephanie sighed, her gaze dropping to her own plate in frustration. “You are well aware that it doesn't make up for her brother's loss.”

Raynald grunted, “She was wasting away, Stephanie! If it progresses into acedia, no man will want her. Let alone the king.”

“She needs to mourn, Raynald,” Stephanie countered. “I know how badly you wish to see her as Queen. But forcing her to suppress her grief will only make her feel worse, and it may even hinder her ability to grieve properly.”

“Acedia is a sin,” Raynald stated. “Sloth is not just a vice, my dear. It is a disease that needs to be purged. What did that priest say?”

“He believes she's still in shock, and that she'll recover in time.” Stephanie answered. “The physician has said the same thing.”

“And you agree with them?”

“I believe you need to be less harsh on her, and that she needs to come to terms with it in her own.” Stephanie replied. “Let her weep, husband, and be a shoulder for her to cry on. Luceria will be ready in her own time, but you may hinder her if you push her too far.”

Raynald sighed, “I suppose you're right, dear wife,” He conceded, taking a sip from his cup, “You know best.”

But the Lady of Oultrejourdain wasn’t sure if he really meant that at all.

Kerak, 25 November 1176

She sat on the edge of her bed fiddling with the rolled up parchment in her hands.

It was another one of the king’s letters. Another piece of rolled parchment to add to the growing pile on her desk.

She did not mean to ignore him. She had every intention of eventually writing back. But how could she reply when she could not bring herself to read them? She already imagined his words—the condolences he would give her, the trinkets he would send to make her day—but all they were was a constant reminder of her sorrow.

And as the days passed by and the letters remained unanswered, the guilt in her heart only grew and grew.

She stared at the chest that sat at the corner of her room. Christmastide was approaching and the gifts she had lovingly made her siblings were hidden away in the large wooden casket; her brother’s present with no owner to claim.

Her breath caught in her throat once more. There were many days she had spent trying to keep her composure, and many days she had failed. Her father had been harsh, but he had been right.

It had been a while since her father had last visited her, but she felt his constant surveillance. Miriam and her physician often came by, and Luceria knew there were few things they wouldn’t report back to Raynald. But there would be little to report as they were not the people she wanted to confide in.

She felt lonelier by the second. There was nothing to do, and no one to talk to.

Luceria’s fingers brushed over the parchment. Could he understand the depths of her private pain?

She walked over to the desk where her wax tablet lay untouched for weeks, deciding it was time to write back to the King. But as she picked up the pointed stylus, no words would come.

She must have stared at the tablet for hours; but her mind was as blank as uncarved stone. She thought it might help if she opened one of Baldwin’s letters, but her fingers still trembled with apprehension and she could not bring herself to break the seal. No matter how hard she tried, she felt frozen in place, hovering over the old wooden desk.

She needed to leave this stuffy room. She needed to leave this fortress.

The door felt like a grating iron gate as she pushed it forward; the walls of Kerak suffocating in their strength. Her lungs struggled as they drew in shallow breaths, but still, the princess walked.

Instinctively, she found her way to the stables and stood there, looking at the horses. Other than the chapel, this was her place of solace and though she often rode to nowhere her mind felt like it was escaping. It was an effort to breathe, it seemed like her lungs could not contain the air as she breathed it in.

She thought she might even cry again, but no tears seemed to fall.

“Luceria,” The voice was familiar, and she realized the sun had already set. How long had she been standing here? She turned to see her father standing in the doorway. His expression was solemn and his eyes held a fleeting glance of concern. “Are you okay?”

It was the last thing she wanted to hear; though perhaps she did not want to hear anything at all. She did not need another conversation, another chastisement about her grief. She knew she should say something to prove her strength to him, but like always her voice seemed to catch in her throat.

Instead, she simply nodded.

“Come here,” he said, his voice dipping into a gentler tone. She wasn’t sure whether to trust it, but her legs felt like they would give out at any moment.

So she took a step forward, and his arms wrapped around her. And then all at once she buried her face in his chest, and Raynald held her close. The scent of his tunic, the scratch of his beard, and the warmth of his body were all too foreign.

And though she thought it was strange, this gentleness that her father was showing her; and though she thought she had no tears left to shed, when Raynald’s hands began gently caressing the back of her head, Luceria could not stop her tears from flowing.

“Let it out, Luceria,” Her father whispered. “Just let it out. I'm here.”

And so she did.

In the shadows of the stables, Raynald de Chatillon comforted his daughter.

It would not be the last time.

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 3 December 1176

It had been over a month since Baldwin last heard from the princess. And though he missed her presence, he understood all too well the reason for her silence.

As King of Jerusalem, he was one of the firsts to be given the news about the tragic campaign against the Seljuks, launched by the Byzantine Emperor, Manuel I. According to his informants, what happened in Myriokephalon was a tragic loss for the Empire and for Antioch.

As the army was trying to cross a narrow mountain pass into Western Anatolia, the Seljuks had initiated a series of hit-and-run attacks that lead to the Empire’s rearguard being separated from their main force. As so, Manuel had no chance to reverse the tide of battle.

Of the Byzantine’s thirty thousand men, half of them had become casualties. Luceria’s brother who led the right wing, was killed along with many other Antiochenes.

The cruelty of war claimed many lives; it transformed women into widows and children into orphans. War destroyed families, that much he was certain. It was a poignant and unfortunate reality, and he hated how it caused Luceria grief.

The young king wondered how he could bridge their growing silence. There were no words he could give her to bring her brother back; but he was the King of Jerusalem. Wasn’t there anything he could do?

Anselm’s knocking interrupted his thoughts, and the squire entered with a letter and small box in his hands. “This arrived for you, your Majesty.”

Baldwin recognized Luceria’s seal immediately and unrolled the parchment.

To the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin IV,

It has been too long since my last reply; and for that I am sorry.

I have not been myself, as you must already know, but the priest and physicians have helped me a lot with their wisdom and remedies. It has taken me some time and much prayer to regain my spirit, but the Lord has finally granted me peace. I thank you for your patience.

Father and I rode together for the first time, just yesterday. I did not know where we were going and it was colder than I expected, but the view was splendid. I have never seen Kerak from that vantage before, and I am glad I did. We did not speak much, but it was a pleasant day. Otherwise, there is not much else I have been doing, except reading, praying, and riding. My embroidery is suffering for it.

I received your condolences. Thank you for your words of comfort, and I am truly most grateful for your friendship. The dried lilies were beautiful; I’ve pressed them in my favorite book.

As Christmastide approaches, father has decided we will be celebrating it in Jerusalem. Perhaps, if fortune favors, he will even permit me to bring Hosanna, and we may ride side by side like we once spoke about.

I’ve attached something I made. It was meant for my brother, but such tokens hold no significance in Heaven. You share his name, so I felt compelled to offer it to you.

Please accept it as an early Christmas present.

Yours,

Princess Luceria of Antioch

He knew she was trying to be strong; and whether or not that was for his sake or for the expectation of her station, he was unsure. When his father died and he was coronated four days later, he was expected to move forward without looking back.

And he did. But at what cost?

Baldwin’s hand picked up the small wooden box. He lifted the lid, revealing a folded pouch of rich, dark blue fabric with embroidered suns and stars. It was a beautiful gift, one not originally intended for him but treasured all the same. As he gingerly held it up, fingers tracing over the celestial patterns, he immediately noted its substantial weight.

He opened the pouch to find a small jar of yellow comfits alongside a small folded piece of paper. He could not help but chuckle as he recognized her handwriting:

Citrons, for your sour disposition.

Jerusalem, 25 Decembet 1176

It was the start of the twelve days of Christmastide, and her father had been bragging about tonight’s feast for the past four days. It was hard to blame him for they had been fasting; and while she wasn’t looking forward to the feast, she was looking forward to seeing her friend.

She was nervous, of course. While he wrote to her and thanked her for the gift, Luceria was unsure of where they stood. She would not blame him if the distance she put between them was too much. She had not meant to hurt him with her silence.

She felt a gentle tug at her hair. For the past hour, Miriam had been weaving ribbons and false hair into her locks. The older woman told her to sit still as she moved to apply rouge onto her cheeks. Miriam’s eyes fluttered to Luceria’s reflection on the mirror, and a proud gentle smile grew on her face. “You look beautiful, Princess.”

“Thank you, Miriam.” Luceria nodded. Despite their recent fasting, she had started to regain the weight she had lost. Her complexion brightened, and she was starting to feel like a person again. Miriam could not help the smile of relief at the transformation. Luceria could already imagine the handmaiden’s thoughts—God bless that physician!

“Are you excited for tonight’s feast, princess?” Miriam asked, fixing one of the ribbons before pinning a veil on her head.

“I suppose I am.” Luceria replied, forcing a smile to her face. Like a well-rehearsed thespian, she continued, “Father’s been talking about it for days.”

Miriam nodded, delighted by the princess’s apparent excitement. “The other servants have told me that Jerusalem spares no expense for the Christmastide celebrations.”

Luceria was not surprised. It was the Holy Land after all. And if Lady Sibylla’s wedding was anything to go by, the Kingdom of Jerusalem would make every effort to impress. These Franks were nothing but extravagant.

Her gaze returned to her own reflection, and Luceria began to feel like Miriam had overcompensated with the cosmetics. The red was much too red, and Luceria felt like a court jester. Had she really become that much paler?

But Miriam continued to go on and on about the feast happening tonight, and Luceria could not bring it upon herself to ask the handmaiden to remove the rouge. Instead, she drowned out her words with a smile; nodding along as the handmaiden spoke.

“I’m sure there will be lots of sweet bread for you as well. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I suppose Miriam,” Luceria said, though she hadn’t been much in the mood for sweets in the past few weeks.

“You did take your medicine today?” The older woman asked. After her father had become more involved with her recovery, Miriam became more diligent with making sure the young princess finished all her meals and took her tonic every day.

The food was usually tasteless and the medicine bitter, but the princess never complained.

“Yes. I have. Don’t worry.”

“Good. Now come, princess.” Miriam said, as she helped Luceria up. “You do not want to keep your father waiting.”

Luceria nodded, and as Miriam walked out of the room, she wiped the rouge from her face.

The Courtyard, Jerusalem, 25 December 1176

Baldwin was seated on his throne, eyes fixed on the crowd of nobles that had gathered in the courtyard, searching for one familiar face.

The crowd had been feasting all night. Since it was Christmastide, they had spared no expense on the entertainment. Baldwin did not like dipping into his coffers often, but both his Chamberlain and Master of Ceremonies liked to remind him that splendor was important in the eyes of the people and of God.

So he had hired troubadours, acrobats, even fire-eaters from the east. The performers were all skilled, and even Baldwin had to admit to himself that the evening was going well.

And yet, his eyes still searched the crowd, trying to find those blue-green eyes. It would be the first time since Sibylla's wedding that they would meet again.

But as the crowd grew louder and the wine flowed more freely, his anticipation was starting to grow into frustration. Where was she?

When he finally saw her in her delicate brocade bliaut, seated beside her family, he could feel the tension in his shoulders start to ease. He almost rose to his seat to approach her, but remained seated as he did not want to cause a fuss. It would be too obvious, and he did not want to appear overeager.

Yet, when her turquoise eyes finally met his, he couldn’t help but smile. Shyly, Luceria smiled back as well.

She then said something to her father, who nodded and Luceria’s eyes flitted to Baldwin again. He recognized the silent invitation in her gaze, and he nodded in acceptance.

She approached him with a flicker of a smile.

“Your Majesty.” She curtsied.

“Princess.” He greeted, still smiling. “It is nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, your majesty.”

Baldwin couldn't help but fixate on her. He noticed a subtle fragility compared to their last encounter; yet she remained radiant, and her presence was so soothing to him.

He almost couldn’t believe she was here, standing in front of him.

“I am glad you could make it,” He said gently. Compared to their first encounter, he now had more confidence to speak to her. Ever since she informed him that they’d be coming for the Christmastide celebrations, Baldwin had been practicing all the things he would say to her. Even in his sleep.

“So am I, your majesty.” She replied politely. Her gaze briefly shifted to the troubadours performing some kind of song on the dais. There was a fragility he could see in her eyes. “I hope that my gift reached you well?”

Baldwin nodded. “Indeed, it did,” he confirmed, his smile expanding. “Yet, I recall asking you to refrain from sending me sweets.”

“Perhaps my eyes skipped over that part in your letters, your majesty,” Luceria’s tone was innocent, but the king could see mischief tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Baldwin's eyes remained fixed on hers, and his tone softened. “It was a beautiful piece of embroidery. I will cherish it.”

“I am glad.” There was a hint of sorrow in her voice, and it made his chest tighten.

“Is something wrong?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Not at all your majesty.” She shook her head.

“You may speak freely around me.” He urged her. “We are friends.”

She took her time to consider her words. “It…It is just that I've been looking forward to seeing you again. Your letters have been a great comfort to me.”

“As have yours, princess,” Baldwin admitted. He could sense her reservations, and he did not want to pressure her into saying any more. “I was worried you’d grown weary of me.”

Luceria smiled. “Your majesty, you needn't worry. A lady doesn’t so easily forget the first man who gifts her a rock.”

“I hope that is a good thing.”

Luceria could not help but grin. “I assure you it is.”

In the hush of the moment, she stood in silence, a veil of melancholy slowly shrouding her. Baldwin pondered the thoughts weaving through her mind, unsure of the words that could bring her comfort.

As her gaze slowly drifted back to the performers, an air of helplessness settled over the King, for he realized his inability to ease her burdens.

It was Luceria who broke the silence first.

“Father permitted me to bring Hosanna,” she revealed, though he had already been informed prior. “She will be stabled here for a fortnight.”

Baldwin smiled. “I am sure Asad will enjoy the company. Perhaps they will become fast friends.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

Locked in a shared gaze, it was Baldwin’s turn to break the silence. “Would you be interested in going for a ride tonight?” he asked, his voice laced with hope. He knew the optics of such a question, and how it could appear to the nobles and courtiers, but in this moment he did not care.

“Tonight?” Luceria was taken aback by the suggestion. “But what about the festivities, your majesty?”

Baldwin shrugged, “I am not one for feasts.”

“But you are the king,” she pointed out. “Are you not obliged to preside over the gaiety?”

He shook his head. “I have a feeling that I will find better entertainment elsewhere.”

Luceria's eyes flickered to her father, who was now engaged in conversation with a man she only knew as Amaury de Lusignan. She met Baldwin's eyes, which were still fixed on her.

“Alright, your majesty.” She agreed, unsure of what she was getting herself into. “As long as you’re certain it is allowed.”

“I will have the groom prepare Asad and Hosanna,” He said playfully, slyly choosing not to address her concerns. “I hope you know that I am a skilled rider.”

Luceria took that as a challenge. “As am I, your majesty,” she chuckled. “Do not worry, I will not slow you down.”

Jerusalem, 25 December 1776

It was quiet and dark outside as they roamed through Jerusalem.

As tradition, peasants and farmers did not work during the Christmastide and were likely in their homes celebrating. The teenagers rode close together, their horses’ hooves the only sounds echoing through the empty streets. Tonight, the moon was full and shining brightly above them.

It wasn't long before they reached the city walls, and Baldwin motioned for the gatekeepers to open the iron gates for them.

Luceria's eyes widened as she took in the view. It was the first time in her life she had ventured out this late at night. But it was as if the sky had been speckled with gold and silver.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Baldwin spoke, his eyes lingered on her.

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. Is this what heaven looked like?

“I love to ride at night,” Baldwin said, his gaze never leaving her form. “Especially when there is a full moon. I feel closer to God.”

“I feel closer to God when I ride, too.”

“Is everything okay, princess?”

“Hmm?” Luceria’s head turned to face him. She forced a smile. “It is nothing. I was simply admiring the stars.”

Baldwin did not want to pry.

They continued to ride in silence, and Luceria felt comforted by the muffled sound of their horses’ hooves against the sand. The crisp air blew threw her veil, and she closed her eyes as their horses slowed to a gentle trot. When she opened them, Baldwin was right ahead of her.

“Come on,” He teased, and suddenly, he urged Asad onto a mad sprint.

The princess could not help but laugh as she urged Hosanna forward. They rode fast, and her heart raced just as quickly. When Baldwin turned to face her, his eyes were carefree and full of mischief. She felt her chest expand. She had missed him. Perhaps, even more than she realized.

The young king then slowed down once again, and Luceria caught her breath.

“Where did you learn to ride like that?” Luceria asked curiously, “I have never seen a riding style like it.” She knew he couldn’t have learned it from his father, for it was not a Frankish technique.

“I have a skilled instructor,” Baldwin replied cryptically.

“You are being evasive, your majesty.”

“Am I?”

“You are aware that it is rude to keep secrets from a lady?”

Baldwin grinned. “I would never dream of being rude to a lady.”

Luceria was not amused, but she was determined to get her answers. “Your majesty.” She spoke with a grin. “Please do not make me beg for an answer.”

Baldwin blushed at her words, for he very much wanted to tease her further. “I was taught by a Saracen instructor, Abul'Khair,” he conceded.

Luceria looked surprised. “A Saracen?”

Baldwin nodded. “Yes, he is the brother of my physician. When William inferred that I may have leprosy, my father sought the best Physicians he could find. The best physician, Abu Sulayman Dawud, so happened to be the brother of the best rider.”

Luceria chuckled, intrigued by a King who would bring Saracens so closely to his court. If it was her father, he would have never allowed it. “That is quite the coincidence.”

“But it is true!” Baldwin insisted.

“Let’s see if your lessons can keep up then,” Luceria grinned. This time, it was she who urged Hosanna forward ahead of him. Baldwin would not back down from a challenge and willed his Arabian to exceed her pace.

They continued to race in silence, enjoying the peaceful night, feeling like the only two people in the world. Luceria had never felt more at ease around anybody, and she wondered if Baldwin felt the same.

As they approached the stables, Baldwin spoke again. “Thank you for indulging my whims,” he said, as they entered. “I hope we could ride again, before you leave.”

Luceria turned to face him, her eyes fixed on his. “I would like that.” She sighed. “This night has been a good escape.”

“You’ve experience a tragic loss, Princess.” Baldwin replied gently, “I am glad I could take your mind off it, even if only for a little while.”

Luceria's gaze shifted to the ground. “May I speak freely, your majesty?”

He could hear the quiver in her voice. He nodded, “Of course, my lady.”

Her voice was quiet, and she spoke slowly, “I do not even know if I feel upset anymore, your majesty.” She confessed in a quiet murmur that he strained to hear. “And there are so many days where I feel nothing at all. Is that…strange?”

“Not at all,” Baldwin answered quietly.

“I can tell when my father is disappointed with me.” She continued. The young king nodded attentively, refraining from delivering sermons about the Almighty or unwarranted interjections. Instead, he let her pour out her thoughts, a gesture Luceria deeply appreciated. “Even if he does not say it.”

Baldwin frowned as Luceria continued to speak. “He thinks there's something wrong with me. And perhaps there is.”

“With all due respect, my lady, your father endured over a decade in a Saracen prison and emerged unbroken. I think it is safe to say that his standards for you are a little too high.”

It was enough to draw out a chuckle from her. “I suppose you make a good point, your majesty.”

“There is no right way to mourn a loved one. Everyone grieves uniquely. It doesn't diminish your worth.” He said in a tone that was so gentle, “You're entitled to feel sorrow. It's a matter that concerns no one but yourself.” His words brought her the reassurance she did not know she needed.

Luceria locked eyes with him, absorbing his words. Despite being of the same age, Baldwin was far wiser than anyone she had ever known.

He looked less like a boy to her in that moment, and more like the king he was destined to be. Luceria didn’t know what she could have done to deserve this friendship, but whatever it was, she was grateful for it.

“You've weathered a lot, princess. You are allowed to change. You're permitted to grieve and to move forward at your own pace. Please know that.”

“I miss him.” She whispered, “I miss him so much.”

Baldwin nodded. “I know you do.”

There were still many things left unsaid, but tonight she felt like the burden on her heart was lighter. “Thank you, your majesty. For everything. I think my brother would have liked you.”

The King smiled. “Is that a good thing?”

She returned the smile, her blue-green gaze meeting his, “It is a great thing, indeed.”

“I am glad. I hope we can continue to speak freely like this.”

“I would like that, your majesty. You are an excellent listener.”

Baldwin blushed, “There is one more thing, princess.” He began as they dismounted.

“Yes, your highness?”

“As you have given me a precious gift, I would like to give you one in return.” Baldwin said, “It is only fair.”

Luceria shook her head. “There is no need, your majesty. It was merely a token, and I’ve burdened you so much already with my thoughts.”

“It is no burden at all. I insist.” Baldwin countered with a smile. “Check Hosanna’s saddle, my lady.”

Luceria furrowed her brows in confusion, but she was curious to know what he had left in her horse's saddle. She approached Hosanna, who nuzzled her hair affectionately as she began to inspect her saddle.

“Do you see it?”

Luceria's eyes flitted to a small parcel wrapped in a cloth. She reached for it, and her fingers began to undo the fabric. Her eyes widened. Inside revealed a beautiful ivory comb engraved with ornate leaves and lily of the valley flowers.

“It is too much,” Luceria shook her head in disbelief. “Your majesty, I cannot accept this.”

“Nonsense,” Baldwin raised his palm. “It is only a small token of my esteem.”

Luceria smiled, still staring at the exquisite comb in her hands. “It is beautiful, your majesty. I shall cherish it.”

Baldwin felt his chest swell with happiness. “I am glad. I truly hope you like it.”

Luceria wrapped the comb and pressed it to her chest. Her eyes met Baldwin's, and her heart fluttered with gratitude. “I do. I love it. Thank you, your majesty.”

He smiled tenderly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “Merry Christmas, princess.”

Chapter Text

The Council of the High Court, Jerusalem, 7 January 1177

It was the day after Epiphany, and regular court activities resumed as usual.

It would be the first time this year that the Haute Cour would convene. The hall was filled with nobles of higher and lesser status; and Baldwin IV sat at the head of the court on his throne. Raynald attentively observed the young King, and he could tell that the boy was growing into his role as sovereign.

Among the king’s vassals was the Saracen-sympathizing Prince of Galilee, Count Raymond III of Tripoli—better known to some as Tiberias. His wife was the Princess of Galilee and had elevated his status to one of the wealthiest men in all of Outremer. He was a man of average build and size, but was distinguished by the deep scar over his right eye.

Just like he, Raymond III had been detained by the Saracens. But unlike Raynald, the count had emerged from the eight years of imprisonment softened with a sickening fondness for the infidels.

Following his release, the Count was elected as the King’s bailiff. At the time, Baldwin had not yet reached the age of majority. During his term, Raymond had wasted no time in wining and dining with the Saracens. He orchestrated fruitless temporary truces, inadvertently granting Saladin more time to unite his people. The squandered time sickened Raynald, as the period of ‘peace’ seemed nothing more than the calm before the storm.

Baldwin cleared his throat with purpose and all eyes were on him. “As you are well aware, we have achieved recent successes against Egypt.”

The men nodded, though the king's proclamation stirred a hint of skepticism among the court. Raynald didn't fault the assembly for their reservations.

The young ruler had inherited a difficult situation. Amalric's repeated attempts against Egypt during his reign yielded little to no progress. The late king had launched five campaigns against Egypt, and five times had he failed. Instead of expanding Jerusalem’s holdings, Amalric allowed himself to be paid off by the Sultan. At some point, it was even said that the late king had brought home two million pieces of gold.

Raynald was unsure if Amalric was cautious, greedy, or simply foolish. It was a shame really, for Baldwin had little to work with given his father's failures. While Baldwin’s first campaigns in Damascus and Beqaa were successes, they were merely skirmishes and the boy still had much to learn about the art of war.

The King continued. “My scouts have confirmed that the Sultan has taken a significant number of casualties. Now is the time to press our advantage. My intention is to launch an expedition this summer, with the goal of capturing Cairo.”

That certainly drew the court’s attention.

“With what army?” William Longsword of Montferrat voiced his concern. The new Count of Jaffa was not one to hold his tongue. A good trait in a man, Raynald thought, as once Baldwin came to pass, Longsword would be the new King. “Your Grace speaks of taking Egypt yet we lack the resources.”

“We’ll find the men,” Raynald growled. He was inclined to agree with Longsword, but he would be remiss if he didn’t speak his mind. “There are plenty of hungry swords in the Christendom looking for Glory and gold.”

Baudouin de Ibelin—the Lord of Ramla and Mirabel—interjected, “Our best warriors are already stretched thin between Saladin’s men in the South and guarding our holdings in the North.”

“My brother speaks the truth,” Balian cut in in agreement. “And the Templars and Hospitallers won’t muster overnight. We will need time to raise additional forces.”

The Ibelin brothers were popular figures in the Haut Cour, and its members listened attentively as they spoke. Both brothers possessed a natural charisma and handsome features. They were the noblest of men, yet their fiefs were unremarkable; mere patches of dirt with minimal influence and manpower.

Baldwin nodded attentively, then turned to Joscelin de Courtenay. “What do you make of the situation, Uncle?”

The recently appointed Seneschal stroked his chin. “You have the right idea, Your Grace, but timing is crucial.” Joscelin had also spent twelve years rotting in a Saracen dungeon. His ransom, while not as large as Raynald’s, was still an impressive fifty thousand dinars. How Agnes could have raised it, Raynald could only speculate, but a part of him suspected they had dipped their fingers into Jerusalem’s coffers.

“I understand our knights are tired,” Baldwin spoke. But Raynald felt he lacked conviction. He was still a boy, after all, trying to convince a group of battle-hardened men that he was capable of waging a war. “But they will bleed and die while we debate. Saladin’s men do not and will not rest. We are all aware that the Sultan has not taken our victories lightly.”

“Then we need allies!” Raymond of Tripoli demanded, thrusting himself forward. Theb Ibelin brothers grunted in agreement like loyal dogs.

Raynald restrained the urge to roll his eyes, finding the count's voice grating. “And who, precisely, would you have us beg for aid?”

“I believe I can speak for my cousin, Prince Bohemond, to pledge his support,” the count responded, leaning back against his chair.

Raynald arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain you can guarantee his sword?”

“He’ll send terms—” Raymond preened.

“Terms?” Raynald spat, shaking his head. “That is a waste of time.”

“Speak plainly, Lord Raynald.” The king commanded.

“My stepson won’t move his army without the support of the Emperor.” Raynald replied with a smirk. “I know his mind and the council he keeps.”

“The Greeks?” The count’s eyes narrowed. He, no doubt, still bore a grudge against Emperor Manuel, who had ended his engagement to Raymond’s sister in favor of the more comely Princess Mary of Antioch.

Raymond’s sister had died shortly after, and Raynald couldn’t help but scoff at the theatrics.

“To hell with the Greeks!” Longsword interrupted, “They’ll only meddle and demand their share of the spoils. I say we do without them. We should instead seek aid from our Western brothers.”

Raynald shrugged. “Be that as it may, I don't believe the prince will lend us his troops unless otherwise.”

“We’ve allied with those Byzantines before. Every campaign ended in blood and utter failure.” Constable Humphrey II of Toron interjected, shaking his weathered face in disapproval. Despite being yet another infidel sympathizer by Raynald’s standards; he was a strong fighter and the longest serving member of the court, having held his position since Baldwin III’s reign.

The constable had a lot of influence, and a chorus of agreement filled the air following his interjection.

“Those were under the leadership of King Amalric, and he is no more. Our goals are distinct,” Raynald countered, his tone growing colder. He then turned to Baldwin, who had been listening in silence, and asked, “Am I correct, Your Grace?”

The king nodded, and his lips quirked in amusement. “Lord Raynald is right. My father's campaigns lacked vision and purpose. We need a coordinated effort if we are to take Cairo. We must reach out to the Byzantines and the West. The more allies, the better.”

Raynald was not a man who was quick to laugh, yet he found himself stifling amusement at the faces of his contemporaries. He could almost imagine the collective thought that went through their heads.

“Our ties with the Empire are on shaky ground, my lord,” Joscelin expressed his worries. “Do we even have the means to appeal to them?” Despite Amalric's marriage to the emperor's niece, Maria Comnenas, it wasn't sufficient to mend the distrust caused by the late king's greed and incompetence.

“I can make it happen,” Raynald declared. The court turned their eyes on him.

“You're confident that you can sway the emperor to our side?” Raymond scoffed in disbelief, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes, I am certain of it.”

The Count of Tripoli was appalled, leaning forward and nearly spilling his wine. “Have we all conveniently forgotten what transpired in Cyprus?”

“Count, that occurred years ago, and I've long since rectified the situation,” Raynald suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. His conflicts with Emperor Manuel belonged to the distant past. Raynald had already endured the embarrassment of groveling at the emperor's feet and had relinquished Antioch's independence for his little stint in Cyprus. “He would not have paid for my ransom if we were not on good terms.”

But what the Count couldn’t see was the deeper game. After all, Raynald’s stepdaughter warmed Manuel’s bed; and he planned to use his stepson’s death as leverage.

Raynald could see the count wanted to challenge him. The Lord of Oultrejordain would not balk at the chance to embarrass Raymond of Tripoli. However, before any retorts could come, the King intervened.

“Lord Chatillon, with your extensive experience negotiating with the Byzantines, do you believe you can secure favorable terms with the Emperor?”

“I will not disappoint you, my lord,” Raynald bowed his head.

A hushed silence enveloped the room as the young King and his court deliberated.

Baldwin eventually acquiesced.

“Very well, I will leave this matter in your hands,” Baldwin concluded. “We will begin planning the expedition and you will lead the embassy to Constantinople next week. If you are successful, then we shall have a major advantage.”

He could see that Raymond wanted to protest, but the Count refrained, and Raynald had to repress the desire to gloat. After all, the king’s words were final.

The meeting continued with the court delving into other concerns. Eventually, the session concluded, prompting the king to attend to his other royal duties. The nobles all dispersed, each going their separate ways.

Jerusalem, 7 January 1177

“Father, are you truly headed to Constantinople?” Luceria asked as they ate supper together. He had been more present with her lately, and while it took time getting used to, it was something she had come to appreciate and look forward to.

Raynald nodded, “Yes, my child. The king has entrusted me with a mission.”

“When do you plan to depart?” She asked.

“I’ll be setting out in a week,” Raynald disclosed. “I am glad that the king thinks highly of me.” He said, continuing to eat, “It's crucial to convince the Emperor that this campaign aligns with the best interests of his empire.”

While she had never been to Constantinople, the way Mary described it in her letters made it seem like a dream. In her letters she wrote in detail of the fine stone buildings that lined the great city. Churches and cathedrals that reached the skies, mosaics crafted by the greats. The Cathedral of God’s Holy Wisdom was said to be the most splendid church in all of the Christendom. The Emperor was so wealthy he spared no expense in decorating each one of his great palaces.

Luceria knew that the Emperor must have been a very mighty and influential man, for her siblings always held him in high regard. There must have been a strong reason why her brother was willing to die for him.

“Do you think the Emperor will agree to support the campaign?” She asked curiously.

“I am confident he will. After all, he stands to gain considerably by extending his aid.” Raynald asserted. She could sense the determination in his tone; as though the fate of the embassy was already decided. She did not doubt her father’s ability to curry favor with the emperor, but Luceria wondered what the Emperor would ask of Outremer in return. There was no such thing as a free favor, after all.

Everything was owed in coin, power, or blood.

“You are a very persuasive speaker, father. I'm sure the emperor will listen to you,” she remarked. She wanted to ask her father more about the campaigns, but the man did not seem to be in the mood to entertain her questions. “I hope you'll tell me all about your journey upon your return.”

“I assure you, it won't be anything remarkable. Just a lot of boring talks. But I will make sure to bring you back a gift.” The Lord of Oultrejordain responded casually. “If there is anything you desire from Constantinople, just name it.”

“Thank you, Father, but there's truly nothing I want except your safe return.” It was the truth. She never wanted for anything, and while her father was generous with his gifts, he had given her so much already, including a beautiful mare. There was nothing left for her to want.

“Are you absolutely certain? You could ask for anything.”

“Well…will you be seeing Mary?” She asked, casting a shy glance at him.

“Yes,” Raynald shrugged, “Why do you ask?”

“Would you be able to give her something for me?”

Raynald nodded. “Of course, child. And I will let her know that you miss her.”

She smiled gratefully, thankful for her father’s generosity. Their relationship had been improving and while he was still strict with her, Luceria could see he was trying to become more approachable. Perhaps it was because her melancholy had improved in the last few weeks, which had greatly pleased him. “I would appreciate that, Father. Thank you.”

He took a sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on her, and then his voice dipped into one of seriousness, “Luceria, should I meet an untimely end, and if the worst comes to pass, I would want you to be in good hands.”

Her eyes grew wide, a pang of of sadness coursing through her as she looked at him. The thought of him dying in a place so far away triggered her anxieties. She never wanted anyone close to her to die again. “Father, what do you mean?”

He sighed, his hand reaching for hers across the table. “My daughter, you are no longer a child. You are a young woman, and I will not always be here. When my time comes, I would like to know that you are taken care of. That you will not have to worry about your future.”

“Father—”

“I won't deceive you, daughter. I've garnered my share of enemies. If something were to happen, especially if you remain unmarried, your safety would be at risk. Your sisters have all wed powerful men. But you, my dear, have no prospects, and no one to protect you,” He explained, his tone growing somber.

She fell silent for a moment. “But wouldn't you protect me, father?”

“I wish I could, but my influence is limited. The only way to ensure your safety is to marry a man more powerful than myself.”

She was quiet for a moment, carefully considering her words.

Luceria wanted to express her unpreparedness, but she hesitated, not wanting to appear ungrateful. She had long passed the age of pubertati proximi after all. And while she did not share his enthusiasm, she would trust his judgement. “I understand, father. I just wish you did not have to leave.”

He smiled and gently stroked her cheek, “You know, my dear. When I imagine your future, I see you in a position to make real change. These wars...I fear they will never end, and it will take much more than my sword and a campaign to bring peace to the land.”

She nodded slowly, carefully listening to his words. “What do you mean by that, Father?”

“Well…” He began carefully, as if testing each word, “Consider the marriages of your sisters, Luceria. Their husbands are some of the most influential men of the Christendom. Do you not think that marrying a man of high station will grant you power and influence? You can use your position to make a real difference, and to support the people of Outremer.”

The weight of his words were pressing down on her, and Luceria shifted uncomfortably. “I do not think that I am suited for such…prominence, father.”

“You underestimate yourself, child,” Raynald said, “I know that you are observant, and you have a good mind. You are a lot like your mother in that regard.” His eyes grew soft as he looked at her. And Luceria found she did not want to disappoint him.

But she also did not want to speak on it any longer, so she simply bit her tongue and nodded. After all, she was unsure if she could ever be of influence to anyone. “I will think on it, Father.”

“You have great qualities, my daughter." Raynald nodded, pleased with her answer. "Some might even say the qualities of a queen.”

Palace Gardens, Jerusalem, 8 January 1177

Baldwin watched as Luceria braided an intricate crown made of anemone flowers. She looked quite content sitting on the grass, humming to herself as she worked. And Baldwin was content to watch her.

Since her arrival for the Christmastide festivities, he had made a point to allocate time from his busy schedule for their afternoon rides. She was his guest after all, and as the king, it was only right that he entertain his guests. At least that was what Baldwin told himself.

He was aware that their moments together were limited and fleeting, and soon she would be returning back to Kerak and he would resume touring his realm. So the young King had to cherish every minute he could spend with his lovely friend.

And today, she requested that he meet her in the gardens.

Under the pleasant embrace of sunlight and a gentle breeze, Luceria sat on the grass and Baldwin occupied a stone bench behind her. She had a natural talent for working with her hands.

“Your Highness,” Luceria said, turning to present the completed crown of flowers, “What do you think?”

“It's beautiful,” he said as he gazed upon her creation. “It is an intricate pattern. You have a gift, my lady.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” She said, a pleased smile gracing her lips at his compliment, “I intend for it to be a gift, after all.”

“For whom?” He asked. Baldwin could not imagine the fierce Raynald de Chatillon wearing such a dainty little thing.

“It is for my sister.”

“The Empress?” He asked with a smile. It was thoughtful of her to use the opportunity of her father's assignment in Constantinople to send her sister a gift. Perhaps he was right in trusting Lord Raynald to broker a deal with the Byzantines after all. While Baldwin would have preferred assistance from the West, strengthening ties with the rich and powerful Byzantine empire would work well in Jerusalem’s favor.

“Yes. I’m sending her a letter, but I’d like to give her something else as well,” The princess said. She seemed to have a fondness for giving people handmade tokens of her appreciation. She looked so pleased with herself that he didn’t have the heart to tell her the crown may wilt before it even reached Byzantion.

“She will be delighted to receive it.”

They continued to sit together, enjoying the pleasant weather. Baldwin found that she was different when she was not atop Hosanna. Her mannerisms were more demure, and her speech was more reserved. Numerous occasions, he had seen her nearly outpacing him, leaving Baldwin convinced that in a different life, she might well have been a skilled knight.

He had to admit that she had been a fine and engaging companion. And pretty.

God, she was very pretty.

“Do you like flowers, your highness?” She asked, clearing her throat and Baldwin realized he had been caught staring.

Baldwin blinked, flustered. “I-I suppose I do, princess.”

“Which is your favorite?”

He pondered the question. Not much of a botanist, so he answered the first flower that came to mind, “The lily.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, acknowledging his lack of a specific reason. “I suppose because they're pretty?”

“Hmmm…” She didn’t seem too impressed with his answer, but she didn’t comment on it. He did not realize that he needed a deeper reason behind his choice. 

“And you? Do you have a favorite flower?”

She thought for a moment. “Lupines.”

“Why?” He asked with a grin.

“I suppose because they are a little different. They are not as showy as other flowers, but they have their own beauty. I admire them.”

Perhaps, when spring arrived, he would make a point to gather some lupines for her.

“Would you like me to teach you how to make one?” She asked, holding up the crown.

Baldwin smiled meekly. While he had learned how to wield a sword with his left hand, his right was growing clumsier and more numb by the day. He was not a fan of tasks that required nimble skills. He kindly declined, “I fear I will not be a good student, princess.”

Her eyes briefly flitted to his gloved hands folded in his lap, and Baldwin could not help but wonder about her thoughts. Did she pity him? Was she frightened of him? He had seen the reactions of others, and it always stung. Most people would back away from him in fear of catching his condition, while others looked at him with eyes that held so much sorrow and pity. 

Baldwin wasn’t sure which was worse.

However, Luceria gave no indication of being bothered. “How about I make you one then?” She asked with a smile. “It will be nothing compared to your majesty's crowns of gold, but it will certainly smell much better.”

He laughed at her quip. “I would be honored.”

She grinned and began her task.

He observed as her fingers deftly worked with the anemones, delicately weaving them together into a string of white, pink, and violet.

A warm feeling nestled in his chest as he admired her. She was so beautiful, so charming, so thoughtful. He was enchanted. He did not mind simply sitting back and watching her craft a gift made especially for him. He needed this moment of serenity after the tensions in the high court.

When she finished, she stood up and walked towards him.

“My king, I present to you, your crown.”

She carefully placed the crown upon his head, and he felt a rush of excitement, for her fingers briefly brushed against his blonde locks. A tingle ran up his spine. He held his breath as she stood before him. He could see that she was nervous and shy, but she did not back away. She stood close enough for him to smell her sweet perfume— was it citrus?—and he could count the adorable smattering of pale freckles on her nose. Her lips, were even rosier and fuller up close.

She was standing too close, dangerously close. He did not want to risk infecting her.

“Princess, please,” he cautioned. “You mustn't get too close.”

She quickly stepped back, startled. "Oh, I'm sorry, your majesty."

He felt a pang of pain at her retreat. But it was necessary, he told himself. It was for her sake.

“No, I'm sorry.”

“Please don't be, your majesty,” she said, looking at him.

“I just do not want you to get sick,” he explained.

“I understand, your majesty.”

“Thank you.” He was quiet. He had already come to terms with his ailments, yet for some reason he could feel himself growing flustered with frustration. He could not let it show. Not to her.

They remained in quietude for a few moments before she broke the silence.

“The crown suits you,” she tried to brighten his spirits. “You truly are meant to be a king.”

He smiled weakly. “I'm sure it would suit you much better, princess.”

“But you wear it so well, your majesty.” Luceria insisted, doing her best attempts to cheer him up.

He could not help but chuckle, and all he wanted to do was reach out and hold her hand. Feel the warmth of her skin and the comfort of her touch in return.

But he couldn't. He was a leper. He could not do any of those things. Not with anyone. Especially not with her. She deserved far better than such a cursed fate.

So instead, he spoke gently.

“Thank you,” he said, “for the crown.”

And the two shared a smile.

Chapter Text

Jaffa, 15 February 1177

For the past few weeks; Anselm had noticed a difference in his liege. The young king had a new air of confidence about him, one the squire had never seen before. It was as though something had reinvigorated him. A level of joy that now reached his eyes.

Baldwin was always a resilient boy. Even as his ailments worsened over the years, he never faltered in his spirit. However, despite the stress of the Egyptian campaign (which would have rattled even the most war-forged lords), Baldwin’s mood was more positive than ever. There was a glimpse of happiness that Anselm had never witnessed before.

And lately, this same radiance had lit up his entire being.

Anselm had always believed in miracles, and he could sense one in the making. After leaving his home in Beit Gubrin, he went to serve in the Order of Lazarus for twenty years. Despite not being afflicted himself, he forged decades of service and developed a profound empathy of the leper’s suffering. It was because of this experience that he was appointed as Baldwin’s squire.

Anselm considered it to be the greatest honor to serve the young king.

The king sat at his desk, penning letters with a focused expression on his face. His hair was a bit disheveled from being tossed around by the breeze that came through the arched window, and he wore a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His gloves had been folded neatly to the side, letting his bandaged fingers move freely.

Anselm observed his movements from a small distance. Baldwin had a steady hand and a practiced, composed manner. Even as the right side of his body continued to lose sensation, he still learned to write and fight with his left.

“Are you finished, my lord?” the squire asked, watching Baldwin roll the parchment.

“Almost.” Baldwin reached for his seal and pressed it onto the dark wax. He lifted his head and gave the squire a small smile. “It is ready.”

“Shall I have it delivered to Kerak?”

The young king's smile widened. “Yes, please.”

Anselm was no longer surprised by this. Since the Princess had returned to Kerak, she and the King exchanged a flurry of letters regularly. He didn’t read the messages, of course, but it was clearly more than just the usual well-wishes. Baldwin would spend hours and hours writing and rewriting his letters, determined to get his words just right. His wax tablet was constantly scribbled with corrections, and his desk was littered with many discarded drafts.

“You are writing to her again?” Anselm chuckled. “How many letters have you sent her?”

“Not enough, it seems,” Baldwin responded with a grin.

While the boy had been reserved towards him at first—there was a gap in their age and rank after all—Baldwin had opened up and confided in him more as the months went by. The squire had come to consider his liege a friend. 

And it warmed his heart to see that Baldwin was finally experiencing something good in his life.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do, my lord?”

Baldwin paused, “Anselm, would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Of course, sire.”

“Would you mind stopping by the apothecary first?”

“The apothecary?” Anselm was taken aback by the request. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?”

Baldwin shook his head and smiled sheepishly. “No, no. Nothing is wrong. I would just like you to purchase a small token for the princess. You see, she is quite fond of comfits.”

“I see,” the squire replied, trying to mask his surprise. He did not know the young king to be the romantic type.

“Do you think you can get me a small pouch?” The King asked, his voice tinged with excitement. “It need not be expensive, but I would appreciate it if you could find some that are flavored with citrus. She likes them better.”

“Of course, my lord,” Anselm was amused, but he did not show it. “Would you like me to purchase her anything else?”

“No, that should be enough.”

“Very well, my lord,” he responded, bowing his head.

As Anselm took the letter, the king called out. “Oh, and Anselm?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Thank you.”

Anselm smiled, bowing his head once more before taking his leave.

Jaffa, 20 February 1177

Baldwin’s eyes were on the board, his hands folded in front of him as he contemplated his next move. The game was so close; and it had been a long battle between him and the Archbishop of Tyre. The young king was no stranger to chess; his skills were honed from years of play. But William was a true master.

Even so, the Archbishop did not underestimate his liege. Though the boy was young, his mind was sharp, and his wit was as keen as a blade.

“Are you certain that was the correct move, my lord?”

The boy raised his head to meet the cleric’s knowing stare. His lips curved in a sly smile. “We'll see.”

The archbishop could not help but chuckle. The young King had developed an air of confidence that could not be rivaled.

William studied the board, examining the pieces that had been played and the moves that had been made. He had an obvious material advantage having more pieces on the board, but Baldwin had better positioning. William could advance his pawn to attack the knight, but Baldwin would no doubt intercept with his rook. It would be an obvious trap.

“What if we play it this way?” He asked, confidently moving his queen.

Baldwin paused, then nodded, acknowledging the move.

“Interesting.”

The Archbishop smiled in amusement. The boy's composure was impressive.

Baldwin leaned forward. With a gloved hand, he moved his knight, taking William’s bishop and cornering his king.

“Checkmate,” the King declared, and a triumphant smile formed on his lips. Throughout the game, Baldwin kept his pawn structure solid and flexible, forcing William into playing defensively.

William could not help but laugh. He shook his head and raised his hands in defeat. “Well done, my liege.”

“That was quite a close match,” Baldwin said as he rose to his feet. He walked over to the window, taking a deep breath as he gazed at the blue sky.

“Indeed.” The Archbishop gathered the pieces and began returning them to their proper places.

“You know,” the King began, “There’s been something on my mind.”

“What is it, Your Grace?”

“Do you believe Lord Raynald can convince the Byzantines to join our cause”

“He does have a knack for negotiating,” William sighed. He didn’t like Raynald, not one bit, but even he could not deny the Lord of Oultrejordain’s capabilities. For better or for worse.

“It’s funny but I have no doubt he will succeed,” Baldwin said, a smile of amusement on his face. “He is a shrewd, war-hungry man, but I would rather be his ally than his enemy.”

“You trust him.”

“I trust his capabilities,” the young king corrected. “I respect him, William. But I am no fool. I am aware of the things he's done in the past. But I also know that at this moment, his interests align with ours.”

“His ambitions are not to be underestimated, my lord,” the Archbishop cautioned.

“I know that,” the young king countered. “But right now, it’s not something we must concern ourselves with.”

William did not reply, but he silently acknowledged the truth in Baldwin's words. Raynald de Chatillon was a powerful figure, one whose influence could not be denied. Such power would be useful, only as long as it was wielded properly.

But the Archbishop trusted the boy’s judgement. For though he was only fifteen, he had already proven himself to be a capable leader. He had the ability to recognize patterns; to see the value of his allies and the need for forging strong bonds. He paid attention to the advice given to him, and never once underestimated his enemies. However, the Lord of Oultrejordain was not a man to be trifled with.

But William had faith that the Lord would watch over the Kingdom and its king.

“Do you believe God will grant us victory in Egypt?”

William stroked his chin in thought, “If we are successful, I would believe that to be the will of God.”

“I am aware that taking Cairo is ambitious,” The boy sighed and closed his eyes, “But I can’t just let the opportunity go to waste. It may be the only way Jerusalem may finally see a moment of peace.”

“God has his plans for you, my liege, but I would not doubt your judgement," he answered, choosing his words carefully. “There is always a reason for what he does, and you must have faith. If we are truly meant to win this, then we shall win it; and if not, then perhaps He has another plan.”

“Perhaps.” Baldwin nodded his head in agreement, “Only time will tell. Thank you, Archbishop.”

As the Archbishop watched the boy stare into the distance, William could not help but feel the swell of pride in his heart. Baldwin had come such an impressive way. He was young, yes, but his heart was pure, and his intentions were just. It was perhaps the first time since Godfrey of Bouillon that Jerusalem had the privilege of having an honorable, selfless king. And William truly believed that Baldwin would lead the whole of Outremer into a brighter future.

For while it was God’s will that made Baldwin a leper, it was also His will that made Baldwin a king.

“Have faith, my lord,” the Archbishop said. “We are on the cusp of a great victory. You will be a legend.”

Jaffa, 27 February 1177

Agnes de Courtenay observed from the windows as Baldwin returned from presiding over an audience with his subjects. The assembly had taken place outdoors, with the King seated as citizens gathered to seek his attention. As the Seneschal, Joscelin had been tasked with administrative duties, but Baldwin had chosen to personally engage with his people.

As her son matured, Baldwin began to mirror his father in his appearance and sense of duty to his realm. They had the same build, the same coloring, and the same endless devotion to their crowns. Yet, in this resemblance to Amalric, there was one poignant difference—Baldwin was a boy with a sensitive heart.

Rumors of his disease spread far and fast, and despite the boy’s outward appearance of good health, people instinctively maintained their distance. It broke her heart—though Agnes understood—for such was the curse of a leper. It was difficult for a kingdom to see their King deteriorate in front of their eyes.

More difficult, was a mother coming to terms that she may outlive her only son.

When Amalric had annulled their marriage, Agnes found herself practically exiled and forced to remarry to secure her future. He deprived her of their children, sending Sibylla away into a convent while he kept Baldwin by his side. And by the time Amalric passed away, her children had matured without her presence; Sibylla, a beautiful young woman; and Baldwin, a leper king.

The resentment in her heart for all those lost years grew and festered; for perhaps, if she had been there, she could have saved Baldwin from such a cruel life.

As soon as her son returned to the palace, Agnes intercepted him in the main corridor.

“Baldwin,” she called, and the boy halted, turning to face her.

“Mother,” he greeted her with a bright smile. He needed a haircut, and Agnes made a mental note to remind that squire of his.

“Did you have a pleasant audience?” she asked as she approached him.

“It was alright.” He tried to reassure her, but she could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Did the citizens have a chance to speak with you?”

“Yes, some.”

“And what did they ask for?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “The usual things. Money, taxes, land.”

She could see the stress in his face. It was not easy, having to bear the weight of the entire Kingdom. She glanced at his hands. Anselm must have just changed his bandages.

“Come, let us go outside and have some refreshments.”

He accepted, and began walking beside her. The important thing was that she was here in his life now. If Baldwin was indeed meant to rule, then he needed her as his mother; and that was enough for her. She had sacrificed everything to return back to Court, and she had no plans of ever letting go. Whatever time he had left, she would make sure that her children would always be her number one priority.

Even if they did not always understand.

“Your studies, have they been good?”

“Yes, the Archbishop tells me that I am a fast learner.” She could hear the pride in his voice as he spoke. While she did not get along with his tutor, Agnes could admit that he made the boy happy.

“And what have the physicians said?”

“Nothing that should worry you, mother,” Baldwin reassured her with a smile. “The macules are developing slowly, but my condition is manageable.”

“Good. Good.” Agnes let out a relieved sigh. Perhaps he had many more years ahead of him, as long as he did not over-exert himself. “I see you still keep around that riding instructor of yours.”

“He is a good man, mother.” Baldwin smiled as they entered the courtyard. It was a nice day, spring was almost here. “He is practically family.”

“And how is that Princess?”

“Princess?” He raised his eyebrows. Clearly she had caught him off guard.

“The one you ride with.”

“Oh,” Baldwin paused as he pulled out her chair. He struggled to maintain his grip with his right hand, but she still appreciated the gesture. “She is well.”

“What was her name again?” She asked, taking her seat.

“Luceria. Lord Raynald's daughter.” Baldwin said, settling into his seat in front of her.

“Ah, yes. I recall the first time I met her. A very polite child.” Timid, Agnes truthfully wanted to say. When they were briefly introduced at Sibylla’s wedding, she felt the young girl had little to no resolve. A pretty face without any depth.

“Indeed, she is,” Baldwin agreed. Servants arrived with plates of freshly cut fruit and cheese, along with two chalices. They set them down on the table and poured them some wine.

“You enjoy spending time with her, do you not?”

Agnes had known about the letters and the clandestine horseback rides for some time now. In the beginning, she may have even supported it. There was nothing she wanted more than her son’s happiness. Yet the longer their friendship continued, the more Agnes found her concerns intensifying like a persistent itch in the recesses of her mind.

He regarded her for a moment, taking a sip from his chalice. “…I do. She is good company.”

“And she is kind?”

“I suppose.”

“And pretty.”

“Mother,” He warned, his voice turning stern, his gaze hardening.

“I am merely saying.”

“She’s just a friend.” He insisted.

“A friend?”

“Yes.” She could sense the annoyance in his tone.

“But you do see her as a lady?”

“She is a lady, Mother. A princess.”

“A princess you have affection for.”

“Mother!”

Agnes held her hand up. “Do not get riled. I am not accusing you of anything.”

“I know what you are insinuating!” He declared, his voice growing shriller, “And it is not appropriate.”

“Do not raise your voice at me,” She cautioned him. “I only want you to be careful.”

“There is nothing to be careful of. We are merely friends.” Despite attempting to stay composed, she could discern the flush of red in his ears. “Nothing will happen between us.”

“Baldwin,” She sighed, “You have an illness, and it is getting worse. One day, you will not be able to do all the things you want to do.”

He cast his gaze downward. In his frustration, he looked more like Amalric. Her ex-husband had a tendency to brood when frustrated, and even his son, who was usually the epitome of composure, inherited these traits.

“Please, hear me, my love.” She begged. Regardless of his insistence, Baldwin was still a boy susceptible to the allure of attractive girls. And it would be best to cut this infatuation before it develops any further.

“What do you want me to say?” His voice was quiet.

“That you will heed my advice. That you will not allow yourself to become attached. Even if it is only friendship you seek with her.”

“Mother—”

“Listen to me, please.”

He looked at her with a pained expression, and Agnes could feel her own heart breaking. Why had God forsaken such a beautiful boy? Why her son, who was pure and kind, who did not deserve all this suffering?

“It is a blessing that the princess does not recoil at the sight of you. That she treats you with kindness and respect. But how long will this last? When you begin to deteriorate, will she still be there?” It pained Agnes to ask such questions, but she sought to shield her son from nurturing hope in a relationship destined for disappointment.

In time, the Lord of Chatillon would arrange a marriage for his daughter with some other nobleman, and Agnes could not endure witnessing the heartbreak that Baldwin would face when he had to endorse such an alliance.

The girl was a pretty face and had the sweetest of smiles. The kind that drew men like moths to a flame.

She needed to squash such hopes now before it became too late.

“I do not know, mother.”

“And you're okay with that? With not knowing?”

“I do not know.” He said again.

“I just want you to think. To be cautious. She is a young girl, and young girls can be fickle.”

His trembling fingers curled into a fist.

“You must remember that there will come a day when you will have to part from her. Do not allow your heart to be broken by this,” she advised.

Baldwin remained silent, but she knew her words were heard.

“I do not say this to hurt you, my love, but to protect you. You have a heavy burden to bear. Do not let this be another weight you must carry.”

He was quiet for a moment, he swallowed hard, his hand relaxed, and then he spoke.

“Thank you, Mother, for your counsel.”

“I only want what's best for you.” She told him with a long sigh.

If she could not protect her son from leprosy, then Agnes would protect him from heartbreak.

Chapter Text

Antioch, 4 March 1177

“You shouldn’t scowl, brother,” The Empress remarked with a knowing grin, “It is your wedding day.”

Bohemond glared at his sister who was helping him dress. Humor was the last thing he desired from her at the moment. She was only a few years older than him and they had been very close growing up. Much closer than he had been with his other siblings.

It had been a long time since he had last seen her. But given the circumstances, he was not too happy to see her now.

Yet amongst all his siblings, Mary had always been the one with whom he felt most comfortable speaking openly. And despite the fact that she was annoying him on his wedding day, he still found solace in her presence.

Not that he’d ever express it.

They were in his private chambers, a lavish room adorned carpets, and a large bed with silks hanging from the posts. Mary was standing beside him, pinning his ermine cloak in place. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a high braid. She wore a deep purple silk stola with golden embroidery and a matching paludamentum befitting a woman of her status. She had long adapted to the Byzantine customs and chose not to be seen without her arms covered.

“Spare me the pleasantries, sister. You and I both know this union is a sham.” Bohemond said bitterly, adjusting the belt on his tunic.

Mary smirked, “Think of my own sacrifice, Bohemond. I am married to an old man. At least you are getting a beautiful bride.”

The old man she was married to, Emperor Manuel I, had just docked in Antioch with his retainers after a long journey from Constantinople. He had come for the wedding and was hand-delivering his grandniece, Bohemond’s bride-to-be, Theodora Comnena.

Bohemond’s stepfather, Raynald of Chatillon, had tagged along in the Emperor’s ship. He had made the long journey from Outremer to secure an alliance with the Byzantines for the Leper King’s Egyptian campaign. Bohemond was surprised to hear that Raynald had actually succeeded. He wondered how much of it had to do with his sister and her influence.

“So, how many ships has your husband pledged for this joke of a campaign?” Bohemond asked, “A hundred and fifty?”

“Indeed,” Mary answered, maintaining her composure with a knowing smile.

“Is he mad?” Bohemond scoffed, “The last crusade was a disaster. Anyone with half a brain could see this expedition is doomed.” Amalric was a failure, and he did not have high hopes for the boy who sat on Jerusalem’s throne. To Bohemond, the expedition was not worth the money nor the manpower.

“He is not insane, brother,” Mary replied calmly, “If Jerusalem is successful in conquering Egypt, it would benefit all of us too. There are many opportunities we would be unwise to dismiss.”

“Opportunities for what? More dead men?” Bohemond asked bitterly, recalling the fate of their brother who had died due to the Emperor's ambitions. He was tired of seeing brave men, his men, being sent off to die on another's crusade, all the while their own home was in peril. “We buried Baldwin last year because of your husband’s campaigns.”

Mary stiffened, her smile faltering ever so slightly. “He died honorably in the service of the Empire,” she said quietly, “But you're not wrong. I have lost too many of my loved ones to this war. And so has Manuel.”

Bohemond clenched his jaw, remembering their fallen brother and countless others who had met the same fate. Yet, he knew that Mary's heart was as hardened as his own when it came to war.

But she continued, “Consider, if you will, the strategic advantage we could have,” her voice was steady now, “Control of Cairo would grant our Empire direct access to the Nile. Our merchants would be able to travel and trade in the East. It would strengthen our position, weaken Sicily’s control, and increase our trade routes. We would have access to the spices and wealth of the East, and we would no longer pay exorbitant prices to the Venetians.”

Bohemond grunted, studying his sister. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Behind that beautiful smile of hers was one of the most dangerous minds he’d ever encountered. He had learned since they were children to never underestimate her, she was a lot like their mother in that way. She was a ruthless negotiator and had the uncanny ability to make men do whatever she wanted. She knew when to hold her tongue, and when to use it.

That was something he discerned early on when Mary decided she was going to be the Empress.

She had set her sights on Manuel from a tender age, and when she was finally marriageable, she was relentless in her pursuit. Originally, the emperor had been engaged to their cousin Melisende of Tripoli; but Mary wormed her way into Manuel's affections, and he broke the engagement to Melisende to wed her instead.

Bohemond would not be surprised if his sister was beheaded one day.

“Consorting with the merchants, have we?”

“I may have learned a few things, yes,” Mary replied with an elegant shrug, “The Empire stands to gain considerably, and we could finally be free of the Venecian yoke. Manuel is very interested in this idea. And so am I.”

“To hell with Egypt!” Bohemond growled, “Hārim sits twelve miles from Antioch. We need to defend our own bloody lands, not chase glory across the Levant.”

“Twelve miles and across a mountain range,” Mary responded smoothly, adjusting her sleeve, “The Ayubbids cannot be defeated from Antioch alone. Should the Egyptian expedition fail, it will only draw attention to Outremer. If you are so concerned about Saladin, perhaps you ought to send more forces to Jerusalem. Surely you can afford to spare a few.”

Bohemond had already sent a small force to help Jerusalem. The King had requested aid from the Principality, but Bohemond was only able to pledge a hundred men.

“I can only spare so many. I have my own battles to fight.”

“I know you have your own troubles, brother. But you can spare a few more men.” Mary insisted. “And I am not just saying this to help Jerusalem. If the Kingdom falls, we will have a hard time holding the Principality.”

“The King is a cursed child trying to fulfill his dead father’s dreams!” Bohemond spat, “He’s never seen true war. The Ayyubids will crush them. Even if they take Cairo, they will not hold it.”

“The expedition will proceed regardless of our opinions,” Mary stated, “We must prepare for the worse-case scenario. Baldwin will not last long. His condition worsens by the day. When he dies, there will be chaos. It is likely he’ll pass after his pursuit of Egypt, if he isn’t killed in battle first. We must be prepared.”

“So you do not trust William of Montferrat as a king?” Bohemond raised an eyebrow. Sibylla had married Longsword, and the man was handpicked by Baldwin and their cousin Raymond III of Tripoli—a man whom Bohemond trusted impeccably. While their sisters had hated each other, Bohemond considered Raymond a true ally.

“My people already call me Xene, brother. It will not look good if I pledge my support for another Western king. I would much rather Sibylla have married a Poulain.” She explained. It must have been hard for her since the Byzantines considered Mary and the Franks to be barbarians. While his sister was beautiful and clever, that was not enough for the citizens of the empire to trust her and her Latin ways.

“That makes two of us.”

“Though the King might still take a Poulain bride,” Mary added, nonchelant.

Bohemond's brow furrowed. Surely she wasn’t serious.

Mary laid a gentle hand on her brother’s arm. “He may never father children, but a strategic marriage could provide…other benefits. The right woman could provide counsel, perhaps steady leadership when his…affliction…renders him indisposed.”

Bohemond's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What game are you playing at?”

“I am not suggesting anything outright, dear brother.” Mary met his gaze levelly, “I am simply saying that a prudent match could serve multiple interests. The King would gain a capable, healthy partner to be a stable presence at court. And for the bride’s family, they would find themselves…at an advantageous position.”

“For God’s sake, do not tell me you have been meddling in Jerusalem’s affairs too?” Bohemond scoffed.

“Meddling? How else are they going to get anything done? They are all incompetent.” There was a twinkle in her eyes that told him she knew more than she let on.

If his sister had a fatal flaw, it was that she liked playing games—a habit she had developed from their stepfather. When their mother married Raynald de Chatillon, Mary had taken to him immediately. He was a war hero, and she was fascinated by him. Despite Raynald siring his own daughters, it was clear to Bohemond that it was Mary who was his favorite.

“You are impossible, sister,” Bohemond said exasperated. He shuddered to think what conspiracies Raynald and his sister were plotting, and he did not care to be a part of it.

“Fear not, brother,” Mary laughed. “Your marriage, at least, is safe from any of my interferences.”

Bohemond snorted, for she already has. “Too late for that, hmm?”

“But we must not talk about such politics on your wedding day, it is a joyous occasion.”

“I would hardly call this joyous.”

“The emperor won’t be pleased if you don’t at least smile when you see her.” She teased, placing a heavy, gold crown upon his head. It was their father’s crown, and Bohemond felt its weight more than usual. “You are lucky that she is willing to marry you at all, after the death of our brother.”

“Yes, a fortunate turn of events indeed,” Bohemond murmured. When their brother passed at the Battle of Myriokephalon, Bohemond inherited both his bride and his burdens. Mourning was much easier when one was angry with the deceased.

“The women of Greece are known for their beauty, and Theodora is no exemption,” The empress continued. “Perhaps she will be able to charm you out of your foul mood.”

“I've already been bedded by the most beautiful women in the world, all of whom are far more appealing than your Greek princess.” He scoffed, looking into the mirror and straightening his crown.

“You would do well not to speak of your concubines around the princess,” Mary warned him, she looked displeased. She always did have a thing for propriety.

“And why not? She should know what type of man I am. Perhaps then she won't be so foolish as to expect any fidelity from me.”

Mary gave him a withering look. “I think it is best that we keep your affairs private, until after the wedding.”

Bohemond grinned. “And then? What happens after? Will she expect me to send them away?”

“She will expect you to give her children, and then perhaps you can find another woman to warm your bed.” She retorted.

He couldn’t help but laugh. He knew she was still irritated with Philippa for her scandal with Andronikos, Manuel’s cousin. Their poor sister had been seduced and caught, and in her shame, the best marriage they could arrange for her was to the old widow, the Lord of Toron. Had she been more coy with her affair, she might have secured a better match, perhaps even an imperial prince or a Byzantine governor.

Philippa's indiscretion had brought embarrassment upon the whole family. Her beauty and charms did not open doors for her, and her recklessness only hurt her chances of finding herself in any favorable position. Mary thought that she was an utter fool and that her actions were nothing short of treasonous.

Still, there was no use in dwelling on it endlessly. What was done was done. Philippa was married, albeit not as loftily as they'd hoped. But Mary had never truly forgiven her for it.

“Ah, and here I was hoping you would be more understanding,” Bohemond jested.

“You will need to learn how to tame your urges, Bohemond.” Mary finished securing the cape around his shoulders.

“You can tell your husband I've never been one for acting.”

Mary turned him around so he was facing the mirror. She smiled. “Perhaps not, but you are a skilled diplomat when the situation calls for it.”

Bohemond chuckled. “That is true.”

He looked at his reflection, taking in the sight of his form. He was tall and muscular, his physique well-defined. He had the same blue eyes as his father, but his golden blonde hair came from his mother’s Norman side of the family. His face was neatly shaved, his hair freshly washed and brushed. His clothes were expensive, made of the finest fabrics, and adorned with gold and silver trimmings. His ermine cloak was pure white and his sword was fastened securely at his waist.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the coming day. He was not looking forward to meeting his bride.

“I have already been married once before,” Bohemond reminded her quietly. “I have already sired two children, both sons. I don’t see the need for another wife.”

“It is for Antioch.” Mary reminded him, her lips pursed into a thin line. “It is your duty.”

“I know.” He sighed, “But we have two sisters still unmarried. There's still a chance we could negotiate a better match for Alice or Luceria.”

“Bohemond,” she scolded, “Alice is already spoken for, and Luceria...”

“What?” he demanded, his brow furrowed.

“There is a crowd outside,” The Empress said, walking away. “At least try to look like you’re enjoying your own wedding.”

Palace of Antioch, 4 March 1177

Isabella’s legs burned as she fled; her tzangia-covered feet pounding in the palace corridors. Behind her, the shrieking of her governess was growing distant, but Isabella didn’t slow down for even an instant. “Princess, your gown has been laid out! You cannot greet Lady Theodora looking like a grubby urchin!”

But Isabella barely heard the reprimand. Today, her beloved Theía was marrying the Prince of Antioch, and no stiff brocade dress would trap her in that stuffy chamber.

She ducked behind the row of potted myrtles, meant to perfume the entrance hall with the approaching guests. Her cinnamon-colored curls snagged some of the twigs as she skidded around a corner, straight into a wall of saffron-yellow fabric.

“Oof!” The collision sent her sprawling back, her posterior landing on the polished floor. When she blinked upwards, the blurred silhouette turned into a woman with long blonde hair, blue-green eyes and skin so pale, it made the dark red spots left by Isabella all the more alarming.

“Goodness,” The stranger murmured, crouching down. “Are you alright?”

Isabella blinked. “I…Yes.”

“Hiding behind myrtle trees isn't the most effective way to avoid being seen. The leaves don't quite cover your bright head.” The lady paused, tilting her own. She was beautiful, Isabella thought, in a way reminiscent of princesses in fairytales, with her gentle smile.

Isabella scrambled backwards, “I’m not hiding! I’m—” A loose slipper betrayed her, and she wobbled until the woman steadied her with her hand, helping her to her feet.

“Escaping a very cross governess are we, hmm?” She hummed, straightening back up.

“I’m going to Theía Theodroa!” Isabella jutted her chin, “She’s putting on her bridal crown this instant, and—” Her throat tightened. This might be the last time she ever saw her Theía. That’s what her governess told her, anyhow. Once her aunt was wed, she’d have to live with the Prince of Antioch forever. “I must see her!”

“A most sensible plan,” The woman’s smile softened. She settled back onto the bench before picking up an embroidery circle, the needle glinting in the light as she resumed stitching a spray of lilies.

The young girl leaned closer, fascinated by the intricate work. Madame Esther had been teaching her the craft too, but her own stitches always came out uneven and loose. “Is that for your husband?”

The lady’s face turned a shade of pink. “N-no,” She cleared her throat. “A friend. It will be his sixteenth birthday soon, and I would love to give it to him during the Easter court.” She explained with a smile, showing Isabella the white fabric in her hands.

“It’s pretty,” Isabella said, tracing her fingers over the embroidery. The idea of the woman going to the Easter court made Isabella feel as though she should know her, even if she couldn’t quite place who she was. But her plain dress lacked the embellishments or jewelry Isabella associated with court ladies. Even the servants polishing the chapel candlesticks wore more vibrant fabrics today. “Will you be going to the wedding too?”

“Yes,” The lady replied, still stitching. “It should be lovely.”

Isabella’s brows knit. Even Madame Esther would sooner permit a scullion to snatch her wooden spoon away, before she’d allow her charge near the festivities dressed in only an undertunic. Her eyes traced over the stranger’s face, taking in her pale features and simple clothing. Perhaps she was in mourning? Grief did strange things to people.

She certainly hoped the lady would change before she was presented at court.

“Perhaps you should wear something different?” Isabella suggested politely. “They’re serving honeyed quail eggs for the feast and…” Her gaze drifted from the woman’s plain bodice to the fine fabric sitting on her lap.

“I suppose I should change now,” The woman agreed with a chuckle, “I was meant to get ready ages ago, but I got distracted.”

Isabella smiled, then glanced over her shoulder. She still didn’t see her governess. But it was only matter of time until—

“The bride’s chamber is across the courtyard,” The lady said with a wink, as though sensing her anxieties. “There are guards by the fountain, but I bet if you’re quick, you’ll have no trouble getting past them.”

Isabella’s hazel eyes widened. “You won't tell?”

“Your secret is safe with me, princess,” The woman said, snipping the thread with her teeth. “I promise.”

Isabella grinned. She was beginning to like this lady. Perhaps she liked her enough to forgive her if she chose to dress this plainly for the wedding.

She began walking towards her Theía’s room. She glanced over her shoulder to see the lady still sitting on the marble bench, her needlework in her lap.

The Gates of the Church of Cassian, 4 Antioch, March 1177

Theodora Comnena was nervous.

The cathedral was bustling with people. The crowd loud, all of them coming to see another union that would strengthen ties between Outremer and the Empire. It was an event of political importance, not of affection.

The Byzantine princess clutched the bouquet in her trembling hands. It was not the grand wedding she had wanted for herself. And the smell these of roses were suffocating her.

When Baldwin of Antioch died, Theodora thought her life was over. She had grown close to the knight when he became Manuel's most trusted adviser. They had fallen in love immediately, and he was her closest confidant since her sister, Maria, had left to wed King Amalric. When the news of her beloved’s death reached Constantinople, Theodora was inconsolable.

Then came the news that her uncle was going to marry her to another prince in Outremer. Her dead lover's own brother, Bohemond III. It made her ill.

Now today, she was getting married.

Her dress was much too heavy, the golden fabric clinging to her like chains. Her hair was parted with a hasta recurva and pinned to the top of her head with small flowers. Her veil hung down her back, and she fidgeted with it for the hundredth time.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The ceremony was about to begin.

And as the church doors opened, and the congregation rose from their seats, Theodora steeled herself.

It was time.

Church of Cassian, Antioch, March 1177

Alice clutched Luceria's hand excitedly. The cathedral was awash with the nobility of Antioch and the surrounding principalities. The two young women had to squeeze through the crowds just to reach the front pew, their older sisters shooting them glares as they took their seats. Thanks to Luceria’s dawdling, the two girls had almost been late to their own brother’s wedding. 

Alice's heart pounded as the church bells rang out.

She was practically vibrating with excitement while Luceria regarded the proceedings with her usual composure. Their eyes were immediately drawn to their eldest brother Bohemond at the altar, resplendent in his ceremonial attire and cloak. As the Prince of Antioch, his wedding to the Byzantine Princess Theodora Comnena was to be the social event of the decade.

“He looks quite dashing, does he not?” Luceria whispered to Alice, finding her fingers and giving them an affectionate squeeze. “Though I don’t envy him having to wear all that on such a warm day.”

“Oh hush, sister!” Alice whispered back. They hadn't even been reunited for a week, and already the two sisters were acting as if they had never been separated. “Just you wait until you see his bride. I hear Princess Theodora is quite the exotic beauty.”

“She must be, sister,” Luceria’s voice was soft and gentle. Alice knew she could care less about looks. Her younger sister was far more interested in other, less frivolous matters. The two girls were the youngest of all the siblings, though complete opposites. Alice had always been a romantic, while Luceria had a more pragmatic nature. 

The church bells rang once more, and the congregation rose to their feet. Alice could only imagine her own wedding in the future. How her gown would be imported from the West, made of only the finest silks and brocades. And her groom would be the most handsome Marquis in the world. She had already met Azzolino once, and despite the age difference, the Italian had taken her breath away.

When the cathedral doors opened to reveal the bride, Alice eagerly craned her neck over the crowd, anticipating a glimpse.

“By the saints...” Alice breathed, star-struck by the princess's beauty. Even Luceria's practiced poise slipped at the sight.

Theodora Comnena entered the church on the arm of the Emperor. The Greek princess wore a gown of heavy golden fabric, the train dragging behind her. Her dark hair was piled atop her head and Alice thought she looked like a Greek goddess. Like Aphrodite herself.

Bohemond was smiling, his face flushed with joy, and Alice felt her own heart swell with happiness. This was the beginning of a new era. The Empire would grow stronger, and their Principality would prosper.

Leaning forward, Alice's emerald eyes widened in admiration as she absorbed the sight in front of her.

“She's beautiful.” She breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. Yet, in that moment, Alice couldn't help but entertain the thought that when her turn came to be wed, her gown would undoubtedly surpass even this splendor.

Church of Cassian, Antioch, 4 March 1177

Luceria stood by her sisters and their husbands, trying to keep her expression neutral. She could feel the weight of the people's stares, their gazes full of curiosity and anticipation. It must have been a spectacle to see, for the Antiochene royal family was in complete attendance. With the sole exception of Alice who had flaming red hair, the Royal Antioch siblings resembled a line of blonde Ruthenian nesting dolls.

A year had passed since Raynald had taken her from Antioch. Even more moons had waxed and waned since she had last looked upon all her siblings’ faces together. As they gathered now in the grand cathedral, they left a space between them; a hollow void where her dead brother should have been. 

No matter how the others jested and carried on, that vacant space tugged at Luceria's heart. It was a reminder that their family would never be truly whole again.

She turned her head to see her father. Raynald was sitting next to Stephanie on the pew behind them. He looked relaxed, his eyes fixed on the altar. Beside Stephanie stood young Humphrey, who looked as restless as Luceria felt.

Luceria shifted uncomfortably, her eyes drifting to the front of the cathedral. The bride was approaching, her golden dress glittering in the light. Though her face was covered by her veil, Luceria could still see the dark almond-shaped eyes peering through the fabric.

The princess was beautiful.

But Luceria could see the apprehension in her eyes, the tension in her posture. 

Theodora Comnenas was miserable.

Bohemond’s eyes were trained on his bride. And though his expression was neutral, Luceria knew her brother well enough to know when he was disappointed. His blue eyes were cold, lips pressed in a half-hearted attempt at a smile. The Byzantine princess was a vision—there was no doubt about that. But Luceria could tell Bohemond was not enamored.

The music stopped, and the congregation sat. The ceremony began, the priest droning on and on in his Latin incantations.

But Luceria’s attention remained fixed at the couple. Watching as they knelt at the altar. Watching as they pledged sacred vows before the eyes of God. There was no love between them, only obligation and duty.

The priest raised his hands, and the congregation stood once again, and the two sealed their fate with a kiss.

As the music played once more, and as the newlyweds walked down the aisle, Luceria couldn't help but notice the sorrow in Theodora's eyes, and the resignation in Bohemond’s.

Was this the fate that awaited her?

Chapter Text

Antioch, 10 March 1177

Maria Comnena watched as her daughter chased a cat through the castle. Her dark eyes tracked the two as the feline darted between legs and under tables, only to have her daughter giggle and give chase. Her tiny legs outpaced Madame Esther’s weary sighs as she trailed after her mistress’ only child. Maria’s throat tightened. The child’s joy was a fragile thing.

They were in Antioch for Theodora’s wedding, and the celebrations had lasted more than a week. Maria had spent that morning consoling her younger sister’s tearful panic, reassuring her that this marriage was no different than any other in the world. Maria had managed to calm her down, even if her words were powdered with lies.

She had heard too many unfavorable things about the Prince of Antioch. He was known in their small circles as “Bohemond the Child” or “Bohemond the Stammerer”. And to Maria, the prince was nothing but a spoiled, selfish, lascivious man. He was not worthy of her sister.

But she had kept these concerns to herself, for Theodora did not need to be burdened further by what might have been. She knew better. In her bones, she knew.

Her own marriage to Amalric was proof of that. She had married the King of Jerusalem when she was thirteen and he was thirty one. He had never mistreated her, but he had not cared about her either. Maria did not fault him. She was neither particularly attractive nor had she brought any great dowry for him. She could not even give him the son he sought. So he had never grown to love her, nor she to love him.

It had been a lonely and miserable existence. Maria was much happier as a widow.

A high-pitched screech snapped Maria from her thoughts. Isabella lay sprawled on the ground, her skirts twisted around her legs. Maria was at her side in three strides, scooping up the young girl into her arms. The cat was nowhere to be found.

“There, there, koúkla,” She cooed, pressing a kiss to Isabella’s forehead, “Shall we find a treat in the kitchens? Would you like that?”

The little girl nodded.

In the kitchens, a cook was preparing freshly caught grouse for the evening celebrations. Maria sat the child on the edge of the table and traced the scar on her knee. Isabella kicked her legs playfully as Madame Esther fetched her a piece of fresh sweet cake.

‘So much like me’, Maria mused, ‘Yet so unlike me. Freer. Happier.’

The door creaked open.

Luceria of Antioch entered, an empty basket tucked in the crook of her arm. Behind her followed young Humphrey IV, Stephanie de Milly’s son, clutching a wooden horse. The two were engrossed in an animated conversation about something Maria could not hear.

“It’s you!” Isabella gasped, cake crumbs falling from her lips.

“Little one,” Luceria curtsied with a smile, “You’ve conquered the kitchens too, I see.”

With each grand entrance the young girl made, it was obvious Raynald intentionally dangled his daughter’s beauty before the impressionable young king. Any fool could see how quickly Baldwin became enamored by the girl, and it did not take long for rumors to spread of clandestine horse rides, love letters, and expensive gifts sent all the way to Kerak. It was painfully clear that Raynald was manipulating the king for his own advancement.

Isabella bounded down, already in animated conversation with Princess Luceria and young Lord Humphrey. She began enthusiastically tugging at the boy’s arm. “I want to see your horse!”

Humphrey’s cheeks reddened, and he quickly hid the wooden toy behind his back, “It’s not a real horse. It’s just something I carved.”

Luceria lowered herself, “My stepbother is too modest.” She whispered playfully, “This is as real as horses come!"

“I suppose it jumps over the stables,” Humphrey responded with a shrug, “If you pretend.”

Maria cleared her throat, announcing herself to the children. Luceria rose, cheeks reddening before she curtsied. “I apologize, Your Highness. We did not see you there.”

“I do not believe we have been properly introduced,” Maria greeted her, her tone cordial as she protectively drew Isabella to her side, “You must be Princess Luceria. Lord Raynald’s daughter?”

“Yes.” The girl confirmed with an anxious smile.

Maria could never forgive Raynald de Chatillon for razing Cyprus to the ground. His marauding Crusaders had left no church spared from their wrath and pillage, stealing, and murdering in God’s name. He had slaughtered men, ruined livelihoods, and forced the surviving Cypriots into ransoming themselves. Her own father, John Doukas Comnena, was held prisoner by Raynald for three weeks until the Emperor retaliated.

Raynald brought his spoils back to Antioch, making the principality much richer from the blood he spilled in Cyprus.

“Forgive me for asking, Lady Luceria, but how do you know my daughter?” Maria asked slowly. She did not recall seeing them interact in Jerusalem's court. How had she become acquainted with Isabella?

Luceria blinked at the directness of the question, but did not seem to take offense. “She was in search of Princess Theodora's chambers, and we happened to cross paths. It was no trouble.”

“Mitéra, may I please play with Humphrey?” Isabella begged, tugging Maria’s sleeve, “Please? He’s got a horse!”

“We were just about to take some cake to the gardens,” Luceria interjected, glancing between them. “Perhaps you and Isabella would like to join us? The weather is fair today.”

Before she could protest, Isabella was already steering the two away into the garden, forcing the Dowager Queen to follow after them.

In the Palace Gardens, the children’s game unfolded beneath a fig tree. Humphrey placed the horse atop some stones the two had stacked. “This is the royal stable,” He announced.

“And I shall be the queen!” Isabella cried, plucking a chicory flower from the grass.

Humphrey frowned, “Queens don’t play in stables.”

“But mine does,” Isabella argued, waving the flower in his face. “I’m the queen, I can do what I want!”

“A queen might need protection,” Luceria nudged, trying to mediate.

Humphrey hesitated and then bowed, “I’ll guard you, My Queen. Always.”

Always. A word too heavy for a boy of ten.

“You’re kind to humor them,” Maria said, glancing at Luceria, “I fear my daughter is easily bored, and she is not a patient child.”

“It is no trouble at all, Your Majesty. Your daughter is delightful, and Humphrey is glad for the company.” Luceria said with a smile, “Though I’m afraid he’s too shy to say it.”

They sat down together, watching the two children as they played. Isabella continued her role as the queen, while Humphrey dutifully defended her against imaginary foes. They argued over the game’s rules, laughed when their play grew more absurd, and giggled at each other’s jokes.

Luceria offered the basket of sweet cake towards her, “Would you care for some cake, your grace?”

“Thank you,” Maria took the confectionary and placed it on her lap, as the young girl did the same.

“I would not have pegged you for the maternal type,” Maria commented, taking her first bite of the delicacy, “You’re very patient with them.”

She would make a good mother, Maria thought. She was gentle with an air of patience about her. Her voice had the calming cadence of an angel. And perhaps she would make someone very happy one day. It just couldn't be Baldwin.

Luceria paused mid-bite, looking down at the cake in her hand. Her cheeks reddened a bit, “I…Well…I suppose I’m not,” She admitted, “But Humphrey and I have grown rather close. I’ve always been the youngest child for a long time, so having a younger brother is a nice change.”

“It is...good to see,” Maria replied, though the platitude tasted slightly bitter on her tongue. When Amalric had died and his son ascended as King, his mother Agnes de Courtenay left no courtesy unspent in her zeal to keep Maria and little Isabella banished to their remote holding in Nablus.

At least Baldwin had always extended invitations for Isabella and Maria to join the social events. While he kept his physical distance with Isabella, Baldwin had always gone out of his way to include his little sister in court life, despite Agnes’s efforts of making them feel unwelcome.

“He’s lucky to have you. I’m sure you’ve been an excellent influence,” Maria praised with genuine warmth, glancing back at the children, “He seems like he’s taken well to your care.”

“He has not always been an angel, Your Majesty,” Luceria admitted with a sigh, “He once left a bowl of tadpoles at my doorstep.”

Maria laughed, “That is nothing. When I married Amalric, his son released a bat in my bedchamber.”

“The King did this?” Luceria’s eyes widened, “Truly?”

“Baldwin was only six at the time.” Maria smiled, “And Amalric was furious with him.”

The young girl's mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a moment before settling into a hesitant smile. “I...had no idea the king was so...playful in his youth.”

“A terror more like it,” Maria replied with another laugh. But then her smile faded, “Of course, he was not sick then. He has changed since.” She paused, staring at the little boy playing beneath the fig tree, and sighed.

The young girl beside her nodded in understanding. “It must have been difficult.”

“Despite everything, he is still quite cunning when he wants to be,” Maria admitted, “The years may have tempered his spirits. But I doubt they’ve gone completely.”

“No, I suspect not,” Luceria agreed gently, her face pinking at this unexpected admission from the Queen. It seemed she knew Baldwin much more intimately than most. Perhaps there was more to their friendship, after all.

Maria studied her, taking in her youth. The innocence that still lingered around her. There was no coyness. No guile. Just the simple sincerity of young girl smitten by a sweet boy.

She had nothing to fear from this girl.

Instead, it broke Maria's heart, knowing what the future held for her.

Palace Apartments, Antioch, 10 March 1177

That night, as the party died down and the people were still toasting Theodora's marriage; Maria snuck away from the crowd. She went to the palace apartments, weary and ready to escape the noise. Theodora had been whisked away by her new husband, and Maria was ready to go back to Nablus.

‘Prisoners. All of us.’ The Queen thought. Her sister in a stranger’s bed. Her stepson in a crumbling body. Her daughter in the shadow of another woman’s resentment.

She came to her daughter's chambers to check on her one last time. She entered quietly and moved towards the sleeping child. When she approached, she found Isabella already fast asleep in her bed, clutching the wooden horse to her chest. Its mane had chipped from too much play.

Maria leaned over and pressed her lips gently against the little girl's forehead. Isabella opened her eyes, blinking up at her, “Mitéra?”

“Shhh,” Maria soothed, stroking her cheek. “It's just me.”

The child closed her eyes again and sighed. After she was sure her daughter was sleeping soundly, the Queen turned to leave. She glanced at the wooden toy in her daughter's grasp and remembered the promise young Humphrey made to her daughter that day.

Chapter Text

Acre, Easter, April 1177.

On Easter Sunday, the city of Acre found itself in a state of tolerable commotion, as all who claimed any title in Outremer—and many who did not—gathered for the King’s court. The Tenebrae services had been observed with the appropriate solemnity, but now that the loud sounds of the strepitus had died away, the nobility dispersed to fill the Great Hall. It was usually agreed upon that one could not miss the ceremony, and so of course, Raynald and his family were in attendance.

The distribution of liveries had proceeded precisely as it always did: the royal households distributed gifts to their vassals and supporters in order of rank. And as always, the ceremony had overflowed its bounds. There were far too many people in the Holy Land for the space. Frankish Knights, Arab Merchants, and Jerusalem’s stout barons packed the hall from end to end, mingling with each other and waiting expectantly for things to begin.

Today, the princess wore a simple but elegant gown the color of deep red wine. Its sleeves were embroidered with silver thread twisted into little florets. Her hair was neatly bound with ribbons made of velvet, and her veil was pinned back so as not to hide her face. The crucifix pendant dangled on her chest, and on her belt was a small leather aumônière.

Luceria had spent every moment from this morning’s Mass trotting through Acre’s stuffy halls. She had only caught a glimpse of Baldwin during the procession to Bethany, but they had been separated by an army of nobility carrying olive branches and palm leaves. His birthday was fast approaching, and she wanted to thrust the gift into his hands now. It was unlikely she would be able to see him in May, after all. And it was best to act before gossip did.

It had been three months since they had last spoken properly. When she was in Antioch, their letters were few and far between. She understood, of course, for Antioch was much larger a distance to Jerusalem than Kerak. But now that she was in Acre, all she longed for was to see her dearest friend.

Her mind buzzed with all the things she wanted to share with him. Bohemond’s wedding, Princess Theodora, the Emperor, meeting his stepmother and sister, and the bat. How did he even manage to catch a bat? Let alone set it lose in the Queen’s chambers!

But Baldwin was nowhere in sight, and Luceria was growing fidgety.

She excused herself and slipped into the courtyard, eyes squinting at the sun. It was a crisp spring morning—sky ruthlessly blue, the salt air tangling with roses. And peace, for half a breath.

Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts. She turned her head to see knights in Jerusalem’s colors riding into the courtyard. At their head rode a hooded figure atop an Arabian stallion she’d know anywhere. It was his horse.

He dismounted, his cloak flaring behind him. When he tugged back the fabric that shielded his face, her chest tightened. He was a little different, a little taller, hair a darker shade of gold. But those eyes were still the same unchanged shade of blue.

“Your Majesty!” She called out, sinking into a deep curtsy.

“Princess,” His voice hadn’t lost its warmth. He smiled at her and inclined his head respectfully, “Please rise. You’ll dirty up your skirts.”

They stood rooted in place, the gentle breeze stirring the leaves around them. The distant sounds of the Easter celebration meant nothing to them here.

“I’m glad you could be here,” Baldwin said. His eyes briefly took in her attire before meeting her gaze once more, “You look well.”

“I could say the same to you, Your Majesty,” She said. Her fingers brushed at the pouch on her hip. Not yet. Something held her back. Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps she feared the gift might fall short in his presence.

“I’m afraid I cannot linger long,” He sighed, though his riding boots stayed planted before her, “There are matters that require my attention.”

Luceria bit her tongue. “Of course.” Her eyes flickered to the knights, the way they patiently waited behind him. “Will you be racing today, Your Majesty?”

Baldwin grinned, “Indeed I am. Would you care to watch?”

“I would be most honored,” She inclined. Baldwin was a skilled rider, and it would be exciting to see him compete. “If you are headed to the track, perhaps I could walk with you.”

“Then it is settled.” Baldwin turned to address his knights. “We shall meet you at the racetrack, gentlemen.”

She knew she shouldn’t dawdle for too long, as she had to find her family before the races began. Yet it had been months since she seen Baldwin. Surely her father would not care too much as long as she made it to her seat before the event started.

“Walk with me, princess,” The King then said. Not a command. A plea.

She nodded excitedly. He shared her fondness for horses, and in a different life, perhaps Luceria would be on the tracks racing alongside him. She had no doubt that she could match his pace, perhaps even beat him.

“I received the comfits, Your Highness,” She ventured, matching the pace of his walk with hers, “They were delicious.”

“I’m glad,” He said with a brisk nod, “I know they are your favorite.”

“They are,” She said lightly, touched that he remembered. “They were exquisite. Thank you, Your Majesty. It was a thoughtful gesture.”

“It was the least I could do, Princess,” Baldwin replied. He cleared his throat, seemingly uncomfortable with the praise. “How was your brother’s wedding?”

“It was a grand affair,” Luceria confessed. The ceremony had stretched on for days upon days upon days, “But I believe the guests enjoyed it much more than the bride and groom did.”

He arched an eyebrow at that. “I take it that was not a happy union?”

“No, not particularly,” She admitted. “But it was a necessary one.”

“Ah,” Baldwin muttered, the single word laced with understanding. “Politics, then. Not love.”

“Is it ever?” It was meant to be a simple joke, but the words slipped out sharper than she intended. Baldwin’s jaw twitched, and his gaze turned to the path ahead. A frown crossed her lips; she had not meant to sour the mood.

A beat passed between them. Too long.

“Hmm..” He simply shrugged.

“The Emperor was in attendance,” She continued, desperate to keep the conversation from ending. She followed his lead, her eyes staring at the road beneath them, “He is much older than I remember. He sends his regards.”

“Kind of him.” Baldwin’s voice iced over.

“Of course,” She could only nod, eyes still trained on the road ahead of them. “…And how have you been, your majesty?”

“Tired,” He simply said. The word hung raw between them. “But it’s nothing new.”

“Is there anything I could—”

“No,” He halted. For a heartbeat, she saw the frustration, the anger he felt. It was quick, vanishing in the blink of an eye, “Forgive me. These past few weeks have been…” He swallowed. “Heavy.”

She did not know if it was her poorly-timed humor, the stress of the Egyptian campaign, or his own troubles that weighed on him like this. But he was still the King, and she had no right to question his reasons.

“I understand,” Luceria murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of the pouch.

They arrived at the racetrack, a large oval-shaped arena surrounded by high stone walls. Guests had already seated themselves in the grandstands that encircled the field; their cheers were deafening, yet the palpable tension between them rendered Luceria deaf to their noise.

“The race is about to begin,” He murmured.

“Does the court know you’re racing today?” She asked, concerned.

“No,” He said, shaking his head with a flicker of a smirk, “It will be a surprise.”

Luceria tilted her head, before forcing a smile, “Then they will cheer all the louder for their king.”

“And what of you?” He asked, turning towards her, blue eyes searching hers. “Will you cheer for your King?”

A dare?

A test?

“Always.” She murmured. “You are my favorite rider after all.” He smiled, and she matched his gaze. “But save the showboating, Asad hates it.”

His laugh startled them both, and the sound of it eased some of the tension in Luceria’s chest. She smiled back, relieved. Perhaps he had not taken too much offense from her words.

“Then princess,” He said at last, “I believe it is customary for a lady to offer a token of favor to her chosen rider.”

“Is…is it?” Her eyebrows furrowed. She assumed that tradition was only meant for jousts. But perhaps things were a little different down south.

“Indeed,” Baldwin confirmed, though she sensed an undercurrent of something else. Something deeper.

He was acting so strange today, but how could she deny the request of a king?

Nimble fingers reached up to her veil, deftly untying one of the velvet ribbons. She extended her arm, the ribbon clutched in her hand like a precious offering. “For luck, then.”

Baldwin leaned forward, taking care not to touch her hand. He grasped the end of the red ribbon and pulled it gently. Luceria felt the slick velvet slide through her fingers as he claimed her token.

“Thank you, Princess,” he murmured, his eyes closed, and then he pressed the gentlest kiss to the ribbon before tying it around his belt.

Luceria did not understand why her cheeks burned at the sight, but the simple act left her breathless. It was just a ribbon. But he had been so tender and gentle with the modest favor that Luceria felt her heart catch at her throat.

Their eyes met, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between them.

“May you ride to victory, Your Majesty,” Luceria breathed, her heart pounding in her ears.

The race would begin in moments.

“I must go now,” he whispered.

With a final, lingering look, Baldwin turned and lead Asad towards the starting gate, leaving Luceria to wrestle with the tumultuous emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

But perhaps she will give Baldwin his gift later.

The Royal Box, Acre, Easter, April 1177.

Raynald's gaze swept the royal box, his jaw tightening as he failed to locate his daughter among the assembled nobility. Luceria's absence was growing increasingly conspicuous; the young girl had not been seen since before the races had assembled. For one of her standing to miss such a prestigious event would be utterly unthinkable.

The atmosphere buzzed with excitement, the box filled with figures of importance—Agnes de Courtenay and her toad-faced husband, Renaud of Sidon; Seneschal Joscelin de Courtenay, and his wife, Stephanie’s sister, Agatha of Milly; Chamberlain Aimery de Lusignan and his wife, Eschiva de Ibelin; and numerous other nobles Raynald held in high regard. (However, the presence of certain others, like the insufferable Ibelin brothers and Raymond of Tripoli, left a bitter taste in his mouth.)

He noted too the glaring absence of Princess Sibylla and her husband William of Montferrat. For a newlywed couple to miss such an awaited event could only mean terrible things for the Kingdom. Raynald was not a particularly superstitious man, but missing the long-awaited Easter court felt like a bad omen.

To his left sat his wife Stephanie, her timid son Humphrey clinging to her side like a permanent shadow. Raynald’s lip curled in disdain; the boy's meekness was undoubtedly a result of Stephanie’s incessant coddling. He always seemed to prefer the company of women, namely his mother, or his stepsister, or even the dowager queen’s little brat. He could not help but wonder if his stepson would grow up to one day develop an inclination for men.

He quickly dismissed the thought.

An empty seat to his right served as a constant reminder of Luceria's absence; reserved for the young woman whose actions reflected so greatly upon him. She was not a disobedient child, and she was not particularly difficult, but she had the tendency to wonder off when he needed her to be present at court.

His fingers drummed an agitated rhythm against the armrest. She simply had to make an appearance. What would the king think if Raynald’s own daughter snubbed such an event? The implication alone was an insult he refused to entertain.

Just as he was preparing to summon someone to locate the wayward girl, the crimson curtains parted, and Luceria slipped inside, breathless with flushed cheeks.

“There you are,” Raynald hissed under his breath, his eyes narrowing. “And just where have you been gallivanting off to this time?”

Her cheeks flushed deeper, her head dipping in a show of contrition. “Father, Lady Stephanie, Humphrey,” she murmured, her gaze averted. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was...caught up in the crowd.”

Raynald opened his mouth, fully prepared to upbraid her for the embarrassing lack of decorum. But one withering glance from his wife stilled his tongue. It would not do to create a scene before so many watchful eyes. He would have words with the girl later.

“Take your seat, child,” he commanded instead through gritted teeth, gesturing stiffly to the vacant chair beside him.

As Luceria settled in, back straight and eyes downcast, Raynald's attention turned to scanning the crowd. Where was the blasted king? It was unlike Baldwin to miss one of the most anticipated events of the season. Had he finally taken ill?

The thunderous whickering of horses drew his gaze towards the opened gates, and there—unmistakable amid the flashing colors—was a shock of golden hair atop a powerful Arabian stallion. Raynald's brows shot upwards in astonishment.

“The King is racing?” Raynald asked in surprise. A wave of murmurs and gasps rippled through the crowd, for even Agnes de Courtenay's mouth hung open for a moment.

“Yes, Father,” Luceria confirmed, her voice trembling with excitement. She had been the only one to not be surprised.

“By the saints,” He murmured.

Baldwin rode out onto the track, his horse's hooves beating against the ground. He waved at the crowd, his smile broad and confident. There was a roar from the audience as he passed by, and Luceria leaned forward in her seat. He had never seen his daughter so animated.

The herald sounded his trumpet and the race began. The crowd cheered for their king as he surged ahead of his competitors.

“He rides like a demon,” Raynald observed.

“Indeed!” Luceria agreed, her voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd.

Other riders began to fall back, unable to keep up with Baldwin’s pace. With each length he pulled away, Luceria’s excitement seemed to grow. Her fingers twisted around the fabric of her dress as she watched intently.

Baldwin was gaining ground fast on Asad's heels; and Raynald had to admit he was always an excellent rider. He rode his horse as though he was riding to his own death, unfazed by any obstacles it would take to get there. His horse was like a beast, it was of the same breed the Saracens mounted in battle, the same breed that carried Egyptian kings.

He’s going to win. Raynald was sure of it.

Baldwin was almost upon the final rider, his horse's powerful muscles rippling beneath its dark skin. They were relentless, driven by the cheers of the crowd. The other rider looked back in panic, trying to urge his horse to greater speeds. But it was too late. With one last surge of speed, Baldwin's horse surged past them and crossed the finish line first.

“He won!” Luceria cried, leaping to her feet. She laughed and cheered, her eyes shining with joy.

He wasn’t surprised that his daughter was impressed. She was still a woman, and women tended to be easily swayed by a charming smile and a gallant demeanor. Any girl would be infatuated by the best rider on the track, and the leper boy was not an ugly lad by any means.

It was beneficial for him then to have a daughter so easily captivated by the young King. If the rumors that reached him were true; it could only work to his advantage. All she needed was a nudge, and a little persuasion.

The king’s squire soon came to his side, and the boy was helped off his horse. Baldwin was all smiles as he celebrated his victory, but eventually his eyes drifted to the royal box.

To Luceria.

And Raynald saw it for himself, the moment between them.

“Stay for a moment, child,” Raynald commanded, and his daughter nodded obediently. She sat back down, her hands folded on top of her lap. As though sensing his indignation, her wild emotions abated back into the obedient young girl he grew to care for. She was much easier to deal with when she was taciturn.

Raynald had no patience for teenage moodiness.

The crowd was beginning to disperse. They were all moving towards the next grand Easter event. He allowed Humphrey and Stephanie to go before them, until it was only he and Luceria who sat in the Royal box.

“The king was in fine form today, was he not, Luceria?” Raynald commented, gaze shifting to study his daughter’s expression.

Luceria’s brows furrowed, it was obviously not the words she had expected to hear. Perhaps she assumed he would scold her for her lack of decorum earlier. Raynald could admit that he wanted to reprimand her, but now he was presented with something more valuable—an opening.

“He did, Father. Truly, he is the most gifted rider I've ever seen.” She said, back to her practiced poise, always wanting to find the right words to appease him. Yes, he liked this version of his daughter much better.

A sly smile tugged at Raynald's lips. “And one cannot deny he cuts quite the dashing figure as well.”

A becoming flush stained Luceria's cheeks at his words, and she dropped her gaze demurely. “I... I suppose he does, yes.”

“You suppose?” Raynald pressed, arching a brow. “Surely a lady such as yourself can appreciate his form.”

Luceria hesitated, worrying her lower lip briefly before nodding. “He is...very handsome, Father.”

Raynald's mind raced. Could this be the opportunity? Perhaps it was time.

He continued carefully. “His Majesty has shown you great favor, my dear —comfits, letters, lavish gifts. One could say his attentions border on courtship, would you not agree?”

“I-I suppose,” Luceria murmured. Her eyes widened slightly at the implication, but after a moment's pause, she inclined her head. “The king has been a dear friend to me. I cherish his regard.”

Sliding closer, Raynald rested a paternal hand on her shoulder. “More than a friend, I'd wager. Have you given any thought to the...possibilities such favor might allow?”

Luceria met his gaze, her blue-green eyes wide and uncertain. Her body tensed, “Possibilities, Father? I... I'm not sure I understand.”

Raynald exhaled, He could not lose his patience, but her demureness was not making it easy for him. “My dear, surely you’ve considered the implications of being so closely connected to the King of Jerusalem. Of what it could mean for our family. For you.”

She shook her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I-I hadn't given it much thought, Father. He's been kind and generous, yes, but I'm sure his attentions are nothing more than those of an affectionate friend.”

Raynald sighed. He wanted to scream. This was growing tiring by the minute. “My dear, we both know the fragile state of the king’s health. He may look well now; but it may not always be so. And you have not yet taken a husband.” He paused, letting the words hang heavily between them. “His Majesty's heart is tender, and as his condition will only worsen, he may seek a wife to comfort him. Perhaps a queen to rule by his side.”

Raynald watched her face intently, hoping he had planted the seed of an idea in her mind.

Luceria's lips parted in surprise. She looked away, her gaze settling on the track below. “You… you believe the king may be looking for someone to marry? And you think...me?”

“Do you remember what I told you about finding a husband who would care for you?” Luceria nodded slowly. “The king, he would never mistreat you, child.”

“I suppose he wouldn’t, but…”

“Would that not make you happy? To be his bride?” Raynald pressed, watching as Luceria’s cheeks flushed deeper. “You care for him do you not? You spend your days writing to him and longing to see him again?”

Luceria's brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “The king is a good man, father,” she said at last, her voice subdued. “And I’ll not deny he would make...an advantageous match. But Father, I'm not convinced his…feelings run so deep as you imply.”

“Nonsense, child.” Raynald chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s clear to anyone how he regards you. You’re the only woman he’s ever shown such attention, and surely you know what that means.”

“I do not believe—”

“Think on it, my dear,” Raynald continued, his tone persuasive. “The King needs someone who can support him, stand by his side. And who better than you? It is the greatest duty we can perform for the Kingdom.”

“I... I suppose.” She whispered noncommittally. There was hesitation in her voice, an uncertainty in her eyes. But she nodded nonetheless.

Raynald studied his daughter's expression intently; he could see her wavering, the seed he'd planted taking root. “He needs you, Luceria,” he continued softly. “Think of what you could be to him, how you could ease his burdens.”

Uncertainty warred with something else in her blue-green eyes—perhaps a glimmer of reluctant temptation she could not quite conceal. Her brow furrowed, her lips parting as if to voice her instinctive protests. But no words came, merely a weighted silence. Raynald hid a satisfied smile, recognizing the quiet battle being waged within her.

“Yes,” Raynald urged with a grin. “You could be the next Queen of Jerusalem. All you need is a little guidance.”

The King's Private Bath, Acre, Easter, April 1177.

Baldwin sank deeper and deeper into the warm water, the heat soothing his weary muscles. His eyes drifted close as he rested his head against the cool marble edge of the bath. Steam rose from the water’s surface, filling the room with a soothing warmth. He breathed a sigh of contempt.

The day’s events had been a welcome distraction; the thrill of racing a much-needed break from his duties. He could still hear the deafening roar of the crowd in his mind, his ears still ringing from their cries.

Yet his thoughts, such traitorous things, strayed to the one who had made the victory all the sweeter—Luceria. He could still feel the soft velvet of her token wrapped around his fingers. Her eyes shining as she had presented him her favor, the sweet, gentle flush that had crept all over her face.

“You are my favorite rider, after all.”

It had been all he could do to resist the impulse to touch her hand.

Groaning softly, Baldwin sank lower until the water lapped at his chin.

What had he been thinking; asking her for such a token?

But the thought had overtaken him in the moment, the desire to have some tangible proof of her regard. Something he could carry with him. To know, even if it was only a fleeting thing.

A cringe twisted his features as the memory of pressing his lips to her velvet ribbon resurfaced. He could only imagine how strange, how utterly improper his behavior must have appeared to Luceria. No doubt she had found him bizarre, even off-putting.

He submerged himself in water, letting it envelop him. He wished he could just drown himself and forget about his foolishness.

But alas, he could not.

Baldwin's head broke the surface.

“Your Majesty,” Anselm called, “Do not take offense, but you've been in here for an hour already. We need to get you dressed.”

“Just a few more minutes, Anselm,” Baldwin protested, sinking deeper into the bath.

“The feast will be starting soon, Your Majesty,” his squire warned as he knelt down beside him.

“Let them wait,” The boy muttered.

“I’m afraid the court will grow anxious with your prolonged absence, sire. Your mother is already asking for you.” Anselm pressed, concerned.

Baldwin’s shoulders slumped. He hated this part—the dressing, the bandages, the gloves. He loathed all of it. His day had started out so well, and yet now it seemed as though the walls were closing in on him once more. He knew he could not hide forever, but he wanted to linger in this moment of peace for just a while longer.

“I just need a moment alone. Please”

Anselm gave him a sympathetic look, “Alright, but please hurry. I'll be right outside.”

Baldwin watched as his squire left, the door closing behind him.

It had been a difficult few months. And it was getting harder and harder for the boy the keep his composure. He had no doubt that he had grown more irritable in these last weeks—his mother made sure he was aware of that very fact—but his thoughts were everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

He just needed a single moment of repose.

The Empire at least, agreed to pledge one hundred and fifty ships to their cause. In return, Manuel had only asked for a patriarch of his choosing to be installed in the Holy City. It was an almost unbelievably generous bargain. Baldwin had never felt such relief.

And yet the weight of the campaign was dawning on him. Lately, a numbness had begun creeping into his right foot, dulling sensation with each passing week. Though still mild, the affliction gave Baldwin pause. Would he be fit to ride when the time came? To lead an army into Cairo, to face Salah ad-Din himself?

Baldwin grimaced, his stomach churning with dread.

As if the burden of command wasn't heavy enough, Sibylla had sent him a letter that her husband, William Longsword of Montferrat, had fallen ill and would not make it for the Easter festivities. While she assured him that William would make a full recovery, Baldwin knew better than to be optimistic in such things. The future he had so carefully constructed suddenly felt precarious.

And worst of all was his mother’s persistent warnings; her endless lectures about the company he insited on keeping. Agnes’s constant nagging and advising him to stay away from Luceria; pleading for him to resist the pull he felt towards the girl who haunted his thoughts. Yet how could he stay away when her mere presence set his heart pounding?

Yes, how could he avoid Luceria when she was always so happy to see him?

No matter how hard he tried to stand firm, one brilliant look from her captivating blue-green eyes was enough to scatter him to the winds. And when she spoke his name, her voice so sweet and gentle...he felt like an utter fool. He was a conquered king; and she oblivious to his every weakness.

The door opened, and Anselm stepped inside.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “It is time. The feast is about to begin.”

“Very well.” Baldwin sighed, climbing out of the bath.

Anselm helped him dry off, wrapping a towel around his waist. They proceeded into the antechamber, where a fresh tunic was laid out for him. The squire assisted him in dressing, wrapping his fresh bandages, combing his hair, and applied a subtle hint of perfume. Baldwin put on his old gloves.

Luceria's ribbon was still secured to his belt. He could not bring himself to remove her favor just yet.

“She was watching you the whole time, Your Majesty,” Anselm commented casually as he combed his liege’s hair.

Baldwin blinked, “What?”

“Princess Luceria. She watched the entire race.”

“Oh.” Baldwin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I suppose she did.”

He could hear his mother now. Yet the thought of the princess in the crowd, her turquoise eyes as beautiful as the Mediterranean itself fixed on him, was enough to set his heart pounding.

Perhaps it was the thrill of victory; the rush of adrenaline still coursing hot through his veins. But in that moment, Baldwin felt utterly invincible—as if leprosy were no more than an inconvenience, an obstacle to be overcome.

As if there was no impediment.

If he could keep winning races, keep proving himself on the field, perhaps Luceria would never see him as merely an ailing boy. His mother's fears about his illness seemed so distant compared to the hope that he could overcome anything through sheer force of will.

Perhaps then his bond with Luceria could blossom into something deeper. The possibility bloomed within him, warm and fragile. Baldwin knew that the princess had no romantic inclinations towards him, he was not a fool and it was not something he ever even dreamed of having. But if he could only persevere, leading armies to glory and cementing his reputation as a good king…

…Perhaps Luceria might just stay by his side.

And for Baldwin, that was enough.

Acre, Easter Night, April 1177.

Luceria could hardly concentrate.

She was in the banquet hall, her eyes staring at the half-eaten plate in front of her. Her appetite was long gone, in the wake of her father's suggestions. Her stomach churned and churned. In truth, she could not remember what she ate. It felt like nothing.

Raynald was never one to mince his word. But the boldness of his proposal—that she could one day become Baldwin’s bride, Queen of Jerusalem—left her so utterly irritated. It was a notion so farfetched, so bizarre, that it seemed almost laughable. A joke. But the seriousness in her father's gaze had been undeniable. She knew he was not jesting. He meant every single word.

She never even considered it a possibility!

…At least, not until her father had broached the subject.

But her father knew armies better than hearts. He’d already traded two daughters to foreign thrones—Anna to Hungary, Mary to Constantinople—she didn’t think he needed Jerusalem in his arsenal too.

But what if?

It was a traitorous thought. It wasn’t like Baldwin was hideous. He was her age; he laughed at her jokes, gifted her trinkets, and carried himself with the quiet strength of a good king. And he was handsome too. His eyes were always so kind, always so bright. She liked looking into his eyes.

Luceria could not help but wonder if there was some merit in her father’s words. After all, what could be more natural than the King and the Princess becoming friends, confidantes, partners in every way? It was something straight out of ballad, the kind she used to read when she was little.

And a queen’s life wouldn’t be terrible. Besides the glitz and the glamour, it would give her the opportunity to shape laws and ideas that could change the kingdom forever. She would have access to libraries she never thought existed, the best tutors in every subject imaginable. She could even negotiate for peace.

But what of Baldwin?

How would marriage work for someone like him? Would it bring him joy to have such an intimate companion by his side, despite his condition? Or would it be merely another duty thrust upon him, one more burden to bear?

Luceria could not fathom the idea of Baldwin being so close, of him looking at her the way she had seen Lord William Longsword gaze upon the Lady Sibylla.

Enough, she scolded herself, stabbing at the uneaten grains on her plate. Baldwin had never hinted at love. His gifts were simple trinkets; nothing that indicated courtship. To presume otherwise would be a shame to them both. She stabbed at a fig, willing the thoughts in her mind to still.

The dining hall roared with the drunken nobility. Her father laughed at some jest, his cheeks already red with wine. She stole a glance from across the room. There Baldwin sat, golden hair catching candlelight, brow furrowed as the Seneschal prattled on.

His eyes met her’s for a moment. And then he smiled.

Her face burned. And she thought about what her father said.

Perhaps there was something there after all.

Chapter Text

Acre, April 1177.

The gardens basked in the glow of the afternoon sun as Baldwin strolled its winding paths. The Eastertide festivities had come and gone, and life in Outremer was returning to its usual routine.

Young Isabella skipped ahead; her dark braid swinging like a branner in the breeze. At only nine years old, she was a relentlessly spirited child—nobody could get her to sit still or stay quiet—but today she paused often to peer back at him with eyes wide as a doe’s. Her obedience had charmed him, even as it pricked at his conscience.

“Brother,” She chirped up, glancing back at him, “Why must you always wear gloves?”

Baldwin’s steps slowed as he considered how best to answer. So innocent was the question; yet it carried weight he wasn’t sure how to properly convey. "Because, ma petite sœur,” He said at last, “The Lord…has fashioned me with sensitive skin. I need to wrap my fingers in bandages, and I must cover them when I am in public.”

“Oh,” Her nose wrinkled, “Mother says sickness is an act of God. Did you do something to garner His attention?”

A rueful chuckle escaped him. “Something like that,” He admitted, lighting his tone for her sake. He looked at his gloved hands, the linen beneath already fraying, “Or perhaps He tests me.”

When he was younger, Baldwin thought himself to be invincible. He had been living under William’s care at the time. The boys he played with would challenge each other to contests of endurance; pinching arms to see who could withstand pain the longest. Baldwin had never flinched, even when his flesh purpled beneath their pinches.

But he had a powerful secret—no matter how viciously the other lads twisted his skin beneath their fingers, he could barely feel the pain.

But secrets, like rot, fester. William eventually found the marks and immediately alerted King Amalric, who then summoned the royal physicians. Baldwin then realized that he was not, in fact, superhuman.

Something was terribly wrong with him.

The physicians prodded, prayed, and finally named his affliction: Leprosy. A scourge from Leviticus. A living death. A curse from God.

It took years for them to arrive at an official diagnosis, by which time Baldwin had already been crowned King. The numbness on his right hand had never gone away, and his fingers had slowly become mangled from cuts and scratches left unnoticed. The telltale reddish macules now also spread from his back onto his chest; and the toes on his right foot tingled with the same unnerving numbness that plagued his fingertips. On occassion, the numbness would cause him to stumble and trip over nothing at all.

But Baldwin could still ride a horse and wield a sword, which was all that really mattered.

Isabella spoke, rousing him from his thoughts, “You mustn’t challenge Him again. Promise?”

“I shall strive to be cautious, Bella,” He smiled. It was the only assurance he could give.

“Good,” She nodded, appeased with the simplicity of it all. Isabella resumed her skipping, and Baldwin watched with an ache in his chest. The girl spoke of her pony in Nablus, Antioch’s feasts, the kitten she was allowed to bring home; blissfully unaware that these moments together were numbered. He was content to listen, savoring these simple moments with the young girl.

He would have liked to spend time with Sibylla during the Easter festivities as well, but she remained in Ascalon tending to her husband’s sickbed. Although she assured Baldwin that William would make a full recovery, he could not shake his growing worry. Baldwin had sent his finest physicians to William’s bedside. And each night, the King prayed—not for William’s soul, but for his lungs.

After all, when Baldwin's leprosy eventually forced him to abdicate, Sibylla and William were meant to assume the throne as the kingdom's future rulers. With no queen or heir of his own, Baldwin knew the stability of the transition hinged on his sister and her husband.

For the sake of Jerusalem, William Longsword must live.

As he and Isabella continued their stroll, a squeal escaped the child’s lips as she ran ahead, “Look, brother! It’s my friend!”

Baldwin followed her gaze, his own eyes widening in surprised. There, seated beneath a flowering arbor with a book in hand, was Princess Luceria—a vision in her simple lavender gown; her golden tresses pulled back beneath a matching veil. She was so engrossed by whatever she was reading that she did not notice their arrival.

“Lady Lucy!” Isabella called out excitedly, rushing towards her.

Luceria looked up from her book, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the tiny princess, “Little one, what are you doing here?”

“My brother’s ill, and I’m bored,” Isabella replied with a small whine, “May we stay?”

Baldwin felt his eye twitch. Christ’s mercy, Isabella. His little sister had a talent for speaking her mind without thinking.

Luceria’s lips parted—a flicker of pity?—then melted back into warmth. “Sweetling, you honor me.” She said, patting the bench, “I would be delighted by your company.”

He watched as his sister scampered closer, perching herself at Luceria’s side. The princess’s expression softened, and she set her book aside, turning her full attention to the little girl.

His heart fluttered at the scene before him. Isabella had always been a bit of a wild thing, never quite able to contain her exuberance. But here, beneath the flower-draped arbor, she seemed at ease, almost serene.

It was clear that Luceria was a natural with children. Her manner was patient and gentle, her eyes twinkling with warmth as she listened attentively to Isabella's animated chatter.

Baldwin’s steps faltered as he approached them, suddenly feeling very much like an outsider. Yet Luceria's gaze found his again, a quiet reassurance that he was welcome to join them.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” She said softly, inclining her head, “I did not get the chance to congratulate you on winning the races.”

He bowed his head, hoping she did not see his cheeks color. “Thank you, my lady. I was fortunate to have been blessed with a fast horse and a lady’s lucky token.”

Her smile grew, her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. “Well, I am glad that it brought you good fortune.”

He felt a familiar heat creeping up his neck. She had always managed to disarm him with a mere smile. "You have my thanks," he managed.

Isabella looked from one teenager to the other, clearly confused by their exchange. She tugged at Luceria's sleeve, demanding her attention. “Lady Lucy, you have not seen my kitten. His name is Midnight and he’s very fluffy.” She began, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Is that so, Princess?”

“Yes! He is very silly. One time, I found him asleep in my slippers...”

As Isabella prattled on about her adopted kitten, Baldwin studied Luceria. Her blue-green eyes were bright with joy, her smile soft and sweet. And when she laughed at one of Isabella's amusing tales, it was like music to his ears. He could have stayed there forever, lost in her beauty.

So this is torment. He thought, watching as the princess’s hands brushed a lock of Isabella’s wild curls. Hands that could cradle a baby. A crown. A leper’s face.

“Are you well, Your Majesty?” Luceria’s voice jolted him from his musings, “It is unlike you to be so quiet.”

“Yes, my lady,” He replied, hoping his voice did not betray his embarrassment, “I was simply lost in thought, I suppose.”

“He’s tired. We’ve been walking for ages,” Isabella explained, a tad impatient. “So he needs to rest.” Baldwin fought the urge to groan, his ears red with mortification at her bluntness.

“We’ve only walked a few minutes. Don’t exaggerate,” He gently scolded.

“If you say so.” Isabella gave a dramatic sigh and shrugged. She leaned in closer to Luceria, and though she tried to be sly, her voice was still loud enough for Baldwin to hear. “Mother says I must behave so that he doesn’t become sicker!”

Luceria chuckled, “I am glad you are taking care of him, little one.” Her gaze met his, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “Your Majesty, you are lucky to have such a wise and thoughtful sister.”

Baldwin shook his head with an exasperated sigh, “She is something else.”

Isabella preened, basking in the attention. She leaned closer to Luceria, her voice once again lowering to a whisper, “Sometimes he doesn't sleep very much.”

This time, Baldwin did not hide his groan. “Bella!”

“What?” She asked innocently, “You should be getting more rest. Mother said so!”

Baldwin turned his gaze back to the princess, her blue-green eyes bright with amusement. He felt his own cheeks redden in response, embarrassed that the conversation had turned to his health.

“My lady, forgive my sister. I'm afraid she speaks before thinking.”

“There is no need to apologize,” She said, her eyes searching his face, “Though are you sure you're alright, Your Majesty?”

Baldwin forced a smile, trying to reassure her. “You have no need to fret over me, Princess,” he said, holding Luceria's searching stare. “I'm quite alright, I promise you. I would be getting more sleep if this one,” he paused to point a gloved finger at Isabella, “was not such a handful.”

Isabella let out a shriek of protest. “I am not a handful!”

“No?” He arched an eyebrow at her. “What would you call someone who is always running around? Getting into mischief?”

The small girl scrunched up her face in a childish scowl, “Humphrey says I’m sprightly.”

Luceria laughed, “Humphrey also believes in fairies.” She gently smoothed Isabella’s hair behind her ear, “Perhaps you’re both right.”

“Where is Humphrey anyway?" Isabella asked petulantly. “I do not see him.”

“Ah,” Luceria chuckled, “Humphrey is with his mother, little one. I'm afraid he cannot join us today. But perhaps some other time.”

“That's too bad.” Isabella sulked. He could tell the child was crestfallen. She had always been so excited to play with other children closer to her age, and based on her stories, she had enjoyed the company of Stephanie de Milly’s son. Baldwin was glad she had made a friend.

Luceria patted Isabella’s head gently, but the young princess could only continue to pout.

Despite the air of disappointment surrounding his sister, Baldwin couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. The young girl's affection for Luceria was as clear as it was endearing. And he was grateful for the gentle patience the princess extended to Isabella.

Luceria’s gaze met his, a secret half-smile betraying her composure, “How have you been, Your Majesty? Does the King of Jerusalem find time for idle talk between campaigning and horse races?”

“I’ve been well,” He replied easily, smiling at her jest. He did not need to trouble her further with his pulsing numbness on his right foot, or the burdens of the Egyptian campaign. His smile stretched wider as a spark of mischief lit his eyes, “And how about you, Lady Lucy?”

A pink flush stained her cheeks at the nickname. Luceria’s eyes averted shyly as she murmured, “I, too, have been well, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” How endearing she was when she was bashful, especially when it was he who did the teasing. But just as he opened his mouth to make another remark, Isabella's stomach gave a loud growl, interrupting him.

“Brother,” Isabella began, “I am very hungry. May we go find something to eat now?”

Baldwin turned his attention to his sister, "Of course, we should see about getting you some food, lest you start chewing on your own slippers.” He did not want to part ways with Luceria, but Isabella had already risen to her feet, stretching her tiny limbs.

As though the young girl could read her mind, she turned her attention to Luceria, “Will you join us, Lady Lucy? Please?”

Luceria's surprised eyes found Baldwin's, as if seeking reassurance. “I...if you'll have me, Your Majesty.”

“Of course,” There was nothing more that he wanted than more time to spend with her. “I would be most honored by your company, Princess.”

As they rose to depart, Isabella skipped on ahead, and Baldwin couldn't resist one final tease. “Lady Lucy, is it?”

Luceria's blush deepened, though a rueful smile played about her lips. “Humphrey started the nickname, and I fear it rather...stuck.”

“I see,” he chuckled, utterly endeared. He wanted to continue teasing her, but he did not want to annoy her either. “Do not worry, princess. I shall refrain from such familiarity.”

Except the princess did not seem the least bit distressed by the name. Instead, her gaze held his, “Unless...you wish it,” she murmured. “You may call me Lucy if you like.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her invitation. A thrill raced through him, even as caution tempered his delight. They had spent more time in one another’s presence, had developed some measure of understanding between themselves, enough for him to risk a casual form of address.

“Perhaps... in private,” he offered. Selfishly, he craved an intimate closeness with the princess. Perhaps because Baldwin had begun to develop an undeniable fondness for the fair maiden of Antioch. But he dared not give it a name, for she was still beyond his reach. “And only if you'll allow it.”

“I would like it, Your Majesty.”

“Baldwin,” He corrected in a whisper. “Please call me Baldwin.”

Luceria’s lips curved into a smile. “Okay…Baldwin.”

The sound of his name on her lips utterly undid him; it was like a sweet melody, a song that reverberated in his heart. He wanted to hear her say his name again, and again, and again.

Ahead, Isabella had stopped and was gesturing impatiently for them to catch up.

“Come, Brother! Lady Lucy! I am hungry!”

“As am I, Bella,” he agreed, “As am I.”

Acre, April 1177.

Days had passed since the Easter Court, and her time was quickly running out. On the morrow, her father would escort her back to Kerak, and Luceria had yet to give Baldwin the gift she’d lovingly crafted for his sixteenth birthday.

Since then, the princess had agonized over finding a solution, loath to resign her labor of love to the impersonal delivery of a courier.

She had tried during the Easter Feast, but her father's hawkish gaze—drunken and wary as he may be—had kept her in check. She did not want to give him the wrong idea, nor stir the pot of rumors that surrounded her relationship with the King.

And he had caught her unexpectedly in the gardens when he approached her with his sister. It would have been improper to talk to him about personal matters while young Isabella was present.

But, as it happened, fate was kind to her.

Lost in contemplation, she nearly walked past him in the corridor until his voice gently broke through her distraction. “Princess? Might I have a moment?”

Luceria whirled, her heart stuttering at the sight of the king approaching. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, sinking into a deferential curtsy.

“It is just the two of us, Luceria,” A warm smile curved his lips. “You can call me Baldwin, remember?”

“Yes...of course, Baldwin.”

The name felt so foreign in her mouth, like it did not quite belong there yet. But his eyes crinkled with joy, even as she shifted uneasily beneath his gaze. For while Luceria had grown more comfortable in his presence, the intimacy of his name still left her flustered and disoriented.

Baldwin’s blue eyes swept the deserted hallway before returning to hers, “Would you walk with me, Luceria?”

The murmur of her name sent a pleasant thrill through her, her heart leaping in her chest. But she swiftly smothered the traitorous reaction, instead offering him a gracious nod. “It would be my honor, Baldwin.”

They began walking, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, his gloves clasped behind his back as they walked.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Luceria began.

“Yes?”

She hesitated. Ask him of marriage? Of his feelings for her? No, she could not bring herself to do so. “Is it true you set a bat loose in Queen Maria’s bedchambers?”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then, he began to chuckle.

“Did you?” She pressed.

“Guilty,” He admitted, cheeks flushed. He had a boyish charm, one she had never noticed before.

“Why?”

“Honestly, I do not remember.” Baldwin laughed, “I was a child, and I felt like she was replacing my mother. It was a petty vengeance.”

“My father would have my head if I gave Lady Stephanie such a scare,” She commented with a wry smile.

“Yes, I imagine Lord Raynald would,” Baldwin mused, “I hear your father has quite the temper.”

“I have heard the same thing,” Luceria responded carefully. Though Raynald had been trying his best not to be as harsh as he used to be, she had no doubt that he would not hesitate to unleash his anger on her if he deemed it necessary. His wrath was legendary, even amongst his fellow knights. “So please keep your bats to yourself, Your Highness.” She admonished, “Some of us still desire our lives.”

He threw his head back in laughter. The sound was infectious, causing Luceria to smile as well.

“So, did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“Frightening the Queen.”

Baldwin grinned. “She began screeching at the top of her lungs as soon as she heard it. I have never seen someone so afraid. It was almost pitiful. My father punished me soundly, and I received lashes. But you know, I have never once regretted it.”

Luceria rolled her eyes, “Boys.”

“The bat wasn’t my only prank, though,” Baldwin added with an impish glint. “Once I replaced the honeyed pastries in her favorite bakery with salt and vinegar. And I have also put spiders in her bed.”

She marveled at his ability to recount his mischief with such enthusiasm. There was an innocence, a lightheartedness about him that made Luceria forget for a moment that he was a king.

“You are a scoundrel, Baldwin.”

"Oh? It's Baldwin, now?"

“You…You insisted!” She stammered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I am merely teasing, Luceria.” His voice carried amusement as they turned down another corridor, “I am glad you find my antics amusing.”

“They’re infantile.”

“Admit it; you think I’m funny.” The boy smirked.

“Infantile.” Luceria repeated. But there was no bite to her words, and her lips were curved in an amused smile. “How did you even manage to capture a bat?”

“You’ll find you can do anything with a net, a fruit tree, and infinite patience,” Baldwin admitted with a playful gleam in his blue eyes. “What about yourself? Have you ever done anything…mischievous?”

Luceria pursed her lips, considering. She had always been the demure, responsible princess; ever the dutiful daughter. But now, she felt an urge to confess something, to match Baldwin's mischief with her own.

“I have.”

“Like what?” His eyebrows were raised, as though he did not believe her.

Luceria thought for a moment, “Well, after Bohemond ate the last of my tarts, I swapped his riding boots for our brother’s slightly smaller pair.”

Baldwin's lips curved into a smirk. “How did he take it?”

“He was fuming for weeks,” She grinned, “I’m still unsure how he knew it was me. It was probably Alice, she was never good with secrets.”

He could not help but laugh. "So, when did he notice?”

“Well, at first he thought he simply grew,” She said, “But then when all his other boots fit him just fine, he realized someone must have switched them.” The sound of her laughter filled the hallway, and she covered her mouth with her hand trying to stifle her sniggering. “Oh you should have seen his face when he tried mounting his horse! It was hilarious!”

“So? Did he punish you?” Bandwin pressed, clearly savoring every delicious detail.

“Nope,” She said with a grin, “There was nothing he could do. I was his little sister. He would never raise a hand to me.”

Despite all Bohemond's flaws, Luceria knew she could rely on him for support, protection, and even guidance on occasion. And that sense of freedom, of having a safe place to be completely open, meant the world to her.

Baldwin's appreciative chuckle was rich and warm. “A mischievous princess indeed.”

She blushed, her cheeks aflame. But her smile stayed wide. “I told you I had my moments,” She said, meeting his gaze with playful defiance. If he could choose a wife, would he consider her?

“Baldwin…” She began, hardly daring to breathe. Her fingers moved towards the pouch on her belt, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to…”

But whatever confession she'd been on the cusp of making died on her lips as a stern voice cut through the air.

“Baldwin! There you are.”

Luceria turned to find the imposing Agnes de Courtenay sweeping towards them, her skirts billowing and her eyes narrowed. “The Constable needs to see you,” The King’s mother said brusquely, as if Luceria wasn't even there, “He’s waiting in the solar.”

Baldwin's smile quickly faded, his posture stiffening under his mother’s gaze, “Very well.”

Agnes gave a terse nod, her cold blue eyes lingering on her son before shifting to Luceria. The princess felt a chill run down her spine as if the woman’s stare could see straight into her soul.

“Good day, Madame,” Luceria murmured, offering a polite curtsy despite the unease coiling in her stomach.

“Good day, Princess,” Agnes said, her tone courteous yet clipped, lacking any warmth.

Luceria bit her lip, trying not to shift under the woman's intense scrutiny. She did not understand the reason for the animosity. Had she done something to offend the king's mother?

“Perhaps we can continue this another time,” Baldwin whispered. There was a disappointment in his voice.

Luceria could only nod, fighting against her own crestfallen reaction. “I would like that.”

“I shall look forward to it, Princess,” he promised. He gave her one last melancholic smile before reluctantly following after his mother.

As they turned to leave, Agnes’ eyes found Luceria's once more, and this time Luceria glimpsed an unmistakable warning in their dephts. A knot of trepidation formed in her belly.

It was not a friendly warning, not at all.

Acre, April 1177.

The council with Constable Humphrey II of Toron had been a trial sent by God himself. Baldwin had sat in his chair for hours,parsing maps and men until his gloved fingers ached from stillness. By the end of it, he had begun to feel weary and drained, craving nothing more than solitude away from the watchful eyes of courtiers.

Now, the sun had all but set.

He found refuge in the stables. Here, the air smelled of sacred things: honest sweat, aged Cypress, and straw freshly harvested. He made his way down the central aisle, pausing periodically to greet his various horses. At Asad’s stall, the black Arabian huffed, affectionately nosing Baldwin’s gloved palm.

“Hello, my friend,” He murmured, running his fingers through Asad's black mane. The sores beneath his linen gloves itched and he flexed his hand to distract himself. Leprosy might gnaw his flesh, yet here, he was still a king—still man.

Asad snorted, bumping his nose against Baldwin’s shoulder.

“Yes, I know. I missed you too, Asad.” He sighed, content to spend a few moment in the horse’s company. But the sudden sound of footsteps intruded and he stiffened, muscles tensing in response.

“Your Grace?” A gentle voice called out, and by habit he grabbed the dagger at his hip.

His shoulders sagged in relief, a smile tugging at his lips as a familiar face appeared in the doorway as he loosened his hold on the blade,“Luceria.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” She murmured, cheeks pink as her eyes dropped demurely to the ground, “I was hoping to find you here. I heard that the council had concluded.”

“Not at all,” Baldwin shook his head with a broad smile, “If I may speak plainly, I found myself reluctant for our time together to end so abruptly.”

Had his mother not interrupted them, perhaps then Luceria would have finished whatever she'd been about to say. His mind had been plagued by it. In fact, the entire conversation had left his heart pounding in his chest. But he treasured all their stolen moments, no matter how brief.

“As did I,” She admitted, “It’s why I sought you. I was hoping…Perhaps you’d indulge my presence a while longer.”

“Indulge?” He chuckled, “I am the one who should count myself fortunate.”

Luceria's cheeks were pink, “Fortunate, Your Grace?” Her eyes held mischief, “Then perhaps we are both so lucky.”

His lips quirked. How quickly had they grown accustomed to one another’s company. How swiftly her presence had become so familiar to him. The very sound of her voice was a balm to his weary soul.

“I do believe we are,” He replied earnestly.

She smiled, walking towards him as he gestured her to come nearer. “Father does not confide in me,” She murmured, “But even I can sense the tension surrounding the Egyptian campaign.”

“You are perceptive,” Baldwin remarked, a crease forming between his brows. He understood why Lord Raynald kept such matters from her—she was a princess, not a battle-hardened soldier. “And, I confess, I share in that anxiety. Saladin’s fleet grows larger, but my own army is still lacking. I must rely on the ships and soldiers of the Empire.”

Luceria’s eyes searched his face. “You’ll ride with them into battle?”

“I could not ask my men to go into battle,” He said, meeting her gaze steadily. The thought of leading an army into Cairo had left his stomach in knots. He would have to be strong, stronger than he had ever been in his life.

It was bad enough that he burdened his kingdom with his disease, he could not stand to have his subjects risk their lives on his behalf, not when he was still strong enough to ride. Men would die at his command, the least he owed them was his presence.

“It is…truly brave of you, Your Grace.”

“It is my duty,” He murmured. For God, for his people, and his home. “If I cannot protect Jerusalem, then what right do I have to rule it?”

She hesitated, then met his eyes, “Still, I cannot deny I worry for you Baldwin. Will you be alright?”

“I will be fine,” Baldwin said, trying to reassure her. He stroked the Arabian’s velvety fur, “I will be riding Asad, and I’ll have all my knights behind me. This is not the first battle I’ve been in, Luceria. I promise you, I will be alright.”

The year prior, Baldwin had tasted his first victory against the Saracens in the lands surrounding Damascus. And during his daring raids into the Beqaa Valley, his surprise incursions had forced Saladin himself to abandon his campaign against Aleppo. Those victories had granted Outremer several peaceful months.

But it was not enough, and Baldwin needed a greater success. The future of his kingdom depended on it.

Luceria turned toward the stallion, approaching him slowly. Asad’s dark eyes followed her, and the beast lowered his head, nostril’s flaring as her fingers traced the cords of his neck. “You’ll keep him safe, won’t you?” She murmured to the stallion as she stroked him

Asad tossed his proud head, snorting softly in response.

A fond smile curved on Baldwin’s lips, “He promises,” He said, his tone gently teasing. It was endearing how much the princess seemed to care for him. He wished he could be as close to her as the horse was.

A chuckle escaped her lips, “Then I shall hold you to that vow, my noble steed.” She commented, causing Asad to snort again, almost in agreement. She smiled, scratching behind the Arabian’s ears, “You’re quite the charmer, Asad.”

“I believe you’ve won him over, My Lady,” He said with a low chuckle, “I’m afraid I have lost my place in his affections.”

“Well, you can take second place, Your Majesty,” She quipped.

He gave a wry grin, “I see how it is, Asad. You’ve betrayed me for a pretty girl.”

Luceria arched an eyebrow, “Pretty, am I?”

“Beautiful, in truth,” he confessed. He caught her sidelong glance—sapphire eyes beneath flaxen lashes—and he dared not say any more.

But she was truly the most bewitching girl he had ever laid eyes on. She stood there, torchlight catching her hair like gold, her slim waist encircled by linen and leather. Her eyes were deep enough to drown in, and her porcelain skin so flawless, like that of an angel. Everything about her was perfect, as though personally sculpted by God’s divine hand.

Sweet Virgin, why must you craft such torment?

Beneath his bandaged fingertips, his left hand curled into a fist as he fought the impulse to reach out and touch her hand. The compulsion to feel her soft, smooth skin beneath his bare touch burned hot against him; a scorching need that threatened to consume him whole.

But even in his dreams, he never dared.

Luceria blushed, her gaze dropping shyly to her feet. She fidgeted with her belt pouch, clearly searching for words to respond to his bold proclamation.

“No more than you are handsome, Your Majesty,” She murmured, her blue-green eyes bright beneath long, fluttering lashes.

It was Baldwin's turn to blush.

Luceria thought he was handsome?

It was not the first time a lady had paid him such a compliment, yet her praise set his heart pounding. Baldwin took a deep, steadying breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He would not ruin things between them with presumptions; she deserved better than such disrespect.

He needed to get a grip on his emotions or he would lose his damned mind.

Luceria’s slender fingers carded through Asad’s forelock once more before she finally withdrew, “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Always,” He replied thickly, “Would you care to walk back to the castle with me?”

“I would like that very much.”

Side-by-side, they left the stables behind; setting off at an unhurried pace. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the city, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pink and orange. The evening breeze ruffled Luceria’s flaxen locks as they walked.

Baldwin’s pulse hammered—a familiar tingling sensation crept into his right foot, like pins and needles prickling his skin. He recognized the tell-tale signs all too well. This damned disease, he gritted his teeth, trying to push it from his mind.

“Thank you for coming to find me,” He kept his gaze on her, “I hear you’re heading home tomorrow.”

“We leave in the morning, so I couldn’t let an opportunity slip by,” Luceria said, lips curved into a smile, “I must confess, I had ulterior motives.” Her eyes suddenly averted his gaze, and her cheeks pinkened.

“Oh?” He urged gently, his curiosity piqued.

“Well, it’s nothing grand,” She confessed with a self-deprecating laugh, “Do not fret.”

”Now you must tell me.”

Her eyes met his, hesitant yet unwavering. She bit her lip and Baldwin’s eyes traced the movement. In that moment of distraction, his foot caught on an uneven flagstone. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his legs, pitching him forward.

With a strangled cry, Baldwin stumbled, his knees buckling as he fell to the ground.

“Baldwin!”

He was embarrassed, utterly mortified, as he scrambled to regain his balance. The pins and needles sensation in his right foot was worse, and a flash of panic gripped him.

Dear God, he could not move his legs.

He could not feel his legs.

“Baldwin, are you hurt?”

Baldwin clenched his jaw, fighting to maintain some facade of composure. “N-no, I'm fine. My foot just...hurts a bit. It's nothing.”

“Here, let me help,” Luceria said, and without thinking, the princess reached her hands out to hold him. Small hands. Clean hands.

“Don’t!” The anguished cry ripped from his throat as he recoiled from her reach, “Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!”

He could not risk it. He could not allow her to touch him. Not allow her to become infected with this horrible disease. He could not risk her salubrity beimg harmed.

His revulsion towards his own wretched flesh welled up, choking him.

“F-forgive me,” She choked, flinching when his words struck her like they were physical blows.

He hated the hurt in her eyes. He hated himself more.

“It’s not you,” He pleaded frantically, desperate for her to understand. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Luceria, I swear it.”

“Please let me help,” She begged, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Baldwin clenched his jaw against the growing ache, “Please, just get Anselm.”

“Baldwin—”

“Look at me!” He cried out, “There is nothing you can do!” He wanted to sob; his voice cracked with frustration, “Just...Just get Anselm for me.”

He dared not look at her, terrified of what he’d see in her eyes. “Please,” He repeated rawly, desperately, keeping his eyes on the dirt road in front of him.

She swallowed hard, then nodded tightly. “Very well.” With one last conflicted look, she turned and hurried away.

Baldwin cradled his throbbing foot, fingers pinching at his legs. The pain of nipped skin brought him a small comfort. A reminder that at least some sensation was still there. A wave of nausea swept through him.

He closed his eyes, fighting to steady his ragged breathing as the sound of her retreating footsteps faded into silence. Above, the first stars blinked coldly.

Was it a sin, he wondered, to hate the body God gave you?

The answer, he knew, burned in his veins.

Acre, April 1177.

“Please tell me he's alright,” Luceria begged, pacing anxiously outside the chamber door as the squire clicked it shut. Anselm looked exhausted. He had been in there for an hour, attending to the King. It was long enough to drive her mad with worry.

“He is doing better, Princess,” Anselm replied calmly, “Nothing more than a bit of wounded pride.”

“Are you certain?” Her face twisted with guilt. Was he merely sparing her from the truth? “He seemed so distressed, I fear—”

“It is nothing out of the ordinary.” The squire interrupted gently. She was unconvinced.

“I assure you, this is far from the first time the King has taken a tumble,” Anselm reassured her, “And hopefully not the last—it would be a dull life without such mishaps to keep him humble.” He sighed. “You needn't worry about it.”

But Luceria could not help but worry, the memory of Baldwin's agonized expression still etched into her memory. And while she was no physician, it took little insight to recognize that there was more at play here than mere embarrassment or injury. She could only hope that one day he might open up about his ailment.

But she would get no answers today.

“I am relieved to hear that he’s alright,” She spoke softly, her lips pressed thin as she gazed down at the squire, “May I speak with him?”

Anselm hesitated, then shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid His Majesy insisted on having no visitors at present.”

She bit back her disappointment, nodding in resignation, “I see. I had hoped to give him something, but I understand.” Her fingers brushed over the pouch at her hip.

The squire studied her carefully. “If I may be so bold...Is it something important?”

“Well…” she hesitated, “It is a bit personal…”

She could not bear the thought of parting without delivering her token, not after all she'd endured. She felt silly, childish, yet the gift she'd prepared felt so very crucial now. Perhaps she might've been able to give it to him in person, if she had only mustered the courage sooner. If she had not allowed herself to become distracted by his easy laughter and kind eyes.

If only she had been brave enough.

Anselm seemed to pick up on her hesitance. “If it would be amenable, Princess, I could deliver the parcel discreetly on your behalf. You have my word. I shall not pry into its contents.”

Luceria gnawed her lip, considering. She wished desperately to hand it to Baldwin herself. Yet time was short, and she was leaving once dawn broke.

“It was meant as a surprise,” she murmured, quieting her voice as she glanced around the deserted hallway. “I made it myself. For his...nameday.”

“I understand,” the squire assured her. “Then you have my solemn vow, Princess, that I shall deliver it unseen.”

It was as good a solution as any. The gift would still reach its intended recipient, and she could spare Baldwin from further mortification.

She searched Anselm’s eyes a moment longer before reaching into her aumônière to produce a small cloth-wrapped parcel.

“I will take good care of it. You have my word, princess.”

“Will you please tell the King that I hope he feels better?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Of course,” Anselm said warmly. “I am sure he will appreciate the sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Luceria whispered, offering him a faint smile before turning to leave.

“Princess,” The squire called out causing her to stop.

“Yes?” She asked as he walked towards her.

“The King is a proud and stubborn man. He does not like it when people fuss over him, or pity him, especially someone he holds dear. You must be patient with him.”

“I understand, but…” Luceria frowned, “I know he struggles. I only wish I could help ease his burden somehow.”

“And that alone is a gift more precious than any other,” Anselm replied earnestly, “He cares a great deal for you, Princess. Please be gentle with his heart. He is not as strong as he would like to believe.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, her heart skipping an uncertain beat, “I would never dream of hurting him. I...I care for him as well, you know.”

“I know,” Anselm smiled. “You are a good friend to him, Princess.”

“As is he to me,” she replied quietly. “Please, tell him that. And that I...I hope to see him again soon.”

“I will.”

With a final nod, she turned and returned to her quarters. Her thoughts raced as she walked, she had much to contemplate and a long journey home ahead. She could not shake the memory of Baldwin's face. The pain in his voice.

The vulnerability he’d allowed her to glimpse before he shunned her away.

Luceria did not understand leprosy, not truly. The priest's named in God's mark, and called it divine. But how could such agony be holy? And when she pictured Baldwin—Oh God, Baldwin—with his too-quick laugh, and eyes the color of the skies; the wrath of the divine seemed far, far away.

What sin had he committed to deserve such torment?

As she lay in bed, staring up at the canopy overhead, she found herself pleading with the Lord that his condition would not worsen.

And yet part of her worried it already had.

Chapter Text

Ascalon. May 1177

The lupines were still in full bloom.

It was the first thing Baldwin noticed as he rode Asad towards the port city of Ascalon, their lush purple colors vivid and vibrant against the grey stone walls.

His robes rustled as he reached into his pocket, gloved fingers brushing against the folded piece of parchment. He didn’t need to read her words again for they were already seared into his memory. She had written to him after witnessing his stumble, but he had never replied. Pride was a sin, but saints preserve him, so was longing.

I’m sorry. I hope you feel better soon.

The rest of the letter blurred in his mind, the specifics fading away. He had not had the chance to say farewell before she returned to Kerak, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he would have known what to say to her even if he had.

Baldwin felt like a fool. But there were more pressing matters than his bruised ego.

The somber sound of bells tolling in the distance caught his attention, and he drew his gaze towards the grand Church of St. Mary the Green. Its spire touching the stormclouds above; the cross that sat atop it shrouded in fog. A sign. A warning. A harbinger. Ascalon was riotous with merchants and pilgrims, but today the streets were deserted.

Gulls wheeled overhead, their black heads bobbing as they searched for scraps of pungent fish. Curtains were drawn against the upcoming rains, and shutters creaked in the rising wind. Storms were uncommon at this time of the year, and Baldwin felt a lump in his throat from the eerie omen.

It had been about a month since William of Montferrat had first fallen ill. Sibylla sent urgent word of her husband’s condition, and Baldwin dispatched his most skilled physicians. Yet Longsword only worsened; his body wracked with violent tremors and fevers. Night after night, Baldwin's slumbers were plagued by nightmares of what such an ill fate could mean for both the campaign and the kingdom’s future.

William Longsword was meant to be this Kingdom’s next ruler, for Baldwin knew the day would come when his own body would succumb to the inevitable effects of leprosy. His right foot was still bothering him, and while he could still walk and run with little issue, the loss of his senses would eventually affect his ability to ride a horse and fight in battle. In Montferrat, he saw a worthy successor to uphold the crown's legacy, but if his sister's husband should die…

Baldwin didn't want to think about the ramifications.

The royal procession made its solemn way, Baldwin at its head flanked by grim-faced knights, a handful of servants, and his personal physician, Abū Sulaymān Dāwūd.

A knot of dread formed in his stomach. He tried not to think about what he might find once they reached the castle, tried not to imagine William Longsword’s dying body as the physicians fought to save his life. But the fear was there all the same, lurking just beneath his carefully constructed facade of calm composure.

The castle’s portcullis opened. Sibylla waited atop the steps, draped in a shawl too big for her thin form. She looked over at him, weary and drawn, dark circles beneath her blue eyes. “Baldwin,” She murmured, “I’m glad you have come.”

“Sister.” Baldwin's tone remained formal as he dismounted, handing Asad's reins to a waiting groom. “How is he?”

“Some days he seems better,” Sibylla barely choked out the words, “But most days he is worse.”

“I’m sorry,” He murmured, wishing to say more but unsure of how to comfort her. How he hated his sister’s anguish. “I’ve brought my finest physician. We will endeavor to save him, whatever the cost.”

Sibylla’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. She nodded, her lower lip quivering.

“Come, sister. Let us not stand outside in the cold,” Baldwin murmured, gently guiding her towards the castle. As the procession made its way inside, the banked clouds above finally released their burden in a steady downpour.

The Castle. Ascalon. May 1177

Baldwin could hear the muffled sound of William’s violent coughing from the next room.

He sighed, glancing over at Sibylla's exhausted face. They sat together in the drafty great hall, a tray of barely touched food congealing before them.

“He won’t die,” She murmured, tracing her goblet’s rim. Baldwin did not know if she believed her own words. “This is not God's will. He will survive this. This is merely…an affliction. A test. A trial.”

His sister had always been an optimist, but Baldwin knew the odds. Weeks had passed since Montferrat had taken ill, and there was no sign that his condition would improve. The physicians could do little but treat his symptoms, and the high fevers kept him confined to his sickbed.

Baldwin didn't like seeing Sibylla like this. But knew better than to tell Sibylla to have faith when hope was already slipping away. As much as he wanted to believe in miracles, Baldwin was not certain one was coming.

The least he could do was to sit beside her, offering the little comfort he could.

“I pray you are right, sister.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, each dreading to voice the unthinkable possibility between them. A gust rattled the shutters. Somewhere, a loose hinge screamed. Sibylla flinched as thunder rumbled in the distance.

The door groaned. Abū Sulaymān Dāwūd entered the hall.

“Your Majesties,” He greeted, dipping into a humble bow, “I have just examined Lord William.”

Baldwin stood, the chair skittering back as he rose, “Speak plainly.”

“I fear I bring grave news, Your Majesty,” The physician’s voice was somber. He glanced at Sibylla, “Lord William suffers from hectic fever.”

At this stage, it was a death sentence. All three of them knew it. Sibylla’s face drained of color as she took in the words, her body trembling.

“Are you certain?” She asked, trying to steady her trembling voice. But she could not hide the horror in her tone.

“I’m afraid so, My Lady,” Dāwūd confirmed, “His vital signs are worsening. His humors rage unchecked. The blood boils; his endless thirst, and chills. Now the rashes on his chest…”

“My God,” A soft whimper escaped Sibylla’s pale lips as she bowed her head.

Baldwin stared down at his plate, his appetite long gone. “Will he recover?” His tongue felt heavy in his dry mouth, for he already knew the answer.

“Your Majesty, I have treated many case of hectic fever, but none as severe as this,” Dāwūd replied carefully. “I fear he isn't responding to our treatment.”

“No,” Sibylla surged up, goblet clattering. “You must bleed him again! Leeches—”

“My lady, it is too late,” The physician replied sadly. “Bleeding him further would only weaken him even more.”

“Then what can we do?” Sibylla pleaded, her frustration mounting. “How can we save him?”

Dāwūd looked down, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I fear the best we can hope for is to ease his suffering and pray for his recovery. At this stage, only God knows what will happen.”

It was up to the Almighty to decide if William of Montferrat shall live or die.

Sibylla began to crumble, sinking down into the chair as tears spilled from her blue eyes. She clutched at the hem of her sleeves, shoulders quaking as she tried to fight the sobs. “No, please, no,” she choked out.

Baldwin watched her numbly, unable to summon the words to comfort her. He turned towards the physician, “I thank you for your service. You may leave us.” He said curtly.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Abū Sulaymān replied sympathetically. “Please call upon me should you need anything.” With a deferential bow, he retreated from the room.

The king's jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the far wall as he struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He felt a sudden urge to pace, to move, to do something. Anything.

"Brother," Sibylla croaked, “Baldwin, please…”

“I shall check on him,” Baldwin muttered, not meeting her gaze. He strode out of the hall, the sound of the storm outside growing louder as he made his way down the corridor.

William's Chambers. Ascalon. May 1177.

Lord William of Montferrat was once described as the perfect knight—tall, blonde, handsome, brave, frank, and gallant. But the man lying on the bed was a stranger; a hollow shell of the knight who once was.

His skin was pale, his eyes were unfocused. He was damp with his own sweat, his blonde locks plastered to his forehead. Baldwin could see the redness of a rash peeking through from where the blanket had strayed.

It was a pitiful sight.

William was delirious, muttering incoherent things and choking on his own ragged breath. Sibylla knelt beside him, clutching his hand and murmuring reassurances. Baldwin approached, standing at the foot of the bed. It smelled like urine, vomit, and blood. He fought the instinct to leave, to flee this room of suffering.

Baldwin could feel the chill of death in this dark room. Outside, the storm continued to rage; the wind and rain whipping into the drawn curtains.

Sibylla loved him. That much was clear. The way her fingers pushed his damp locks from his face, her eyes wet with tears, the strangled sob that escaped from her throat. Arranged marriages had never usually ended in love, but his sister had found it. And now it was being snatched away from her.

The door creaked open, and the familiar sound of footsteps announced the arrival of their mother, Agnes de Courtenay, who had travelled to Ascalon from Jaffa. Her face was drawn, her eyes heavy with grief.

“Oh, my sweet daughter...” The words emerged hoarse, choked with barely restrained emotion as she drank in Sibylla’s devastated form.

Sibylla’s head whipped up, reddened eyes meeting her mother's across the dimness of the room.

With gentle steps, Agnes crossed to the bedside, her piercing gaze never leaving her firstborn’s grief-stricken face.

“He will recover, will he not?” Sibylla begged, desperation edging her tone.

“You must not lose hope, my dove,” Agnes soothed, reaching out with a comforting caress along Sibylla’s cheek. It was more a plea than a statement, trembling with the depth of a mother's endless love.

While Baldwin had always taken after his father in appearance and manner, Sibylla was her mother’s child, bearing the same dark hair, piercing blue gaze, and slender frame. It must have been painful for Agnes to see her firstborn suffer.

Sibylla leaned into the touch, her eyes watering, but her tears did not fall.

“You are strong,” Their mother cooed gently, stroking her dark locks away from Sibylla’s face. “You will survive this.”

Sibylla leaned instinctively into the tender touch, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But Mother, he... William...” The piteous whispers wrenched at Baldwin's heart. 

How cruel it was to watch his sister suffer this way. To watch the person she loves slip away, inch by agonizing inch. Baldwin knew not whether his sister was cursed or blessed—to have tasted a love so transcendent, only for it to be cruelly torn away. Selfishly, he wondered if he too could have someone by his deathbed, someone to be with him, to grieve for him when his time came.

“Shhhh...” Agnes enveloped her daughter in a sheltering embrace, rocking her as gently as a babe. “Have faith, my darling girl. All will be well; if it be God's will.”

Her haunted gaze drifted then to Baldwin, rife with a mother's wisdom and wordless sorrow for what may unfold. “Come, my children,”  she murmured at last, voice rough with weary resignation.  “We should let the man rest.”

They filed out of the room, leaving William alone with his fevered dreams. The sound of the continued storm raged outside, muffling his coughing fits.

Sibylla wiped away her tears, her eyes puffy. “I wish to speak with you both in private,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Agnes nodded. “Whatever you need, my daughter.”

They retreated to Sibylla's private chambers, the tension in the air palpable. Baldwin's thoughts were in turmoil, his mind racing with dire possibilities. Sibylla sank boneless into a cushioned settle, and Agnes arranged her skirts to sit beside her. Baldwin remained standing before them.

“What is it you wish to discuss, sister?” He asked, his voice strained.

“We were going to announce it together,” Sibylla murmured, her hand unconsciously resting on her stomach. “But I am with child.”

The words slammed into Baldwin like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a harsh whoosh. His mind was reeling.

“You're...you're with child?” Agnes repeated,  “You are sure of this?”

The barest of trembling nods as Sibylla slipped her other hand with unconscious tenderness over the slightest swell of her belly. Her cheeks were flushed. “The midwife assures me I am two months gone. The babe is due at the year's end, by the grace of God.”

A fractured cry escaped Agnes’s lips as she swept her eldest daughter into her arms, rocking them both with the storm of her wild emotions.

“Praise to the Heavens! Oh, my sweet girl, my precious Sibylla—This...This is the most wondrous of blessings!”

Baldwin could only watch, detached; his own spiraling thoughts raging too loudly to process the joyous scene before him. Even if Sibylla delivered a healthy son, the child would inherit all of William’s holdings upon his demise...but then what? An infant heir could never rule. It would take years before he could even sit at the Haute Cour, and Baldwin was not sure if he would even be alive to see the baby grow into a child.

What he did know was that regents and warring factions would throw Outremer into turmoil while they vied for power in the young prince’s name.

No, what they needed was a king—an adult male ruler to take Sibylla's hand and solidify the monarchy's legitimacy until her son reached his majority. But what highborn lord would willingly accept such terms, knowing that his own sons must forever play second fiddle to his stepson?

Like a game of chess, Baldwin's mind whirled and churned, weighing all the pieces of this succession against itself. If only he could take a queen. Perhaps this would all be easier.

But Baldwin knew better than to entertain such a ludicrous notion.

So instead, he willed his gaze back to the present, and he forced a smile on his older sister's behalf. 

“Congratulations, sister.” His throat was dry as he spoke. “This is joyous news for our family and the Kingdom."

Outside, the storm only grew louder.

Chapter Text

Ascalon, 14 May 1177.

“I thought I might find you here, My Lord,” The familiar timbre of William of Tyre, Archbishop and Chronicler of Outremer, cut through the rustle of olive trees.

Sitting beneath the protective shade of an ancient tree was Baldwin, his dusty boots discarded to the side, the earth cool beneath his crossed legs. Two small bundles of lupines were garnered within his reach. The salty breeze ruffled his golden hair and swept away the lingering heat of the day as the sun sank low beneath the Mediterranean.

The burdens weighing on his shoulders had made for a difficult week of restless nights—his slumbers increasingly plagued by night terrors. Dark hollows had formed beneath his eyes, evidence of what little repose he could find. The tranquility of this moment of solitude was a welcome reprieve.

However, this was not at all how he’d envisioned greeting his sixteenth name day.

“How is Lady Sibylla?” William inquired. Baldwin did not turn. The archbishop had ever been a man who wore his cares like a cilice, and the king knew his face would mirror them. “I can only imagine her heartache grows more profound by the hour.”

The king did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted from the ocean view toward the archbishop who stood before him, dressed in a rich green silk houppelande. Baldwin noted the deep concern in his mentor’s grey eyes, and his expression softened.

His sister’s grief was a palpable thing. She had scarcely stirred from Montferrat’s bedside, her belly two-months round with a child who might never know his father.

It was a difficult time, with no easy answers.

“She is distraught,” Baldwin replied softly, “Her husband’s condition has only worsened.”

“You have my deepest condolences, my lord.” William shifted closer, “It grieves me to hear such terrible news regarding Lord Montferrat's fate.”

Baldwin exhaled deeply, a sigh full of regret. “I am afraid we may have to prepare for the worst. The Egyptian campaign cannot be delayed indefinitely while we vainly hope for a miracle no alchemy can provide.”

His gaze drifted to the softly swaying lupine blooms at his feet, their brilliant hues a fleeting reminder of the beauty and vibrancy of life itself.

William of Montferrat was going to die, Baldwin was certain of it. Everything else was just delaying the inevitable. They would have to proceed with the Egyptian campaign without him, and Baldwin was fortunate to still have the aid of the Byzantine Empire and his most experienced commanders and knights. Sibylla was allowed one year of mourning—hopefully, plenty of time to secure another suitable husband.

Yet Baldwin knew his sister and she was a romantic at heart. This was no trifling matter. She would grieve Montferrat for some time.

William of Tyre was silent, his gaze solemn as he processed the weight of the king’s words. After a long moment, he spoke again. “How are you coping, Your Majesty?”

A joyless chuckle was Baldwin's only reply, “I'm not sure how to answer that question, William.”

His mind could not escape his sister’s anguish, the looming menace of Saladin's forces, and the plague ravaging his own body. If his health failed, what would become of Outremer?

“I know that I have to keep going, no matter what. This kingdom needs a leader, and I am its king.” Absently, his fingers traced the velvety softness of the lupine petals as he contemplated his next words with uncharacteristic hesitation. “And the people deserve to have a strong king.” Baldwin’s words felt heavy on his chest, the burden of the responsibility settling like an anvil.

“You are a strong leader, Your Majesty. Never doubt that.”

“Sometimes I do,” Baldwin confessed bleakly. In that fleeting instant, the Archbishop bore witness to the unguarded youth beneath the heavy crown—the boy warring against the king within.

“And that is a part of being human, my lord. We are all flawed,” William’s tone was calm and reassuring. “You are doing your best; that is all anyone can ask of you. You will carry on, and so will the kingdom.”

But what if his best was not enough?

The question lingered—a nagging thought he would not acknowledge—doing so would mean conceding to his worst fears. Baldwin dug a thumb into the arch of his foot through the woolen hose, chasing the ghost of sensation.

From his earliest years, his life had been an exercise in adaptation. In his boyhood, when the numbness first claimed his right hand, he’d learned that the left could bear a sword as shrewdly as it did a pen. Abul’Khair had taught him to spur a destrier with knees alone, reins discarded like a crutch for lesser men.

Now the creeping absence spread. His foot bore weight but not warmth. Not sensation. Baldwin pressed harder, his nails scraping the wool till threads came loose, till pain pierced at his white skin. It was still there. Proof that his body was not entirely beyond his control.

Christ’s kingdom welcomed cripples; but the Levant might eat them alive.

“My Lord?”

Baldwin blinked, startled out of his musings. “Forgive me, William.”

“Is something bothering you, Your Majesty?”

Baldwin flexed the betraying limb. “The numbness in my right foot is returning,” He said with a sigh, “But it is not too troublesome yet.”

“Ah…I see.” The archbishop nodded sagely, “Your physician prescribed some salves for you, did he not?”

“Yes.” Baldwin exhaled deeply.

“And has it been helping?”

“It has been soothing,” the King admitted, “But it is only a temporary measure, William. The symptoms always return.”

“I see,” the archbishop’s brow furrowed with worry.

“It is fine, William.” The king smiled wryly, “I will manage, I always do.” He attempted to sound reassuring, but his expression clouded as the memory resurfaced. “Though recently...A few weeks ago, the numbness caused me to stumble. Right in front of Luceria.”

He paused, letting the weight of that admission sink in. William knew how much the young princess meant to Baldwin. To falter so visibly in her presence had no doubt been mortifying.

“She reached for me,” He said, staring at his palm. He touched the lupine petals before him. Soft. Smooth. Was this what her skin felt like? “I shut her out. Pushed her away when all she wanted to do was help.” He shook his head, jaw clenching. “I hate that she had to see me like that. So weakened by this damned disease.”

The archbishop gathered his robes and lowered himself, settling on the soft grass beside the king. “That must have been a difficult moment, My Lord. She must have been quite concerned.”

And she was.

Anselm had told him how the princess lingered anxiously outside his chambers for over an hour, desperate to offer consolation. Only when the squire assured her of his well-being did she reluctantly take her leave. She had even sent him a letter, but the young king had never replied.

A pang of regret stabbed at Baldwin now. He wished he had been more gracious, had allowed her in to soothe her evident fears. But was it too late to mend that slight?

“Yes,” the king conceded, his features clouding with remorse, “But I was rude to her, and I don't know how to take it back. It was not her fault.”

Baldwin's voice trembled slightly as he spoke, weighed down by guilt. The princess had only sought to comfort him in his time of anguish. To rebuff her caring intentions so callously—it scorched his conscience even now.

“Your Majesty—”

“No.” Baldwin’s tone was firm. “Please do not coddle me, William. I can bear no more. The truth is, I panicked. I did not know what else to do, so I pushed her away.”

“Your Majesty, we have discussed the nature of leprosy and its effect on the body. What transpired was a natural response, a reflexive action. There is no fault or weakness in that.”

“I could not bear her seeing me like that.” Baldwin sighed. Above all else, he hated feeling pitied. He knew that his legitimacy as a King was already being questioned because of his age, inexperience, and illness. He did not want Luceria to pity him too.

“You cannot always control the circumstances, my lord. The best you can do is accept them. As for Princess Luceria, you must trust that she cares about you. She will not judge you.”

Was it alright for him to lament his petty problems when his sister was so struck with grief over her ailing husband? Baldwin felt guilty, but it was also his birthday. Was he not allowed at least the gift of a listening ear?

“I should not speak so candidly of matters that clearly vex me,” he muttered gruffly, fingers subtly tightening around his feet. “Not when Sibylla's situation is more important than any problems unbecoming of my station.”

“Your Majesty...” The title seemed to rouse Baldwin from his brooding introspection. “Surely you can confide in me without fear of judgment,” William continued gently. “Our flock seeks not a perfect saint devoid of human frailties, but a good shepherd to tend to their needs. It does you no disservice to admit when you require tending as well.”

For a long, protracted stretch the only sound was the murmuring of leaves swaying in the scented breeze. At last, Baldwin met his most trusted counsel's gaze.

“She is not just any woman, William.” Baldwin resigned and rested his head against the trunk of the olive tree. “She is my friend. My dearest friend.”

“Indeed, she is.”

“I don't know what I would do without her.” Baldwin’s voice was raw with emotion. “I do not want her to perceive me as weak, or pathetic, or any less than the king I am. But, when I fell...the way she looked at me...it was simply not the same.”

“She was concerned, and rightly so. Anyone would have been in her place. You were in distress, and she was possibly just trying to help.”

“But she could not.”

“No. And that was not her fault, it was no one's fault. These things happen.” Weariness carved brackets around the aging cleric’s mouth as he regarded his liege with paternal tenderness. “You did not spurn her affections out of malice, but from a place of wounded pride and insecurities no man or monarch is truly ever immune to. The princess saw only your suffering in that moment, and yearned to ease your pain as only a true friend could.”

“You are right,” Baldwin sighed, his expression despondent. “But I do not wish to push her away. I care for her, William. She is important to me.”

“Then show her that, Your Majesty. She will understand. And I am certain she will not see you any differently.”

“I hope you're right, William.” One gnarled hand extended to grab a stem of lupines, the bandaged pad of his thumb brushing a fragile purple petal with surprising delicacy.

“Have faith, Your Majesty. That is all you can do.”

The sea wind lifted strands of Baldwin’s unbound hair, and he drew in a deep breath. It had been a difficult week, and the Archbishop’s company was a welcome relief.

“Thank you, William.” Baldwin murmured.

William smiled, his expression warm. His grey eyes drifted to the two bundles of flowers before the king. “Are these for Lady Sibylla?”

“This one is,” Baldwin confirmed, gesturing to a bundle. The flowers were purple, their petals soft to the touch. “I would like to offer some comfort to her, however I can. However, the other...” his voice trailed off as he met the archbishop's knowing gaze

“Ah.”

Baldwin could feel his cheeks grow warm, and his expression turned sheepish. “With the right amount of coin, the courier can get to Kerak by nightfall if he departs just before daybreak,” Baldwin explained, his cheeks flushed with a tinge of embarrassment.

“It is a lovely gesture, my lord,” the archbishop encouraged gently, his lips curving into the slightest of smiles.

“It's rare for them to still be in bloom at this time of the year.”

“Indeed. Perhaps it is a sign of good fortune.”

Baldwin managed a wan smile. “I will not deny, we could use all the help we can get.”

“We shall pray, Your Majesty, for a miracle. For all of us.”

The King’s Chambers, Ascalon, 14 May 1177.

The sun had dwindled into twilight's embrace, and the day had slipped by just as any other.

In the King’s chambers, Baldwin IV of Jerusalem sat, his gnarled fingers tracing the hilt of a dagger—his mother’s gift—the blade blessed by the Patriarch himself. The hilt was inlaid with intricate gold filigree an an elegant, swirling script he could not read. The marble chess board his uncle Joscelin had given him, gleamed nearby. And his sister, despite all her anguish, had presented him with a small prayer book bound in richly polished leather.

It was thoughtful and well-intentioned, and Baldwin was content with that. There was no need for celebrations, for how could they celebrate when William of Montferrat was rotting away in his bedchamber?

Baldwin’s servants had brought him his supper: roasted pheasant with fresh herbs, accompanied by a crisp red wine from his own vineyard in Nablus. The meal had been a quiet affair, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It had been a day of errands and duties, of the mundane and the ordinary. In the morning, he had attended the meeting with his advisers and military leaders, strategizing for the campaign in Egypt. In the early evening, he had arranged for a courier to take the bouquet of lupines to Kerak, paying extra for his speed and discretion. He had even visited William of Montferrat, sitting with Sibylla in silent prayer, their gazes locked on the suffering figure before them.

All in all, Baldwin's sixteenth name day had been a rather dull but tiring affair.

He was completely drained, both physically and mentally. All he wanted to do was retire early and be done with the day. His evening ablutions were completed by his manservants with the aid of hot water, scented oils, and clean, soft towels. Baldwin dismissed the servants once he was ready, and sat alone in his room, staring into the dying fire.

As he was preparing for bed, there was a gentle rap on his door.

“Your Majesty.” Anselm's voice came through the thick wood.

“Come in,” Baldwin called.

Anselm opened the door and stepped into the room, closing it behind him. He clutched a modestly wrapped linen parcel bound with a shimmering silk cord. “I have something for you, Your Majesty,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It's from the Princess Luceria, my lord,” Anselm said, holding the package out.

“From the Princess?” Baldwin felt his breath snare in his throat at the unexpected surprise. “For me?”

Even after everything he had said, even after pushing her away, she was still reaching out. Baldwin felt a flicker of hope light within him, and he could not help but marvel at Luceria's enduring capacity to surprise him. He was humbled by her kindness, her grace.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Anselm nodded. “She wanted to make sure it reached you on your name day. I apologize for not bringing it sooner, but I did not know when would be a suitable time.”

His pulse quickened, and Baldwin readily accepted the unassuming package with unsteady hands. “Rest assured, your interruption is more than welcome, Anselm. I thank you for seeing to the Princess’ wishes.”

Anselm bowed his head and excused himself, leaving Baldwin alone with the mysterious parcel.

Baldwin untied the ribbon, letting the soft material fall away to reveal the gift inside. He recognized Luceria’s signature embroidery immediately, for the girl had a penchant for using golden threads.

Within the parcel lay gloves of Byzantine silk, white as a priest’s alb, and embroidered with golden lilies winding trails up each cuffs, their delicate stems and leaves twining around the wrists.

Baldwin traced his finger along the edge of the glove, marveling at the detail and craftsmanship. How many hours had she labored for this? For him?

Carefully, as if handling the finest Venetian lace, he slid them over his ravaged hands, smoothing the silk over his bandaged digits. The material was soft against his raw skin. And the fit was perfect. Miraculous. Had she measured his grip during some forgotten chess match? Or had she sent spies to the the court tailors?

He marveled at Luceria’s artisanship as he splayed and curled his fingers, feeling the fabric move with him like a second skin. It was the most thoughtful gesture he had received in a long time.

He smiled to himself as he extinguished the candles and climbed into bed, the darkness enveloping him like a blanket. His gloved hands rested against his chest, a protective cradle against his steadying heartbeat.

Sleep came easily to him that night, and Baldwin dreamt of blooming lupine fields, warm sunshine, and a young woman's bright laughter.

Chapter Text

Kerak, 15 June 1177

Luceria lifted the wooden chest with care. The flowers were surely preserved by now.

Miriam, her handmaiden wise in the ways of herbs and simple things, had taught her to bury the lupines in fine desert sand. The process was quick, but dehydrating the flowers had taken a whole month.

Today, Miriam said she could finally open the box.

Gingerly, she brushed the grit from the delicate stems. The flowers had retained their purple hues, but the buds were almost as fragile as parchment. Her fingers trailed over the brittle petals in wonderment at their transformation into lasting treasures.

One by one, she extracted the desiccated stalks, arranging them with care upon the sprawled linen sheet. They glistened like amethyst in the filtered sunlight.

They had appeared at her bedside four Sundays passed, these flowers. Their fragrance had roused her from her slumber, her eyes blinking awake in joyful disbelief. Miriam had said a courier had delivered them from Ascalon overnight. No note accompanied them, yet none was needed. She knew who sent her the thoughtful gift.

Baldwin.

An unbidden smile curved her lips at the mere thought of the young king's name.

She had not seen him since he had stumbled, and while Anselm had assured her that Baldwin was recovering well, a lingering fear persisted in her chest. She did not know much about leprosy, nor its treatment, and her ignorance gnawed at her with each passing day.

Luceria always made sure to pray for him every night.

She had even sent him a letter expressing her regret, yet the King had never replied. It stung more than she wished to admit. And her anxiety often clouded her thoughts.

Had he accepted her apology? Was he still upset with her for her clumsy behavior? Was he perhaps too busy to read her letter?

Questions like this haunted her for weeks.

But now, her mind was more at ease. The precious flowers had been a reassurance.

Where Baldwin could have possibly gotten fresh lupines in May, Luceria truly did not know. They had always been her favorite flowers, yet to her dismay, none bloomed in Kerak over the spring. It was something she had only mentioned to him in passing; a tidbit about her she did not expect anyone to remember.

It was truly adorable, imagining Baldwin picking flowers for her. Luceria could not help but smile.

Luceria’s finger hovered above the stem, “Do you suppose he wears the gloves?” She murmured to herself. The embroidery had blistered her fingers for weeks, but she did not mind.

Miriam’s shadow fell across the blooms. “A vase, my lady?” She asked, causing Luceria’s gaze to lift. “Or the Damascus glass? It would spare them from the mildew.”

“The glass,” Luceria said, stroking a petal. They were not as vibrant as they had been in their fresh form. “I would like to keep them by my bedside.”

The handmaiden rummaged through an old acacia chest. The scent of beeswax polish rose as she lifted the jar, its surface spared by time, “His majesty is…diligent in his regard for you.” She said, placing it with care on the table. “Though I cannot help but wonder about his intentions.”

Luceria’s spine straightened, “Surely you don’t believe the King capable of any impropriety?” She questioned with an air of indignance. “He has been nothing but a dear friend.”

The handmaiden’s lips pressed into a thin line. “With respect, my lady, even dear friends can succumb to baser urges. I only worry for your reputation.”

“How can you suggest such a thing?” She protested, unable to keep the hurt from her voice.

Luceria’s throat tightened. Miriam’s care had always been as constant as the stars, from the first wails of her infancy to the present. But her words carried an accusation that stung. Did she truly think Baldwin would compromise her? Her doubts of Baldwin had festered these many months, as though affection for a leper were a sin as black as heresy.

Even a leper king, the woman’s pinched expression seemed to scream, is still a leper.

Before Luceria could continue with her reproach, Miriam seemed to sense she had overstepped. “Forgive me, Princess,” the handmaiden said quickly, ducking her head. “I meant no disrespect to you or His Majesty.”

Luceria swallowed hard. The apology helped ease some of the hurt in her chest. “I know you didn’t, Miriam,” Luceria said as she collected herself, “but please, be more mindful in the future. He is still our King.”

“Of course. As you say, my lady.”

There was an awkward silence between them now. The only sound the soft clinks of lupine stems against the glass as Miriam carefully transferred them into their new home. The handmaiden glanced over at her, clearing her throat, “By the way, My Lady, Lord Raynald requests your presence in the solar when you have a moment.”

Luceria’s gut coiled, “Did he give any reason?”

Miriam shook her head, coarse greying ringlets swaying beneath her coif. “None that he chose to divulge, Princess.”

By the saints, must we dance this dance again?

Her father’s insistence that the King seeking a bride was growing more and more vexing by the day. While most lords hastily arranged marriages for their daughters, her own sire was stubbornly determined to wed his youngest daughter to the sovereign of Jerusalem. But the boy was only sending her flowers, not betrothal contracts.

All of Jerusalem knew of Baldwin’s frailty. He had pushed her away because of it. What was the likelihood that he would seek to take her as his Queen? Luceria shook her head. It did not bear consideration.

Even Miriam pities him, she thought, recalling the handmaiden’s flinch as she’d packed the lupines. The King’s affliction could not be changed; no more than the sun could rise from the west. But in the privacy of her soul, Luceria mourned the boy whose letters spoke of days spent on horseback. Never of longing.

To offer herself and be spurned would be to unravel her father’s ambitions—a humiliation worse than Philipa’s. Yet greater still was the terror knotting at her throat. That Baldwin might consent. That she’d stand beside him at the altar, and watch the sickness eat him away until there was nothing left.

In her heart of hearts, she had no desire to be Queen of Jerusalem. She did not want the responsibility, nor the power. She just wanted to be with Baldwin. And that was even worse.

Let him want me, a part of her prayed. Let him not.

“Princess,” Miriam cleared her throat, “I believe your father has important news for you.”

Luceria sighed, smoothening the rumples of her pale dress as she rose. It was best not to keep her father waiting, “Thank you, Miriam. I shall go to him now.”

In the solar, Raynald stood framed under the arc of a narrow window, his bulk swallowing the morning light. On the breast of his tunic was his family’s seal—a chief stripe in gold, four vertical gules, and alternating blue and white vairs. He wore his house proudly, like many lords did.

“You summoned me, Father?” Luceria called out, announcing her arrival. Raynald twirled a silver chalice between his thick fingers, spilling wine into the creases of his palm.

“Daughter,” He did not turn. “Come. Sit.”

Luceria walked towards him, her sarmaya slippers muffled on the mosaic tiles. She took the seat across from his desk. Luceria’s eyes darted to the window where Raynald stood, his expression unreadable.

“You slept?” He simply asked.

“Well enough, father,” She said, perched on the edge of her stool.

He pivoted. Green eyes studied her, his gaze raking up and down her form in silent observation. The chalice dangled carelessly from his fingertips.

“Montferrat is dead.”

Luceria stilled.

Her throat tightened. She had only met the nobleman once at his wedding, but her heart shattered for Baldwin and his family. Sibylla’s heartache must have been great, and Luceria thought of the many times she herself had cried over her brother’s death.

Raynald continued, “His death was not unexpected, given the severity of his illness, but it is a great loss to the Kingdom nonetheless.”

Luceria swallowed thickly. The man had meant little to her, yet it pained her nonetheless to hear of him, “I am sorry for Lady Sibylla. She must be devastated.”

“Aye, she is,” Her father replied, raising the goblet to his lips and taking an extended gulp of wine. “But her grief shall pass. In time.” His lips curled. “But the king…”

Luceria’s nails bit her palms. “What about him?”

Her father’s fist clenched around the silver chalice once more. “Illness has taken him in Ascalon. The physicians bleed him hourly, yet the boy’s condition only worsens.”

Baldwin was… sick?

Her breath hitched. It was so sudden. How could Baldwin have fallen ill? He was fine. He was supposed to be fine. He had sent her flowers. How could he be sick?

She tried to calm herself. “How?” The word scraped at her throat.

“A fever and a cough,” Raynald began, as he walked towards her, “His physicians have yet to diagnose the illness. But they are thankful it is not the same one that claimed Montferrat’s life.”

“Is it…Is it fatal?”

Her father’s eyes never left hers. “If not treated in time, yes.”

Her hands covered her mouth, “This is terrible.” The mosaic tiles blurred beneath her slippers.

Baldwin had stumbled over a month ago, but Anselm assured her the King was in safe hands, that he would recover. It was just a fall. He sent her flowers. He was supposed to be better. Yet now... Now…

Luceria could not breathe, could not think. Already her nervous thoughts were swimming with all the worst-case scenarios, an endless deluge of dread.

Raynald crossed the path towards her, his shadow swallowing her whole as he cupped her chin, “Steel yourself, child.” He said, thumb callous against her cheek. “We must be strong for all of Outremer.”

She lifted her gaze, searching his face for any sort of tenderness. Did the threat of mortality bring them together? Or did the presence of death simply shift his schemes?

“If…If Baldwin doesn’t…” She could not finish.

“He will,” Raynald corrected, gently caressing her cheek. “He has named me regent until he recovers. I will personally ensure that the kingdom is well-tended in his absence.”

Her father’s confidence should have calmed her fears. It did not. Luceria pushed away the thought of her dear friend in such turmoil, “Does…Does he need anything? Anything at all?”

Her father smiled, “You should attend to him. A gentle presence by his side might help ease his suffering.”

Gentle. The word was heavy with expectation. Her father dealt with swords, not comfort. Yet she could see his eyes gleaming as though her trembling hands alone could save their king.

“You... you believe I should go to his sickbed?” She asked hesitantly, her stomach twisting in knots.

Raynald nodded, “Of course, my dear.” He said, stroking her hair, “The court shall remain in Ascalon while the King is in convalescence. It is your duty as a loyal subject to offer him your support.”

A scandal would surely follow.

No maiden—especially one of her status—would visit an unmarried lord’s bedchamber without causing gossip. Everyone will think them lovers.

What if he dies?

Her throat constricted, panic threatening to overwhelm her at the thought of losing yet another person she held dear.

Luceria's lip trembled. “But others may object if I am too...familiar in his chambers when he is recovering—”

“Tsk. Pay them no mind,” He interrupted, waving a dismissive hand, “No one would dare begrudge you for offering support in his time of great need. Would you risk his demise over such petty concerns? How would you bear the guilt, knowing you could have eased his suffering, yet refrained?”

She had not considered that. Her heart sank as her father spoke the truth. She would be consumed by regret if she stayed behind. Baldwin had comforted her in her darkest hours; surely, she owed him the same courtesy?

Luceria’s throat tightened. Where was Miriam with her clucking pragmatism? Luceria could hear her voice chiding, even in the depths of her memory. The handmaiden would have encouraged her to pray for him and leave such matters to the physicians. Yet her father’s presence loomed, his eyes boring into her own.

“He needs you, daughter.” His tone was gentle, but she could sense the steel behind it. “Nurture him.”

“I...” She faltered, searching Raynald's face once more. Her hands curled in her lap. 

“Very well, Father. I shall go to him,” She murmured.

What insanity had she just agreed to? She could already hear Miriam’s voice reprimanding her in the depths of her conscience. But if Baldwin needed her, then her reputation mattered not. She would risk everything to save him.

Raynald nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I knew I could count on you, my dear.” He gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. “Make the necessary preparations. We depart for Ascalon in two days.”

Ascalon, 16 June 1177.

“I understand your concern, William,” Baldwin rasped, voice strained by his illness, “But my affliction lies in the body, not in the mind.”

“Of course, my liege,” William of Tyre bowed his head in deference. He perched himself stiffly on a seat by the King’s bed. He offered the boy a chalice of medicinal broth, but Baldwin shook his head.

Baldwin’s illness had crept up gradually; the first signs emerging towards the end of May. His loss of appetite was dismissed as a manifestation of stress, for William knew all too well the facade of strength the young king took in times of trouble. But soon untouched plates gave way to wracking coughs, and within a few short days, Baldwin started to run a fever.

Agnes feared the possibility of hectic fever— the same illness that claimed William of Montferrat just nights before. But Abū Sulaymān Dāwūd, the King’s personal physician, assured her that this was nothing more than a case of lung fever. While less detrimental than Longsword’s sickness, it could still prove fatal for the young King. His leprosy made him weaker to ailments, and his recovery was always uncertain.

In this dark hour, William and Agnes’ personal quarrels dissipated like smoke on the wind. The boy’s survival was all that mattered. Yet Baldwin needed more than a mother’s care or a counselor’s wisdom. He needed a seasoned commander to fortify the realm—a role Raynald de Chatillon, self-titled Prince of Kerak, seemed all too eager to fill.

Baldwin’s haggard face hardened, “You doubt my choice of naming Raynald as regent.” He said. Not a query, but a statement of grave finality.

Even illness could not diminish the boy’s regal demeanor. In these moments, William could not help but notice how much of Amalric the boy retained. Duty, not pride, was what drove him.

“It was indeed unexpected, my lord,” William said carefully. He recalled meeting Raynald in Ascalon weeks prior—the man lounging with Aimery de Lusignan, son-in-law to Baudouin de Ibelin, trading jests over their cups of wine. Raynald’s bow to William had been shallow, bordering on disrespect, his mouth spilling forth an insult barely concealed as courtesy.

It had irked the Archbishop to no end, and he wondered whether Baudouin was aware his son-in-law was on such friendly terms with the infamous lord.

For Baldwin to entrust Raynald de Chatillon with regency meant placing the Kingdom of Jerusalem within a serpent’s coils.

“The decision was not made lightly, I confess,” Baldwin continued, pausing to catch his ragged breath, “He is the only one capable of securing Cairo while I recover.”

“Your Majesty...” William began, his brows furrowing in concern. But Baldwin was right. Raynald de Chatillion’s military prowess and regional influence was indisputable. The Lord of Oultrejourdain’s hunger for glory could either lead the realm to victory or to ruin. William feared the latter.

But Baldwin, ever the martyr, would bear the shame if it meant Outremer endured.

Baldwin’s cough spat clumps of phlegm into his sleeve, “You must hear me, William,” He gasped, “I-I know that many in the Haute Cour would have preferred Count Raymond.”

Another ragged breath. Another cough.

Baldwin swallowed before speaking again, “But the truth is, while he may cooperate with Prince Bohemond, I fear he cannot command the respect of Byzantium's court.”

William’s curiosity was piqued, “What do you mean, my liege?”

“A grudge lives in my cousin’s heart,” Baldwin rasped, “You know that Manuel spurned Count Raymond’s sister to marry Princess Marry of Antioch instead,” He said with a weary exhale, “The Count had prepared twelve Galleys to escort his sister to Constantinople, and he raided Cyprus and other towns with those very same ships. He did as much damage as Lord Raynald did, if not more.”

William leaned closer. Melisende of Tripoli’s shameful return—and death—still haunted court gossip. “Do you truly believe Count Raymond would risk the Kingdom’s safety over personal vendetta?”

Baldwin shook his head weakly, “No,” He paused for breath again, his throat rattling, “But I believe his vendetta would endanger his diplomacy with Byzantium. The Empire is too proud to overlook an insult from one of our vassals, and my cousin too proud to apologize,” He took in another ragged inhale, “Manuel trusts pleasant lies, not bitter men. In order to succeed, we must have the Empire’s full support. And only Lord Raynald can grant us this.”

“Could Prince Bohemond not bridge the divide as an intermediary?” William pressed.

“Bohemond is a good man, but he has been reluctant regarding this campaign from the start,” Baldwin sighed, “Lord Raynald is proven. With the Emperor’s support, even Bohemond will follow his lead.”

Despite Baldwin's logic, William was far from convinced.

“But do you trust Raynald?” He asked, the question sour on his tongue.

“I do not,” Baldwin sighed, “But I trust his hatred of the Saracens. So long as we fight them, his loyalty will not falter.”

“You are gambling Outremer on that man’s rage,” William could not help but rebuke. “There are other options. Surely Lord Humphrey or Lord Baudouin—”

“They break bread with Saladin’s men!” Baldwin cut in, “Lord Raynald would sooner die than yield to Saladin’s demands. So tell me, William, which man do you think will make the Sultan toss and turn at night?”

Silence. Raynald de Chatillon’s control over the southern strongholds threatened Salah ad-Din’s ability to maintain communication and control between his two capital cities, Cairo and Damascus. And if given the choice, he would have burned their treaties into tinder.

Even the late Longsword, no friend to rash men, had found Raynald... tolerable.

“I fear that you are right, My Liege,” William admitted, the shame blazing hotly on his cheeks. How could a boy-king, rotting alive, know more of warfare than the kingdom’s wisest men?

The burdens Baldwin bore were far greater than any boy of sixteen should ever have to shoulder, but still, he persevered. Even now, as his lungs threatened to give way with every breath, he remained composed; as if they were discussing the weather, not the fate of his realm.

Baldwin sagged, coughing up more phlegm onto his sleeve. William lifted the broth towards him, but the King waved it away.

“No.” Baldwin rasped, “The bitterness…It will only make me more ill.”

“Your strength, Your Majesty,” William insisted, “It is the only way to relieve the fever.” But he relented at the look in Baldwin’s fever-glazed eyes. The archbishop sighed, reluctantly placing the cup back on the table.

He could not force the young king to drink it.

Tucking the covers around the ailing king, William spoke softly, “Please, Your Grace, try to rest.”

A small, grateful smile played across Baldwin's lips. “Yes, William,” Baldwin muttered, his voice already laced with sleep.

Ascalon, 22 June 1177.

Three days had crawled by since their arrival in Ascalon.

Three days of fruitless entreaty. Three days of gnawing dread.

Each morning, Luceria petitioned the guards at the King’s chambers. And each night, she retreated, spurned by their steely gaze. Her father, ever the pragmatist, had urged patience. “Bide your time, child. The court will relent,” He had told her on the first day of her failure.

But pity, it seemed, held no sway here.

It was now the fourth day, and she rode Hosanna in the courtyard beneath a merciless sun, her hands clenching the reins so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Hosanna's hooves struck against the pebbled ground. The salt air stung at her eyes and she blinked rapidly to clear them, squinting through tears and sunlight.

Baldwin was suffering; this she knew. The rumors were grim, the murmurs dire, but still the court refused her any answer beyond 'he lives'.

How dare they deny me? She cursed, her hands tightening around the reins. While he fights for his life, I am riding around in circles!

She needed to see him. All she could think about was him.

Dismounting, she tossed Hosanna’s reins to a stableboy and murmured a hasty thank you before sweeping into the palace. The corridors along the way loomed dim, and the only sound were her footsteps. At Baldwin’s door, two guards barred her path, their tabards bearing Jerusalem’s golden cross.

At the sight of them, her demeanor faltered. “Pardon, sirs,” she began, smoothing down her skirts. “Is the King accepting visitors today?”

“His Grace receives no one,” The guard on the left shook his head, his eyes betraying a hint of sympathy for her, “I’m sorry princess.”

Her heart sank. She should have been accustomed to these rejections by now. But the sting was just as sharp as the first day. If Baldwin were to pass, she would never be able to forgive herself for failing to be at his side.

“Could you please…” Luceria sighed, “Could you please tell him that I came by?”

“Of course, Princess. I’ll pass on the message.”

“Thank you.” Luceria gave a small, polite bow and turned away, defeated once more. As she walked down the corridor, she heard the door creak open; followed by the shuffle of footsteps.

“Wait, Princess!”

She glanced behind her, surprised to see Anselm calling out to her.

“I will escort you to His Majesty, my lady,” Anselm said quietly. “He will be pleased to see you.”

“Are you certain?” She couldn’t help but ask

“It’s quite alright, Princess. Come.”

Anselm ushered her inwards. The chamber was dark; curtains drawn tight against the harsh sunlight. Despite it being summer, there was a fire that burned low in the hearth.

“I thought I told you I wasn’t seeing any visitors,” Baldwin spoke from behind the curtains of his bed. Though his voice was hoarse and strained, there was no mistaking his irritation. Luceria instinctively shrunk into the shadows.

“I know, Your Majesty,” Anselm replied respectfully but unfazed, “But I thought you might make an exception.”

“Your Grace,” The word escaped her lips in a whisper.

A pause. Then a rustle of sheets as Baldwin turned to face her. The curtains obscured him from her sight, but she could hear the rattle of his breath.

“Luceria,” Her name escaped him softer than the coughs that followed. He attempted to push himself up, only to slump back onto pillows with a frustrated groan, “Please… Come closer… It’s hard to see you.”

“Please don’t strain yourself, Your Majesty,” She murmured as she moved closer to his bedside. Up close, she could clearly see the circles under his eyes and the fevered flush on his cheeks. Damp hair clung to the sides of his face. Her heart twisted at the sight of him.

“You shouldn’t have come,” He scolded, his face turning away.

“I had to. You…” She lowered her head, biting her lip to suppress the sudden surge of tears that threatened to flow. “Your fever, your illness. I didn't know how it had progressed. Father told me you were very sick...”

He was quiet for the longest time, his eyes fixed on her. Had she angered him? Was her father wrong? She kept her gaze lowered, avoiding his.

“I didn’t mean to impose,” She pleaded, “I realize now that I shouldn’t be here. I just wanted to know you were alright.”

Baldwin sighed heavily, the sound causing another wave of guilt to crash over Luceria’s head. He looked away, staring at the curtains instead.

She was ready to stand and take her leave. To apologize, to beg his forgiveness, but then—

“I’ve missed you too, Luceria.” He said gently. “I’m glad you came.”

At those words, an immense relief washed over her. So comforting that tears threatened to fall once more. She pressed her palms to her cheeks to hide the wetness.

“Oh, Baldwin,” She whispered, moving to sit on the cushioned seat beside his bed, “I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m alright,” He reassured her, mustering a tired smile, “Please don’t cry Luceria. I’ve just been a little sick. That’s all.”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, forcing herself to calm down and regain composure. “Only a little?” She managed, offering a tearful laugh. “You're even more stubborn than I thought.”

He chuckled, but the motion sent him into another spasm of coughing. He gave her a sheepish look, his cheeks reddening further. “Alright, maybe more than a little.”

His fingers flexed around his bedsheets, the coarse linen creasing beneath the gloves. The gloves—her gloves—he was wearing them. The silk gloves she had spent nights crafting just for him. How strange a comfort it brought her to see him wear them. How grateful she was that he was alive.

“How are you feeling?” She asked him gently.

“Truthfully, like I’ve been trampled by a horse,” He chuckled, “But I’m getting better. The fever and coughs are not as bad as they once were.”

“That is good,” She smiled, relieved, “Because you sound quite terrible, My Lord.”

He grinned, “Thank you, Princess. That is exactly what every man wants to hear.”

Anselm cleared his throat, and the two teenagers glanced up. His eyes flickered between them, “Well, I shall take my leave. If you need anything, Your Majesty, I’ll be just outside.” As he departed, Luceria could have sworn there was a knowing smirk tugging the corners of his mouth.

Baldwin fell silent, his gaze flickering back to hers. They were now alone. Alone together. The air in the room felt hot and close, almost stifling. Her mind spun wildly, trying to figure out what to say next.

“Luceria—”

“Baldwin—”

They halted, words catching in each other’s throats. She gestured for him to speak first.

The fire spat embers onto the hearth as Baldwin averted his eyes. “I…” He hesitated, gloved hands folding in front of his chest. “I wanted to tell you…” He bit his lips, glancing down at his fingers.

She was acutely aware of her own nerves, of the anticipation coiled in the pit of her stomach. “Tell me what?”

“That I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking up at last, “For pushing you away like that. At the stables.”

Her heart clenched tight at the memory. “Baldwin…” she began, “You don’t have to apologize.”

“No. I do,” His throat constricted, and she could hear the strain of emotion in his voice. “You don’t understand how much I’ve missed your company.”

“I know what you mean,” She murmured, lowering her eyes, “I miss you too. So very much. I didn't want to impose but...” Her breath hitched, “There hasn't been a single day that I haven't wanted to come see you. I-I just wanted to be by your side.”

There was silence for the longest time, the distance between them too wide. The King’s fevered eyes were upon her. He gripped the fabric over his chest. “Your friendship means the world to me.” He croaked, shoulders shaking with the effort.

“You shouldn’t speak if it strains you,” She scolded, but there was no force behind the words.

Instead, he smiled weakly. “I want to keep talking to you.”

The fire crackled as if to fill the silence.

“Then I will stay.” Luceria said softly. Her heart pounded at the look of his stare, yet her lips curved into an easy smile, “I was never able to thank you for the flowers.

“And I for the gloves,” He said in return, “They are beautiful, Lucy. Truly.”

“I’m glad you like them, My Lord.”

“I love them.”

She was then aware of how close they were, how intimate. She could almost taste the coriander in his mouth, feel his touch against her cheek. It took all of her to remain composed, to keep herself from melting into him.

Luceria knew then that Miriam was wrong. It was not Baldwin who was at threat of succumbing to baser urges.

It was her.

“Baldwin…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” He murmured. His gaze never left hers, nor did his grip on the sheets ease. “This is enough.”

And in that moment, it was. It was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Ascalon, 28 June 1177

“Your move, Princess,” Baldwin said, his eyes tracking Luceria's pensive expression as she studied the chessboard.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, hand wavering as slender fingers hovered over one of her bishops. Thinking...thinking...thinking. As though if she waited long enough, some hidden insight might reveal itself.

“Do you concede?” He japed, causing her to break concentration.

“I'm thinking,” she chided, a hint of annoyance with in her voice.

He liked her like this, all focused and serious. Baldwin found himself captivated by her concentration, the intensity with which her blue-green eyes raked over the board. He had witnessed her competitive spirit whenever they rode together, but this was quite different. The set lines of her features, the purse of her lips as she calculated each move—it stirred something warm in his chest.

After a moment's deliberation, she slid the piece forward, capturing one of his pawns. Despite her strategic intent, it only brought her peril. A small smile played at the corners of Baldwin’s mouth.

She was endearingly terrible at this game.

“You know,” he began lightly, “If you take my knight, I'll be forced to retaliate with my rook.”

“What's wrong with that” Luceria's eyes flicked up, puzzled. “Your knight is the only piece protecting your king. Surely taking it is the right thing to do.”

“True, but then I could advance my queen into your territory unchallenged. One move and she'll claim your bishop. After that...” He shrugged, allowing the implied checkmate to hang between them.

She blinked slowly as the logic sank in. “Oh.”

Baldwin watched her brow crease again, admiring the play of concentration across her features as she reassessed the board, rethinking her strategy. Though outmatched, she joined him day after day beside his sickbed, humoring his request for a chess partner. She had even positioned his intricately carved board next to his bed—a gift once new, now cherished. He did not know if she even enjoyed the game, but she had already begun memorizing the pieces’ names and functions.

Her favorite one, she declared, had been the knight because of the horse that represented it.

“Maybe I should just leave the knight where it is, then.” Luceria ventured, brow arching. “Would that give me a better chance of winning?”

A playful smile tugged at the corner of Baldwin's mouth. “It would indeed.”

“Excellent,” She grinned, leaning back with a self-satisfied air. “Now, where did you advise I reposition this rook?”

His usual chess partner, the Archbishop William of Tyre, had returned to Jerusalem a week ago to prepare for William of Montferrat’s funeral rites and Baldwin’s family had followed shortly after. As per the late lord’s request, his body was to be buried in the Hospital of St. John.

Under different circumstances, Baldwin would have insisted on being present to support his sister Sibylla as she mourned the loss of her husband. But his lingering infirmity made such travel an undue risk.

He could only hope to pay his respects once he had regained his strength.

So, for the past few days, he and Luceria had passed their afternoons in this manner—playing chess, discussing books and poetry, and simply enjoying each other's company. His voice was still cracked, but it had regained a bit of strength. And while bouts of coughing sometimes disrupted their conversations, he could now remain upright and engaged for stretches at a time.

He often ran a bit hot, and at times the fever caused his head to pound so intensely that he'd have to close his eyes for a few moments to regain his composure. But Baldwin often pushed past it, anything to spend a little more precious time in Luceria’s company.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Baldwin eyed her move with a raised brow, a little bit of challenge to his voice, a little bit of skepticism.

“Positive,” Luceria’s chin lifted a notch, her lips pressed into a determined line. She met his gaze levelly, eyes confident behind the fringe of thick pale lashes, “I know what I’m doing.”

A low chuckle escaped him. “Very well,” He grinned, shaking his head, amused by her bravado. “Very well, if you insist.”

With a bit of dramatic flourish, he slid his queen across the board, positioning her right in his knight’s path. “Lucy?”

She flinched. “What?” She asked, blinking as her gaze darted across the board, clearly searching for whatever trap he had sprung.

“Checkmate.”

“No!” Her cheeks flushed red, lips parted in dismay. Sunlight through the windows caught the gold at her throat as she crossed herself.

“I’m afraid so.” But he began to laugh. Baldwin laughed so loudly that he started to cough. And so the King was forced to take a sip of water, and the princess by his bedside was clearly not amused.

She leveled him with a look of deviance. “Best two out of three then.”

“Are you sure? You're not very good at this, you know.” One eyebrow arched upward as a teasing smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t gloat, Your Majesty,” She muttered, wrinkling her nose. She tried and failed to bite back a begrudging grin. “It’s unbecoming to taunt a lady so.”

“Forgive me, Princess.” With an exaggerated sweep, he inclined his head in a courtly bow. “It won't happen again.”

She arched an eyebrow, eyes glittering with amusement. “You're incorrigible.”

“You wouldn't have me any other way.”

Baldwin could not help but drink in the smile tugging at her cheeks, sweet and ruinous as Byzantine wine. The dancing light in her jewel-bright turquoise eyes, the fullness of her lips. He marveled at how utterly heart-stoppingly beautiful she was. A dangerous beauty, this girl was.

He could get used to a life like this. Mornings debating the Greek Ancients over figs, afternoons chasing shadows in Petra’s canyons, nights whispering psalms beneath the Bethlehem star. No envoys screaming of Saladin’s demands. Free from the burdens of the crown, the daily grind of the court, the endless demands and duties that came with ruling the Kingdom.

Just her—this girl with hair like gold—who mistook his crumbling soul for something holy.

Such a life, he mused, would be nothing short of idyllic.

If only things could be so simple.

“So, are we going to play again?” She asked, her hands already moving to reset the pieces.

“Alright then,” He smiled, helping her fix the board, “Best two out of three.”

Luceria lost the next match too, as well as the one after that.

Ascalon, 8 July 1177

A woven basket brimming with plump, sun-ripened figs dangled from the crook of Luceria’s arm as she made her way through the palace halls. She had plucked the fruit that very morning alongside Miriam in the palace orchard. They were perfect at this time of the year, fresh and sweet, with a soft flesh that yielded easily to the bite of the teeth.

For over a month now, Baldwin had been largely confined to his bedchamber, his recovery progressing at a maddeningly lethargic pace. Luceria knew it had to be frustrating for him. To not be able to walk around or ride Asad. Whenever she visited the stables to tend to Hosanna, she made a point of doting on Asad as well, knowing the Arabian must greatly feel the absence of his master’s gentle hand.

The guards stationed at Baldwin's doors had grown accustomed to her daily presence, allowing her to enter with naught but a cursory nod of acknowledgment.

She had learned the layout of his chamber by heart. A spacious room with a large fireplace, the heavy oak desk, a comfortable bed, the single wide window overlooking an interior courtyard. Hangings of the Holy City adorned the walls, and richly woven carpets muffled her footsteps as she crossed the threshold.

The cushioned chair pulled by his bedside had become her spot.

She found peace in moments like this. With her father being busy taking on his role as regent, Luceria was free to spend her days as she pleased. Besides riding and lessons, the time she spent with Baldwin had grown to be her favorite part of the day. She did not feel the burdens of her womanhood or station in his chambers. She simply felt like a girl enjoying the company of her friend.

The room was warm and dim, the curtains partly drawn. Baldwin was lying in bed, propped up against the pillows. His bandaged fingers clutched a book. His features were taut with concentration, brows furrowed and lips silently tracking the words. He had not heard her enter.

“Hello,” Luceria's lilting voice broke through Baldwin’s concentration, causing him to glance up from the book cradled in his lap. A warm smile blossomed across his lips.

“Hello,” he gently replied.

“What are you reading?” She made her way to his bedside, curiosity sparkling in her eyes as she noted the leather-bound tome. At the foot of the bed, she carefully deposited the woven basket she carried.

“Merely a breviary gifted to me by Sibylla,” He raised the tome for her inspection , its leather bindings cracked with age, but the gilded-edged pages still glinted in the sunlight. Her lips curved into a smile as she recognized the velvet ribbon he was using as his bookmark—the very same ribbon she had given him during Easter. “ I  thought to occupy myself with prayers, but alas, I fear my mind has wandered.”

“Well, that is understandable,” she offered, settling into her seat. “ You have been cooped up here for a long time.”

His laugh was brief as he shook his head in agreement.  “True. Though you make it sound worse than a jail sentence.” His gaze drifted to the basket, one eyebrow quirking upward. “And what treasures have you brought to tempt this poor prisoner today?”

“Figs.” She plucked one from the top, flesh splitting purple beneath her thumb. “Would you like some?”

“Please.”

She offered him the basket, and he selected a particularly ripe fig, biting into it with relish. His face lit up in delight.

“This is delicious,” he proclaimed, popping another bite into his mouth.

“They are the best at this time of the year.” She grinned, taking a bite herself. The sweet juices filled her mouth, and she savored the burst of flavor. “My nursemaid always used to say that eating a fig when the sun was highest meant a long life.”

”Is that so?” He gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “Perhaps I should have eaten more figs when I was younger, then.”

“It's not too late to start making up for it now, my lord,” she countered with an arched brow, answering spark for spark.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made her chest feel warm. She loved the sound of his laugh, the way his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, the way he looked at her with such gentle fondness.

He was getting better and stronger every day.

“You know,” Baldwin began, popping another succulent bite into his mouth and chewing slowly, as if to savor the flavor. “When I was a child, William would bring me fruit from the gardens every day. We would sit in the kitchens, just like this, and eat together.” A wistful smile played over his lips at the memories. “He was more a father to me than anything else.”

“Did you not know your father well?” Luceria asked, curious.

“Not very,” he admitted, “He spent most of his time campaigning, and he left me in William’s care. But when he was around, he was a good man. And a good king. He cared for me.”

“It is good to have such memories,” Luceria nodded, understanding the sentiment. “I never knew my mother at all,” she confessed in a near-whisper. “She passed when I was only two—I have no memories of her. My father was still in prison at the time and I’ve only just come to know him.”

His expression softened with empathy. “I'm sorry, Lucy.”

“It's alright,” She tried for a reassuring smile, but couldn't quite banish the wistful tinge from her voice. She didn’t want to talk about it. “It is simply the way things are. At least father is trying to make up for it now.”

The princess had noticed a change in her father's behavior of late. Since her brother had died, Raynald seemed to pay more heed to what she wanted, to indulge her whims from time to time. Despite his position as regent, he would join her for suppoer, and they would talk of things. Just trivial things.

It was as if he were trying to make an effort with her, as though he had finally realized how much she needed him to be there for her.

“Indeed.” He sighed, sensing her hesitancy. Raising the fig to his lips, he took another bite before continuing, “My mother only came into my life after my father died, and even when she is stern, she has always been kind to me. My stepmother as well, though her kindness can often be overbearing. Sometimes, it feels like they're afraid I will break.”

“You are not weak, my lord, I am sure they know that,” she replied, her voice earnest and sincere. “But it is natural to worry when someone you love is sick.”

“That is true,” A curious look entered his gaze as their eyes met and held.  “Is that the reason you visit me so frequently?”

She almost choked on the bite of fig she'd been about to swallow, heat flooding her cheeks.  “I...that is...” She floundered, groping for a reply that wouldn't lay herself completely bare before this boy she admired—this boy she—“You know I care for you deeply, Baldwin.” She managed at last, holding his intense stare. “You are my dearest friend.  It is only natural that I would want to check in on you, make sure you're feeling well.”

His lips widened into a grin at her fluster, “Well, as you can see, I am perfectly fine now.”

“Says the one who is bedridden,” She retorted, arching an eyebrow.

He laughed again, shaking his head. “You are incorrigible, Princess.”

“You wouldn't have me any other way.” She couldn't help but mimic his words, the warmth of his gaze spreading through her chest.

They lapsed into silence, finishing their figs. Luceria found her gaze lingering on Baldwin, tracing the gentle planes of his face gilded by the slanting rays of afternoon sunlight.

A summer-sated breeze crept through the lattice, its cool fingers stirring the curtains gently. Baldwin leaned his head back against the pillows with a contented sigh, thick golden lashes sweeping low as he surrendered to the day’s lulling tranquility. Loose strands of blonde hair fell across his forehead, his expression peaceful. He looked so content, so at ease.

Even when he was ill, there was an undeniable, evocative beauty in the sharp lines of his jawline, the full curve of his lips, the way his golden lashes fanned across his cheekbones when his eyes drifted shut.

She studied his features, memorizing the details of his face, counting every pale freckle on his cheeks. It was an act of selfish indulgence, but she couldn't help herself.

There was a glow to his skin that returned over the past few weeks, and Luceria felt as though he was almost back to the boy she knew. His strength recovered little by little, day by day.

“You should rest now, my lord,” she murmured at last.

His eyes opened slowly, regarding her with a soft, affectionate gaze. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

She hesitated, uncertain. Her pulse fluttered wildly. She wasn't sure if she could handle such proximity. It would be improper for her to accept.

“Please.”

The naked yearning in that one word undid her. With a shaky inhale, she nodded. “Hand me your prayer book,” She murmured, relenting to his request, “I'll read to you until you fall asleep.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, his gaze warm with gratitude. Extending one bandaged hand, he offered up the breviary.

She accepted the leather-bound tome, cradling it in careful hands as she sought the marked page. “Now, where were you?”

“The Canticles,” he murmured, his eyes drifting closed once more.

Ascalon, 8 July 1177

The fading sun slipped beyond the horizon, and Baldwin awoke to a chamber glowing with the soft hues of twilight. The basket of figs sat half-empty beside his bedside table.

His head throbbed—but it was nothing compared to what it used to be during his fever. He slowly roused, blinking groggily in the gathering darkness. He had not meant to fall asleep, yet Luceria’s voice had soothed his senses like balm to an open wound, and before long he found himself sinking into the deep waters of slumber.

Saints forgive him, he savored it.

With a soft yawn, he sat up, his bleary gaze falling upon the princess.

Luceria had fallen asleep as well. She was curled in her chair, legs tucked under her skirt, her head pillowed over her hands. Her breath rose and fell, soft as the evening breeze whispering through the windows. Her veil tangled with her long, blonde hair, the breviary still in her lap.

She stayed. The thought kindled a warmth beneath his ribs.

His strength had been returning these past fortnights: the wracking cough stilled, his appetite had returned, and the fever was all but gone. Yet, some selfish part of him wanted to prolong his infirmity. Just for a little while longer. Just long enough to enjoy her companionship. He did not want her to stop coming, to see less of her, to not be able to speak with her whenever he pleased.

He would gladly spend eternity by her side.

She began to turn, as though she was stirred by his thoughts. Her lashes fluttered. Blue-green eyes met his, still soft with dreams. “Baldwin?”

“I am here,” he whispered. “All is well.”

“Have I drifted off?” She asked, a soft crack in her voice as she sat up.

“It would seem so,” he replied, unable to conceal the fondness in his tone.

Rubbing her eyes, she let out a soft yawn. “Forgive me. I had not meant to fall asleep.”

“It’s quite alright.” He smiled at her, “If anything, it is I who should ask forgiveness. I had not intended to keep you for so long."

But in truth, Baldwin harbored no remorse. So long as she came to him, he would keep her here as long as he could. As long as God allowed him to.

“It is almost time for supper…” She murmured. “My father will wonder where I am if I do not return soon. And you must be weary, my lord.”

Stay with me, he wanted to say. But those words would turn this moment into something else entirely—something they could not come back from. So he bit them down instead, forcing himself to say what he must, “The hour grows late. We both need our rest.”

She combed her fingers through disheveled cloks, deftly working to pin them beneath her veil, “Will I see you tomorrow, my lord?”

He smiled. “I am sure you shall. You know where to find me.”

“Very well,” She said. He watched as she rose, placing the prayer book on the bedside table before straightening her dress with smooth hands. He took this time to commit the details to memory, knowing he would treasure this sight until the morning. She took the basket of figs back in hand, “Goodnight, Baldwin.”

“Goodnight, Luceria.”

After a lingering moment, she turned away, her footsteps softened by the plush carpets that lined the chamber floor. As the door closed quietly behind her, Baldwin found himself alone once more.

Seeking solace, he reached for the breviary, his fingers tracing the worn pages until they settled upon a familiar passage:

Psalm 42:1 As a deer longs for flowing streams, so does my soul long for you, my God.

Chapter Text

Ascalon, 10 July 1177

“Did you hear? They say the princess has been cavorting with the King.”

“Oh, that shameless harlot! She thinks she can seduce her way into the crown.”

“I hear they’ve been spending every single day together.”

“Can you imagine, a Christian princess and a leper? It's obscene.”

“I heard the king’s illness makes him…crave certain things. Maybe that's why that whore is always by his side.”

“Yet despite his...condition, one cannot deny that the King cuts quite the dashing figure. Such a shame he is cursed.”

“I think I'm going to be ill.”

“Do you think she's being forced to do this?”

“By the king, or by her father?”

“Oh I heard she left his bedchambers dreadfully late the other night. Her hair was utterly disheveled and her dress so rumpled—looked like someone had—”

“Don't. Don't even say it. Do not sully my mind with such filthy notions.”

“But what else could she have been doing there so late, if not servicing him?”

“You don't think...surely they weren't...”

“Who knows what that leper will do or ask for!”

The rumors had been circulating amongst the servants for weeks. Tidings of scandal (most unchristian) that spread like wildfire across the palace walls. Miriam’s cheeks burned as though they were branded by sin itself as she hastened through the corridors, seeking urgently for her wayward lady before ruin fell upon her.

The handmaiden’s heart tightened. Would sweet Luceria suffer as her sister Philippa had? Philippa, whose honor and prospects were ruined by the consequences of a whirlwind romance and the scandal that had followed her. The poor soul, once the jewel of Antioch, now shackled in matrimony to Lord Humphrey of Toron—a man as aged as the earth and twice as dry.

Princess Luceria, soft as a lamb, kind as summer rain, would fracture beneath such scorn. She was too naive, too innocent, too trusting. She would not be able to withstand the scrutiny or the shame.

Miriam breathed a sigh of relief once she found the girl in the palace gardens; basking in summer sun’s warmth with her legs tucked beneath her on the grass, humming as she lost herself in the pages of an old tattered book.

A picture of serenity amidst the scandal.

“Good morning, my Lady,” Miriam called, her voice gentle as so not to startle the young girl.

Luceria lifted her gaze and smile, “Good morning, Miriam.”

The handmaiden couldn’t help but smile. How the girl favored her mother, the late Princess Constance. The same golden hair, the same tilt of the chin, the same blue-green eyes. It made her heart ache, though it did give her comfort knowing that a fragment of the dear woman would live on through her beautiful daughter.

“It’s such a splendid day,” Luceria remarked wistfully, leaning back upon her palms, “We do not get days like this in Kerak.” Her fingers brushed the grass beside her as though it were velvet.

Miriam smoothed her skirts and sat beside the young girl. A pang of guilt pricked at her conscience. The princess was utterly oblivious to the gossip brewing around her. “No I suppose not.” She agreed. Ascalon’s rich gardens held a grace Kerak’s barren keep could not fathom. Fitting, she mused, for Luceria’s gentle nature.

“The southern air favors you, My Lady,” Miriam said. Gentle, ever gentle.

Luceria laughed, “Favors me?” She touched her cheek modeslty “I will admit, the climate has done wonders for my skin and hair.” She smiled, “My hair does not creackle like thorns now—thanks be to God. I could very much get used to life in Ascalon.”

“Indeed,” Miriam nodded with a soft chuckle. She clasped her hands, rough with callouses, beneath her apron. The princess had always been lovely, and it wasn’t any wonder that the court of Antioch had all fallen in love with her beauty. Lords in silks would fawn over her golden hair, knights would offer her trinkets forged from Saracen silver. At the tender age of eleven, they had been eager to court her and win her hand in marriage. Prince Bohemond had raged like Cyprus in a storm, and quickly sent the men away, one by one.

She laid a chapped palm on Luceria’s knee, “However princess, we mustn’t forget that we are only here until the King regains his health. Remember your duties, my Lady.”

The Princess’s smile faded somewhat, “Yes of course,” She agreed, yet the hint of wistfulness suggested she might prefer to never again return to Kerak. “My father has encouraged me to visit His Majesty, since he is so fond of my company.” She added quietly.

Miriam’s jaw tightened. Raynald de Chatillon cared more for his destriers than his own blood. That the leper king favored Luceria was both blessing and curse—for who could fathom the minds of those marked by God’s wrath? Baldwin’s flesh was rotting, yet his eyes wandered like any other young man’s.

A king’s rot seeks purity to cleanse it.

“You seem upset, Miriam,” Luceria chided, sunlight gilding her brows. “Has something happened?’

The handmaiden’s throat knotted. How would she warn her ward without wounding her? “Did His Majesty find the figs sweet?” She ventured, sidestepping for the moment.

The princess’s cheeks flushed, “He said they were delicious.” She dropped her gaze—feigned modesty? Or true innocence? “Do you think I could bring him more fruit from the orchard?”

Miriam’s stomach turned. “Anything for the King.”

Luceria clasped her hands—pale, unmarred, no gloves to shield her from a leper’s touch. She had always insisted Baldwin remained ever the perfect gentleman, that he was nothing if not a true knight. Miriam herself had witnessed the gifts exchanged between the two, and she had seen firsthand the tender friendship blossoming between them. Luceria had never acted any different, no less innocent, no less virtuous, no less kind.

But of late, a strange new aura seemed to emanate from the young princess, one Miriam could not quite put into words. Yet it came coupled with an unmistakable happiness, a light that sparkled in Luceria's blue-green eyes.

However, Miriam could not fully trust the king. She’d seen the sores peeking from his gloves, heard of his pustules. The boy was clearly marked—cursed by God’s own hand with that hideous contagion. What depravities might such a tainted, shunned soul be capable of indulging?

“My Lady,” Miriam began, “The other servants are growing quite concerned…” She swallowed, “That your visits…weary him.” A lie, but kinder than the truth.

“Weary him?” Luceria’s smile faltered, “Why yesterday, he trounced me at chess, more times than I can count. His squire tells me my laughter helps with his healing.”

Laughter. Miriam crossed herself. What man, leprous or not, did not crave a maiden’s sweet joy? Baldwin’s chambers remained shuttered, his physicians masked in herb-soaked linen. Yet she entered freely, and lingered for hours at his bedside.

“It’s just…Princess…He is still very ill,” The handmaiden replied slowly, “If he falls…The realm might say that your visits weakened him, my lady.” She said gently. “Do you understand what I’m trying to convey?”

“I’m aware that he is ill,” Luceria replied, bewildered. “His lung fever has been tormenting him for ages, but he is getting better every day. I don’t understand, Miriam, what are the others saying?”

Miriam sighed inwardly, frustrated by the princess's stubborn naiveté. “It is just that… It might be best to limit your time in his company,” she cautioned carefully. “For your own well-being, my lady. You may catch whatever illness he suffers from.”

Luceria’s chin lifted, regarding her handmaiden with thinly veiled impatience, “I highly doubt I would contact lung fever merely by reading to him or playing chess,” Her fingers clenched the book tightly, “I shall be fine. So there is no need to worry.”

The rebuke stung, but Miriam bent her head, grey hair escaping her coif like shame. She felt utterly frustrated by her inability to make Luceria comprehend her concerns. But it was glaringly apparent that the princess had no interest in entertaining such notions, so there seemed little point in pressing the matter further.

For now, at least, Miriam conceded.

“As my lady commands,” Miriam murmured, voice as meek as morning pottage, though her soul roiled. Patience, she counseled herself, she would wait until a more opportune moment presented itself.

Luceria snapped her book shut, and rose gracefully to her feet, using the cup of her palm to brush away the clinging blades of grass from her skirts. “I think I’ve had enough of the sun for now. I am going inside.” She stated, tone clipped. “I’ll be visiting the King shortly.”

Luceria’s cheeks were still red, her lips pressed together in a firm line, and Miriam sensed that she'd once again overstepped, said something dreadfully wrong to provoke such a reaction. The princess had been uncharacteristically sensitive on the topic of the king as of late, her usually more even temper quicker to rise whenever he was discussed. She was defensive, combative, which only suggested she harbored something to conceal. Something that hinted the swirling rumors might contain a bit of truth after all.

The idea was chilling. But she knew, with adamant certainty, that there could be no future for Luceria with the ailing King, no matter how great the affection between the two youths. For a leper was forever doomed to walk the earth alone and shunned, and the princess would have to find a different path forward.

Miriam’s fingers curled into her rough sleeves. The princess’s prospects still remained promising—the levant brimmed with men hungry for beauty and status: Barons from Beirut with fat coffers, Princes from Tiberias, even the brooding knights who lingered far too long at Luceria. All worthy. All untainted.

But Philippa’s ghost haunted her. Miriam could still smell the rags they’d used to scrub Andronikos’ seed from the girl’s thighs as they tried to protect her virtue. Philippa had wept of love, as if the word sanctified sin. Now her lord was old, and her womb barren.

Luceria deserved better than such a fate. And for her mistress’s sake, she was determined to end this sordid affair with the leper once and for all. For as long as Luceria remained unblemished, she could marry whomever she pleased. For no dowry could outbid scorn.

Yes, Luceria’s destiny lay elsewhere, and Miriam was set to steer her in the right direction.

“Please, Lord,” Miriam found herself whispering under her breath, “Watch over this child. She is still so young, so vulnerable, and this court will swallow her whole.”

Ascalon, 15 July 1177

Agnes returned Baldwin’s breviary back to its proper shelf, her lips pursed as she surveyed the chambers. Ever since that girl had been visiting him, his chambers had become a state of disarray. His chess table wedged crooked against his bedside, chairs askew, books lying open on his bed instead of neatly arranged on their shelves. The disorderly chaos made Agnes’s skin prickle with discomfort.

A pious woman prays for patience, Agnes reminded herself, crossing the room to right a candlestick.

The rumors were awful, each one worse than the last. Youthful indiscretion, they called it. Lewd jests in the dark corridors. Agnes’s throat tightened. Her dear, ill, infatuated son was the subject of such crude speculation. All because of that brazen creature who dared clamber into his sanctum. She could very well ruin him in the eyes of the kingdom forever.

That vile girl, that jezebel, was turning Baldwin’s private chambers into her own den of depravity. The sheer audacity she displayed in doing so, given her son’s position as king, was simply disgusting. The poor boy didn’t even possess the strength or autonomy to protest such a defiance of all proper etiquette and respect.

It drove Agnes mad to witness Luceria sauntering into her son's private chambers as though staking a claim on his domain. And each time Baldwin foolishly invited her back into his presence, Agnes had to physically restrain herself from marching straight to his chamber and violently dragging the infuriating whore out by her hair, kicking and screaming be damned.

As she reached to reposition the chair drawn up beside his bed, Baldwin's voice froze her mid-action.

“Mother?”

Agnes flinched, startled. Turning around, she smiled warmly at her son, roused from his afternoon slumber. His blue eyes still blinking the sleep away. “What are you doing, Mother? he asked, after covering his yawning mouth.

“Putting your things away while you were sleeping,” Agnes replied cooly, shrugging her shoulders as she slid the chair back to its place beneath Baldwin’s desk, “Your room is a mess, and the servants have been lax.” She sighed. “I just want everything neat and orderly.”

Baldwin chuckled, raising his chin to look at her. “You needn't trouble yourself, Mother. I asked the servants to leave it alone. I quite like my room as it is.”

It was unlike him to be so defiant. The way he spoke made it sound like he wanted to keep his room messy because of that girl. It was outrageous. Agnes had to grit her teeth and remind herself to smile.

“If you say so,” Agnes replied. He had been a far more agreeable boy before that viper had wormed her way into his good graces. “And how are you feeling today, my son?”

“Much better lately. I believe I'll be strong enough to rise tomorrow.” He studied Agnes's worried, concerned expression. When she grew anxious, she always sought to restore order around her.

“Take it slow, darling,” Agnes said gently, approaching to fluff his pillows. “I don't want you to suffer a setback.”

“Yes, Mother,” Baldwin replied, shifting his weight to allow her to replace his pillow. His hair had grown too long again, falling over his eyes. He kept brushing the wayward strands away as they spoke, the long locks now reaching the nape of his neck and hanging like curtains.

Agnes’s gaze snagged on his hands. In his slumber, bandages sagged, revealing knuckles raw as fresh butchery. Agnes hated seeing the illness gnawing at her handsome boy, but the signs were unmistakable.

“I hope you don’t tire of my fretting, but you know how much I fuss,” Agnes said, stepping back to survey him. “You look so pale, you poor thing.” With doting hands, she smoothed the creases from the bedsheets.

“I am no longer a child, mother. Such fussing is hardly necessary,” Baldwin snorted, a dry hollow sound. His thumb tapped the bedpost, restless as the desert wind.

“Hush, you’ll always be my beautiful boy,” She cooed, brushing a stray lock from his brow. “How did I ever manage to raise such a fine, strapping man?”

Baldwin rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile. “I can scarcely be considered ‘fine’ after lying in bed for months on end.”

Agnes laughed, “It seems like only yesterday I was cradling you in my arms. Those were some of the happiest days of my life, you know.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement, “You mean when I cried and shat myself constantly? Yes, I can only imagine what a joyous time that must have been.”

“And when did you acquire such a crass sense of humor? Are we living in a stable now?” She shook her head in reproving clicks of her tongue. Agnes could scarcely imagine her son speaking so crudely in the presence of that princess, but he was still very much a man at his core. “Actually, do not answer that. I know how desperately you’d prefer the stench of a stable over this palace.”

Try as he might to maintain a somber expression, Baldwin couldn’t quite suppress the snort of laughter that erupted in his nostrils. But the bark of laughter ended in a wince, his hands curling protectively over his ribs.

“Enough jests,” He rasped, still chuckling. “I will go mad if I don’t walk the gardens by the week’s end.”

“We must heed your physician’s guidance. You’re fortunate to be alive.” Agnes paused, reaching for the lone book on his nightstand, one that had belonged to Amalric. Tristan and Iseult. Ribbons left inside that marked the most wretched passages.

“You read this filth?” Her thumb hovered over an illustration of entwined lovers, their inked faces blurred by some past reader’s tears. “I didn’t know you enjoyed such romantic tales.”

“I don’t. Not really.” Baldwin quickly protested, his cheeks flushing red. “But I thought Luceria might find it interesting, so i lent it to her.” He averted his gaze, back stiffening as he defended himself.

Luceria. Agnes’s ears pricked up at the name. Were they that familiar with each other now?

“Oh. Is that so?” Agnes arched a brow before setting the book aside. She had cautioned her son time and time again about developing an attachment with the girl. And yet, her warnings seemed to fall on deaf ears. The princess certainly had a pretty face, but otherwise, Agnes saw nothing special in her. No reason for her son to obsess so.

“It seems you’ve been keeping rather close company with the princess lately.” She said, arms folded across her chest.

Baldwin coughed, pulling the sheets tighter around himself. “Well, she is our guest, Mother.” He replied defensively. “And her father is my appointed regent. It would be rude for me to just ignore her.”

It was a flimsy excuse. They both knew it. Agnes decided not to push the matter further—to fight would be useless.

The change in him was undeniable—his smiles, his lighthearted laughter. Where illness once bowed him, a new fire kindled. Swift looks, daring looks, the reckless tilt of a chin not yet scarred. It terrified her, this boldness. Kings needed to rule with caution, not the bravado of boys drunk on their first taste of love.

She knew this hunger in him. The aching want for soft hands, kinder whispers than God’s. But Luceria? She was no more than an infantile, naive, sheltered child, who could not begin to grasp the complexity of her son’s needs.

And more damningly, Luceria was the daughter of Raynald de Chatillon.

Not that Agnes bore the man any particular ill will, but he was an opportunist—an aggressive one at that. The sort who would stoop to the lowest levels if it granted him a chance to climb up a rung. It was his greed and lust for power that had led to his imprisonment. What better tool than a daughter to press against Baldwin’s weakening grip?

The kingdom’s fate was far too precious to entrust to such disappointingly fragile shoulders.

“Perhaps there is something you could occupy yourself with now that you are regaining your strength, my dear son,” Agnes settled at the bed’s edge, carefully avoiding disturbing him. “Something more suited to your restless mind.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“I shall send your scribe up tomorrow,” Agnes replied with careful emphasis, “It is important that mind of yours remains sharp.”

Baldwin grimaced. “Your solution to my restlessness is…paperwork?”

“Correspondence,” She corrected with a smile, “You need to start writing back to the scrolls accumulated in your study. There are many people waiting on word from the king of Jerusalem.”

He sighed, but finally relented. “I suppose that sounds agreeable, Mother.”

“Good.” Agnes rose, satisfied with herself. It would do Baldwin no good to be up and about while he was still so weakened, chasing skirts instead of tending to matters of state. This was the perfect solution to keep him out of trouble until he recovered more fully. “I’ll have your servants bring up your supper directly.”

“Mother,” Baldwin called out, making her pause mid-step.

“Yes, dear?” She turned, favoring him with a bemused smile.

“Before you go, will you please return that chair to where it was?” He gestured sheepishly with a bandaged hand.

That chair. That damned chair. Where the princess perched daily, in that very same spot. Agnes’s nails bit into her palms. She could already see her lounging there, laughing, the girl’s cloying perfume clinging to the wood.

But Baldwin was still so terribly unwell, there was little Agnes could do or say without appearing needlessly cruel. So she gritted her teeth, forcing a smile to mask her irritation, as she dragged the chair back into its previous position—with perhaps too much force, causing it to scrape noisily against the floor.

She would need to act soon before things progressed beyond her ability to control. If the rumors were true, and that harlot was spreading her legs for her sickly son, then steps needed to be taken quickly.

“Thank you mother,” Baldwin called as she exited the chambers.

For what? she nearly spat. Humoring your delusions? But she inclined her head, mother to king.

Ascalon, 17 July 1177

A crisp rap of knuckles against wood drew William of Type’s attention from the clutter of parchments strewn across his desk. “Enter,” He commanded, rising to his feet. The door groaned open, revealing Anselm—Baldwin’s squire and a serjeant of the Lazar Knights. William had handpicked him for the role years prior, valuing the man’s steady sword and steadier heart. Though the man’s tawny hair and keen blue eyes lent him the look of a restless hawk.

“Your Excellency,” Anselm bowed respectfully, “His Majesty requests your presence after the evening meal.”

William chuckled, “Ah, so the King has finally deigned to make time for an old man’s counsel, has he?”

Anselm’s lips twitched into a polite, if somewhat strained grin, “His attentions have been…occupied as of late, Your Grace.”

The Archbishop sighed. The Princess Luceria. Baldwin’s fondness for the girl was whispered from every hall from Jerusalem to Acre. Yet William could scarcely begrudge the boy some joy.

“He seems livelier, does he not?” He observed, recalling the many times he had found those two engrossed in conversation, oblivious to the world around them. “I have not seen our King so vibrant in far too long a time.”

“Aye. The fevers trouble him less, and he laughs again.” The squire’s tone softened. “The King has requested to play chess again this evening. I haven’t seen him take much interest in such activities since…well, since before he fell ill.”

“God save us all from a bored monarch,” William chuckled, “It is good that the boy has found something to amuse himself with.”

“His skill remains wanting,” Anselm sighed, “The Princess has been introducing him to her Byzantine tile games. He plays his hopes plain upon his face.”

William barked out a hearty laugh at that. “The boy has never been one to hide his heart upon his sleeve. That much is certain.”

For a moment, the archbishop felt a wave of relief. Baldwin had endured too much hardship for one so young. It warmed William’s heart to see Baldwin find some semblance of joy, even if it was fleeting.

“I’m glad to hear that his majesty is happy,” William continued, “It’s been a long time since he’s known such contentment.”

”As am I Archbishop,” Anselm said, though his brow furrowed. “I do worry, however. The princess does spend a lot of time in his bedchamber. It is my duty to ensure his safety, but…”

“You fear the court’s whispers.”

“Aye,” Anselm sighed, “I cannot ignore them. Men forgive a sword’s blow faster than court gossip.” He frowned, “The princess is…untested in these things. Were her honor questioned—”

“It would wound Baldwin twice over,” William finished. Leprosy had taken the boy’s health, and slander might claim what remained. He studied Anselm, “We can trust the boy to understand the gravity of the situation. He has shown remarkable maturity, considering his age.”

Anselm shook his head, “I trust His Majesty’s judgement without reservation. It’s the princess whose innocence I fear may be shamed.”

“You judge the girl too harshly.” William chuckled.

“I judge the court, Your Grace.” Anselm replied sharply.

William could not disagree with the assessment. When news of Montferatt's death reached Italy, rumors began to spread that the young Lord had been poisoned b y his wife. And though Princess Sibylla had been nothing but in love with her husband, the possibility of foul play lingered in the mouths of many.

Such was the effect of an unchecked rumor.

“Lady Luceria is young and inexperienced, yes,” William conceded. “But she reminds me of her mother. Or at least how her mother used to be.”

Anselm’s helm rested at his hip, its dents marred by the wars of lesser men, “You knew Princess Constance, then?”

A wistful smile touched the archbishop’s lips. “Once, in a bygone era. When she was still a young woman. Her beauty was so renowned that suitors from across the Levant flocked to her court for the chance to win her hand. By God, even Manuel Komnenos offered his throne and empire, if only she’d grace his bed.”

“The Byzantine Emperor?” Anselm’s mouth hung open, “And yet she chose Raynald de Chatillon?”

“Not quite yet,” William chuckled, “She first met Raymond of Poitiers. They say he arrived from England cloaked as a merchant just to woo the princess. I believe Constance was quite taken with his boldness, and it did help that he looked like the epitome of earthly nobility. He had staged an abduction and by Easter, he spirited her to the Holy Cathedral under the pretense of prayer. They married there in secret.”

“And the Emperor?” Anselm chuckled. God’s balls, Constance had been brazen.

“Married Constance’s eldest later on,” William shrugged, “I suppose he never quite recovered from the loss. He had been quite taken with her, you see, and it was not often that an Emperor lost the object of their affections to another man.” It was ironic that Manuel spurned Melisende of Tripoli for Constance’s doppelganger.

“It all worked out then? Constance and Raymond?”

“For a time, yes. Raymond rallied Antioch’s armies, mocked Saracen envoys…until Nur ad-Din’s men found his throat at Inab.” William shook his head, “His head was served to the Caliph in a silver box. Constance barricaded herself in the north tower, they say, and locked herself away for a year and a day. When she finally emerged, she was a changed woman…Much colder, much more cynical.”

“A poor reward for love.” Anselm muttered.

“It is truly a tragic thing, to lose one’s soulmate so abruptly,” William sighed, “But the worst was yet to come.”

“Is this when she crossed paths with Lord Chatillon?”

The archbishop’s lips twitched, “Even now, I wonder—did grief blind her, or did she simply clutch at that man because he so happened to be there? Royally born, yet she wed a man whose blood ran no bluer than a marauder’s.”

“A pauper knight!” Anselm exclaimed. “How in the world did such an impoverished lord manage to seduce royalty?”

“Ha. Raynald was no pauper,” William corrected him. “A pauper lacks the ambition. That man? He hungered for land, swords, titles. And he was comely then, with a temper to match. Baldwin III raged when Constance spurned all the noble suitors for that upstart Lord.”

“He must have been something else indeed,” Anselm said, admiring.

William sighed, “I hold no love for that man. Constance defied the King until he blessed the union. Let her choke on her choice, he had told me. But Rayland was…unexpectedly patient. For a time.”

“Patient?” Anselm was shocked, “The man who sacked Cyprus and spat on truces?”

“In Antioch’s first years under his command, he reclaimed three fortresses from the Aleppans, reaffirmed privileges of the Venetian merchants, and—at the request of Manuel—defeated the Armenians.”

“Then why do you withhold your approbation, Your Grace?” Anselm asked, clearly baffled.

“For every triumph, there is an atrocity,” William’s thumb traced the rosaries at his belt. “We’ve condemned him long before Cyprus. Have you heard of Aimery of Limoges?”

“The Patriarch who dared rebuke him?”

“The very same. Raynald had bludgeoned him mercilessly, smeared his wounds with honey, and left the poor old man to the mercy of the sun for swarms of insects to feast on. Baldwin III’s envoys found the man half-mad, flesh crawling with gnats.”

“By the Lord’s grace, that is despicable!” Anselm’s complexion paled, “I would not wish that on my worst enemy.”

“Nor would I,” William sighed, “This is not a man with a conscience. Or with the ability to show mercy.”

“Surely Princess Constance disapproved of such acts.”

“Constance signed every edict. Her endorsement was present in all Lord Raynald’s decrees. Trust me, lad, she knew.”

“Surely not! That is…That is barbaric.”

“I know boy, I know.” William tsked. “But that is how Raynald de Chatillon operates, and we must never forget it. He is a cunning, violent man who will do anything to get what he wants. And now Baldwin had made him regent.”

“Is there not something we can do?” Anselm protested, “Surely the King must be made aware of Lord Raynald’s transgressions.”

William chuckled, “I forget this is the first time you serve the royal court directly. This is Outremer. We sup with devils and christens butcher lords if they hold the ramparts. Baldwin is well-versed in the extent of Raynald’s sins. Yet when the Saracens storm Jerusalem’s gates, you would still rather have that madman at his right hand than any other.”

The squire frowned, “Would they say that if he burns convents?”

“Convents will burn without him,” The archbishop said coldly, “Sibylla cannot lead men to war, and her husband is dead. The rest of the court squabbles over petty gossip and who’ll inherit Baldwin’s throne. And Raynald?” He folded his arms, “He will slit babies in cradles to keep the True Cross from Infidels hands. We cannot afford to alienate one of the few battle-proven strategists left.”

“Still…to leave our kingdom upon the integrity of such a man,” Anselm could not help his frown, “It just seems unwise, Your Grace.”

“Desperate times breed desperate alliances, I fear,” William conceded with a tired sigh, “Though you are correct. Do not fret, the King is already looking for a more…permanent solution to this problem. Lord Chatillon will not be in power forever.”

“I am relieved to hear that,” Anselm said, “But if I may speak, what of the princess?”

William's countenance fell at the mention of the young princess, “Raynald will bleed her youth for every drop of advantage… A pawn for his greed, possibly wed to some witless baron…unless wiser minds intervene.”

“And what of the King?”

“My son, Baldwin has a good heart, but also a sharp mind for one so young,” William assured the squire, “If the situation should take a turn, I believe he will act accordingly. We can only pray that such acts are not required.”

“May God grant us a miracle,” Anselm murmured, “It has been nice to see him happy, at least. I pray the princess can continue to bring him some peace.”

“Perhaps I am a dreamer, but I choose to have faith that their bond runs strong enough to withstand whatever trials the fates may have in store.”

Anselm seemed only partially reassured. “I pray you are correct, Your Grace.”

William reached out, giving the younger man’s shoulder a comforting pat. “If they had been born in better circumstances, in a gentler age, perhaps their paths would have unfolded differently. But as it is…” He exhaled heavily. “I cannot decide if the fates have been merciful or cruel in this case.”

“Meaning what?” Anselm asked, brow furrowing once more.

“Meaning their relationship is theirs alone to forge. And no amount of meddling or manipulation will change that.”

Anselm could only nod as the archbishop’s words settled over him. “I suppose you’re right, Archbishop.” He exhaled a weary sigh, “But still, I pray their ending is a happy one.

The archbishop turned his face to the crucifix as he prepared himself to meet with the King. “In this realm, lad, happy is a word scribes scratch on tombs. Pray instead that their ending matters.”

Chapter Text

Ascalon, 25 July 1177

Baldwin watched under the arch of his window as Luceria rode her black palfrey out of the inner courtyard, her veil whipping behind her like a blue banner in the breeze. Her hands clutched the reins with practiced ease, her posture relaxed and confident. She was a natural equestrian; as graceful on horseback as she was on foot.

A breath escaped him, part admiration, part ache.

He had pulled up a plush chair and seated himself beside the window, content for now to simply observe her from afar. It had been over a week since they had last shared words—days now measured in ledgers and seals rather than chess games she had yet to win or her laughter. Their friendship had grown deeper during his weeks of convalescence, but with him regaining strength, his time was no longer his own.

Was it Christian to mourn such temporal loss?

Petitions and treaties lay scattered across his desk. Necessary work, holy work—deals to oversee, judgements to be made, resources and funds to be allocated. Yet it was mind-numbing and tedious. And he still could not leave his chambers. To make matters worse, rather than the soothing presence of the Antiochene princess, he now had a scribe by his bedside.

It’s not that he was complaining about the workload. These matters required his utmost attention, and Baldwin attended to his sovereign duties with diligence. All was ordained, all was ordered, and all things considered his realm was blessedly peaceful at present. Yet in the quiet between prayers and signatures, his thoughts strayed endlessly to her.

Baldwin chastised himself even as his heart rebelled. It was pathetic to pine so. He had been doing well all these years to ignore the gnawing emptiness in his soul. But this girl. This foreign variable in an otherwise neatly ordered equation, upsetting the balance and challenging the assumptions. The way he could come undone with a single glance, the way he lost himself in her eyes. Her smile.

But a king’s marriage was treaty, not romance. Thus had the Patriarch instructed him, and thus would it ever be, particularly for one whose mortal flesh bore God’s own mark. To bind such innocence to the indignities of his condition? It was unthinkable.

He could barely tolerate the indignities himself.

So what would it hurt to indulge in the simple fantasy of it? To fantasize about how happy he could become, living under the same roof and enjoying an unending stream of pleasant evenings by the fire? About waking up with her in his arms, and drifting off to sleep surrounded by the gentle whisper of her breath?

The daydream was harmless, after all, so long as he was careful not to cross the line…

He let slip a breath and tilted his head against the chair, mindful of the ache that plagued his neck. The skin underneath his bandages itched horribly. Earlier that morning, his physician had clucked over the wounds and Baldwin had to turn his eyes away, not from fear, but from the tediousness of it all. He ran a gloved hand absently across his chest.

How much longer, Lord? The treatments, the poultices, the never-ending scrutiny. It was becoming suffocating. Baldwin felt the weight of the gazes more than he did the crown. Even during the brief reprieve afforded him at night, Baldwin could not find a moment’s peace. His mother, the Lady Agnes, descended upon his chambers unannounced. She would stay for hours, fussing over him, chiding him, and making a nuisance of herself.

He knew that she did it out of love and concern, but her attentions were becoming increasingly stifling. And her timing, he noted, was perversely impeccable. Always arriving just as his scribes dispersed, ensuring no accidental audience with Luceria.

And he hadn’t seen Luceria. Not for days.

It was maddening.

A sharp knock startled him from his musics, and Baldwin scowled.

“Enter.”

“Ah, Your Grace, I had hoped to find you in better spirits,” The archbishop’s voice called from the other end of the door.

“William.” Baldwin’s irritation softened to a smile. The older man’s presence, more comforting than the scribblings of his scribe, spared him yet another audience with his mother or her scheming council. “Please, come. Sit.”

“Thank you sire,” William inclined his head politely as he entered, closing the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Baldwin said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. He had not been sleeping well. “The fever has broken. Now I must contend with my own impatience than the illness.”

“I am glad to hear it, Sire.” William said, pulling up a chair and seated himself in front of the king. “Your condition has had the entire court on edge. It is good to see you back among the living.”

Baldwin chuckled dryly, “Not quite yet, Archbishop. But soon, I hope.”

“Well, you certainly are dressed for the part.” William assessed Baldwin’s attire. The young King was fully dressed: his tunic pressed and clean, his blonde hair freshly trimmed. And on his feet were his riding boots, polished to a high shine.

Baldwin’s cheeks colored at the observation. “The boots were the Princess’s idea,” He confessed. “She thought having them on might make me feel more like myself, even if I can’t ride just yet.”

“And? Has it worked?

“Truthfully?” A smile tugged at Baldwin’s lips. “A little silly. But I admit, it is nice being up and properly dressed for a change. Even if I’m still confined to my own chambers.”

“I know if you could, you would be on your horse,” William replied sympathetically. “But it won’t be long now, Your Grace. Your Physicians have informed me that your strength is returning daily.”

“As long as I’m not bedridden for much longer,” Baldwin chuckled. “I believe I’m growing mad.”

A summer’s breeze ruffled the scattered parchment’s on Baldwin’s desk, and William crossed the chamber to gather them. He shook his head. “I can see why, Sire.” He said, stacking the papers. “Your desk looks much like mine on a normal day. Truly your diligence shames us all.”

“Diligence?” Baldwin sighed, “Unfortunately, it seems even fever is not enough to earn a King a respite from his duties.” He shook his head. “Lord Raynald has acquired my other duties, but I can’t seem to catch a break from the paperwork.”

Rising from his chair with visible effort, he walked to his desk and reached for an unopened scroll, examining the seal. A lion. “This one is new. Perhaps Anselm brought it in while I was resting.”

The older man took the rolled parchment in his hands and stared at it, “My boy, is this not the seal of Flanders?”

“Philip,” Baldwin said out of surprise. He broke the seal with care. His cousin from his father’s side had taken the cross upon learning of Almaric’s cousin and had vowed to come to aid the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But as the years dragged on, Baldwin simply assumed his cousin had forgotten his oath.

“He anchors in Acre,” Baldwin said, barely containing the growing smile on his face. “And he has brought us an army.”

William’s brow raised. “Well, this is certainly welcome news, Sire.”

“Isn’t it.” Baldwin could not hide his excitement. “William, perhaps God is looking favorably on our Kingdom at last.”

Ascalon, 26 July 1177

So it was back to this then.

Back to being turned away by his guards. Back to trying to catch a glimpse of him from the window, hoping he would look up so that she could give him an awkward wave. Back to wondering what he was thinking, if he was well, if he missed her.

But Baldwin was perpetually too occupied with the burdens of ruling to spare her an audience.

So days had passed. Days of riding Hosanna, of embroidering the same square inch of linen. She had even attempted to teach Humphrey to play chess, which had been an exercise in futility as much as boredom. And as the days stretched on, Luceria began to wonder if her friendship with the king had only been the product of fevered dreams, if the connection between them had been nothing more than the delirious imaginings of an infirm boy.

It was maddening.

“Concentrate, My Lady,” Sister Beatrice scolded her impatiently. Luceria did not realize that her mind had wandered yet again, that her gaze had drifted towards the window overlooking Baldwin’s wing. “The versus of Damasus, please,” Her tutor commanded impatiently. She was an ancient creature, and her voice was as weathered and cracked as her hands.

“Qui gradiens pelagi…” She began, tracing the letters with the tip of her finger. She had read and recited the passage so many times she knew it by heart. “...fluctus compressit amaros...” She continued, but her thoughts drifted back to the king's chamber. Was he on the other end, listening to their recitations? Did his thoughts wander like hers?

The scripture was meant to teach faith, but Luceria had already mastered that virtue. It was patience she was lacking. And so the words tumbled out of her mouth, but their meaning eluded her. Her eyes returned to the window.

If I were his wife—the thought came to her, sudden and startling—If I were his wife we could be riding together at this very moment.

“Post cineres Damasum faciet quia surgere credo!” Sister Beatrice’s rod struck the desk, jolting her. She did not even realize she had stopped reciting. “Do you take Holy Father Damasus’ words for jest? Explain the line!”

Luceria’s thoughts were not on the Lord’s teachings, however. They were on the King. The handsome, young King. His smile, his laughter. His eyes, his lips. She felt her cheeks redden at the thought.

“Princess! The meaning of the passage, please!”

“After his ashes,” She stuttered, trying to collect herself. “After his ashes, I believe he will arise.” She said quickly, her heart racing.

“Correct. But your attention wonders, My Lady,” The nun chided. “Take care pride does not sour your devotion.” 

Luceria bowed her head. Pride? No. It was longing. Longing to ride beside him again, to converse loosely without the burden of courtly manners. Why did she fantasize of such things?

It was ridiculous. It was him she longed for. Him, not just his company. His attention, his affection. She had tried to be content with his friendship. Hadn’t that been enough? But even as she asked the question, she knew the answer.

No. A thousand times, no.

She turned back to the desk and stared down at the text in front of her. “It seems I’m in need of more prayer.” She confessed, but it was another who consumed her thoughts. It was another who stole her breath, another who haunted her dreams.

If I were his wife no one would keep us apart.

Ascalon, 27 July 1177

How many suns had set since they last spoke? A thousand, a million?

It certainly felt like an eternity to the young king whose eyes were trained at the full moon. The stars burned around it, each one seeming to mock him. Baldwin sat hunched over his desk, cradling a steaming cup of medicinal broth as he stared out at the darkness beyond his window.

She was there somewhere. Within the palace walls.

Close, yet impossibly far.

A sigh escaped him, weary as his mother rambled on. Her words faded into a dull murmur, barely registering in his fever-addled mind. To feign interest would demand strength he no longer possessed.

“...and Sibylla insists on having the babe delivered in Jerusalem. ” Agnes prattled on, her fingers fretting at her rosary. “A Nativity birth, no less! The priests say it's a most fortuitous sign—a princeborn in the blessed Chistmastide.” Her voice lifted, as though expecting him to share in her enthusiasm.

“God’s will be done,” Baldwin murmured. The reply was rote, dust-dry.

“We must secure a good midwife,” She continued, seemingly oblivious of his disinterest. “I must make arrangements to have the best summoned from Jaffa. Lady Agatha may have a few recommendations—though I wonder if the sisters at Bethany might…”

Baldwin raised the cups to his lips, and he grimaced as the bitter tonic assaulted his tastebuds and seared his tongue. Even after months of consuming the vile concoction, he could scarcely accustom himself to its pungent flavor. As he forced the liquid down, he couldn’t help but think that Luceria would hate it too, given her penchant for sugary delights.

Luceria.

Everything made him think of her. It was driving him mad.

Perhaps, when affairs of state permitted, he might beg Anselm to clear out his day and send for the princess. No councilors. No disruptive family. Only the two of them, sharing in quiet conversation over a game of chess. Perhaps he could even ask the kitchen to make her favorite pastries. Would that please her? Would that coax a smile from her fair lips?

He sighed, his gaze returning to the sky. He wondered if she was looking at the same stars.

“You are awfully quiet tonight.” His mother observed.

“Forgive me, Mother,” Baldwin replied, mustering a faint smile, “I’m merely tired from making the necessary preparations for the journey back to Jerusalem.”

“Jerusalem!” Her tone grew shrill, “You cannot mean to travel while you’re still recovering.”

“Mother—”

“No.” She raised a hand, “You are in no condition to leave. It would be foolish to put yourself at risk! And you’re just starting to regain your strength.”

“I won’t be riding,” He argued, “I intend to travel by horse litter. And my physician will be riding beside me.”

“Absolutely not,” Agnes retorted, lips pursed into a frown, “Even a day’s ride in a litter would drain you and make you relapse.”

“Count Philip awaits me,” He pressed, fingers tightening on his cup. “The Haute Cour must convene. Would you have me rule from my sickbed?”

“Let the court crawl to Ascalon then! Must you be so eager to play the martyr?” Her voice cracked, “What matter could be so pressing that you would risk your life?”

Baldwin heaved a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. He already knew that she would not approve. “…I intend to name Philip regent.”

“Regent?” Agnes gasped, aghast, “Have you lost your mind? Your cousin has no claim to the throne! I can understand entrusting Raynald with the regency, but Philip? We know nothing about his true character! Mind I remind you that Sibylla carries the true heir? To hand her fate—our fate—to a stranger…” She shook her head, “This is madness.”

“I have little choice, Mother,” Baldwin wearily retorted. “The situation with the Saracens grows worse by the day. My illness has cost us precious time, and no one can say how long it will take me to fully recover. Or how much of my life remains.” The last part was becoming harder for him to admit. “Sibylla does not wish to entertain suitors until the end of her mourning period, and who can fault her for that? Yet who knows what will happen while we wait for her to be ready? Philip brings men! And if he can preserve the Kingdom’s safety until my sister is prepared to be wed again, then I shall name him regent.”

“No,” Agnes hissed. “I forbid it. You have no authority to abdicate your sacred duty.”

“Mother, I do not wish to die.” He whispered, and he could tell from her eyes that his words had struck her. He did not like it when she was upset, so worried for him. “But that is a possibility we must confront. And, should I pass earlier than we’d like, I want to leave behind a Kingdom that will prosper. Count Philip’s arrival is a blessing. Lord Raynald is divisive, and a civil war could brake between my sisters or Count Raymond over the succession. I will not have this kingdom descend into chaos over the crown.”

“Do not utter such blasphemous words.” His mother snapped, her voice trembling. “Do not even entertain the notion of your death. God will give us a miracle. You shall recover and rule this kingdom for many years to come.”

“I need to be realistic, Mother.” He sighed, swallowing another sip of the bitter tonic. “I am not invincible. And even if I recover from this fever, there is no cure for leprosy. If my physicians are correct, it will only be a matter of time before I end up forever bedridden, or blind. And that is not a legacy I wish to leave behind.”

“Nonsense,” Agnes scoffed, but he could see the anxiety in her eyes, “You shall not perish. And you shall not abdicate the throne. This discussion is over.”

“You are stubborn as ever, mother.” Baldwin sighed, “Far too stubborn. I shall be traveling to Jerusalem, and you cannot change my mind.”

“I already told you that I will not allow it.” Agnes’s expression hardened. “I am your mother, and you shall abide by my will.”

“That may be so,” Baldwin agreed, “But I am still the king.”

“So you would defy me and risk courting death itself?” He could see the tears form in her eyes which made him wince. “Your sister and the entire kingdom shall suffer the consequences of your childish selfishness!”

“I need to do what is necessary for Outremer.” He could not leave any more room for arguments. He would not have it. Baldwin was too tired of this. “You may not agree with my decisions, but I am not changing my mind.”

“Fine.” His mother turned away to compose herself. When she spoke again, her voice was cold as winter wind. “You will not see to reason, and I cannot stop you. But you will not do it without me. I will be traveling with you to Jerusalem.”

Baldwin was stunned. He had not expected her to give in so easily. Or at all. “You…will?”

“Yes, I will,” She affirmed, her blue eyes boring into his own. “If you insist on behaving as a fool, then I shall be present to look after you and ensure your physicians are dosing you properly. And if I cannot prevent this madness, then I shall bear witness to it with my own eyes.

Baldwin nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips at the words of his overbearing, overprotective, loving mother.

Ascalon, 28 July 1177

With a gentle hand upon the bridle of her black palfrey, Luceria guided Hosanna towards the stables. This ride in Ascalon would be her last for some time, and the princess intended to savor every moment of it. She would miss the coastal city. There was something about it that soothed her soul.

Yet, something was gnawing at her. Her father had informed them that they would be travelling to Jerusalem on the morrow, though he did not divulge the reason. The summons of the Haute Cour, he said, brooked no delay. Even Bohemond had been commanded to attend—a fact which troubled her deeply.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her gut. What grave affair could demand her brother’s presence? No small matter, surely. Hosanna, as though sharing her disquiet, snorted and stamped. Luceria paused to stroke the mare’s velvet ears like she was comforting a fretful child.

She dreaded to think that the worst might have happened—that King’s fever had returned. Baldwin had assured her he would make a full recovery, the physicians had all concurred, and she had even witnessed his recovery with her own eyes? Why the urgent need to convene? What news awaited them in the Holy City?

Halting abruptly, she saw a groom attending a chestnut Arabian she knew well—Asad. Nearby stood a wheelless carriage, draped in various silks and cushions. Anselm stood next to it, deep in conversation with another servant. Luceria’s brows knit.

What on earth was this about?

Curiosity getting the best of her, she approached them. A gentle pull on Hosanna’s reins brought the palfrey forward. “Anselm?” She inquired, “Pray tell, what is going on?”

“God’s grace upon you, Princess,” the squire replied, bowing his head respectfully. “I had hoped to find you here.”

“Indeed, sir,” She responded, though her gaze lingered on the litter. “Anselm, what is all this?”

The squire rapped one hand on the side of its structure and chuckled, “Well, my lady. This here is a horse litter.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The squire enjoyed being humorous, a quality Baldwin was very much fond of. But today, Luceria had no patience for this jokes. “Why is it being strapped to Asad?”

“I suppose His Majesty has not yet had the opportunity to inform you of his plans,” Anselm mused. His expression turned serious once more. “His Majesty departs for Jerusalem at dawn.”

Luceria stiffened. Baldwin, who rode as fast as the wind itself, riding in a litter? Something grave must have transpired if he meant to make the taxing journey to Jerusalem. She wracked her mind for an explanation but could think of none.

Anselm must have sensed her distress because he offered his hand to take Hosanna’s reins. “Please don’t worry yourself too much, my lady. His Majesty shall be in good hands throughout the journey.”

She declined with a shake of her head, fingers trembling against the palfrey’s neck. “That eases my heart. Thank you.” She urged Hosanna gently, “Here, Hosanna. Let us get you back inside.”

“Once you are done, my lady, I have been instructed by His Highness to send for you.” Anselm gently called after her.

Luceria blinked, surprised, but she did not let the emotions betray her voice. “Is he not terribly busy today?”

“He insisted he was preoccupied with a most pressing matter that only you could help him with.” The squire smirked. “Something about a game of chess with a princess?”

She chuckled, “Did he now?”

“Most certainly.” Anselm grinned, “I was also told to tempt said princess with honey cakes to ensure her presence.”

She shook her head in amusement, “My, what a generous King you serve.”

“You ought not to keep him waiting,” Anselm gave her a playful wink before turning back to focus on his task at hand.

In his chambers, Baldwin was already waiting for her by his chess table. He was fully dressed in long silks with his hair neatly combed. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, but they brightened as they found hers. “Princess,” He breathed, rising from the high-backed chair, “Thank you for joining me.”

“It’s always an honor, Your Majesty,” She curtsied respectfully. She did not know why she was feeling so flustered when her gaze met his.

“Enough of that,” He chided gently, “None of the formalities please. I’ve grown too accustomed to calling you simply by name.” His voice lowered as he smiled warmly. “There is no one else around, Luceria.” He gestured towards the table; already laid out with a set of chess pieces and a platter of desserts.

Luceria clasped her hands as she took in the mouthwatering sight—nougats drizzled with honey, compotes brimming with ripe fruit, and warm honey cakes with golden crusts. “These are my favorite.” She exclaimed.

“Are they now?” Baldwin raised his brows innocently. “I must confess, I was entirely unaware.”

“You’re a dreadful liar, Baldwin,” She laughed, “Though I suppose I shall forgive you this once.”

“My gratitude, dear princess,” He grinned.

Her gaze fell upon the all-too-familiar chessboard. “Shall we play then?” She challenged.

Baldwin nodded eagerly and Luceria took the seat opposite him. “I have truly missed these games, Luceria.” The king murmured. “Though I fear today’s game will end as all the others do. But perhaps I’ll grant you some mercy and let you win a game or two.”

Luceria couldn’t help but laugh at his antics. “Perhaps you won’t find me such an easy opponent this time, My King,” She grinned. “I’ve been practicing.” She reached for one of the honey cakes, taking a slow bite.

“Have you now?” Baldwin raised a skeptical brow, leaning closer against the table, “Is that why you haven’t been visiting me?” There was a hint of playful accusation in his tone.

The jest struck her worse than he intended, forcing her to stop mid-bite. “I’ve been trying, Your Grace, but you’ve been ever so preoccupied with the Kingdom.” A tinge of sadness—and annoyance—crept into her voice.

A look of remorse crossed his face. “…Yes, of course.” He murmured, lowering his gaze. “Forgive me, Luceria. These few days have been…taxing. And I fear my attention has been scattered.”

“I know,” She said, her voice growing softer. She sensed there was more he wanted to say, but she didn’t want to press him. Not when he already carried such a heavy burden. “You needn’t apologize for your duties, Baldwin. I understand.”

“Even so it hasn’t been fair to you,” He glanced up, “You’ve just…You’ve brought so much joy to my life recently. And I feel I haven’t expressed that enough. So for that, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Her breath hitched. Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. Never had a man spoken to her so openly, so honestly. For a moment, she dared believe he harbored true affection for her.

“Th-thank you, Baldwin,” She stammered, her eyes shimmering with a vulnerability she hadn’t intended to reveal. “Truly, it means a great deal to hear you say that. I’m…incredibly grateful you consider me a friend.” She shifted awkwardly in her chair, willing her racing heart to calm. But his eyes gazed upon her, crinkled at the corners, and she couldn’t help but notice how lovely they were.

How was it possible that everything about him, from his demeanor to his mannerisms, was so utterly charming?

Don’t be a fool. She scolded herself. Reading too much into his kind words—a silly infatuation, nothing more.

She finished eating her cake and brushed the crumbs from her lap. Steeling her nerves, she ventured, “Anselm tells me you’re joining the procession for Jerusalem. Is that true?”

“It is, yes.” Baldwin visibly relaxed at the shift in topic, “The Haute Cour must convene, and it’s vital that I’m present.”

“May I ask why?” She tilted her head.

“I’m afraid not. At least, not until the court reaches a verdict.” He replied with an apologetic smile. “I know it seems odd that I’d travel for some such reasons but…” He hesitated. “It’s difficult to explain until the decision is made.”

“But surely a convocation such as this one could take place anywhere?”

He chuckled, “That’s what my mother thought as well. The situation is…complicated, Luceria. I can’t say much more.”

She frowned. She wasn’t a part of the High Court, and thus wasn't privy to the dealings of state, but she was no fool. The timing of the gathering, the urgency with which he had to be present, all pointed to an ominous conclusion. And she had to know, lest her worry drive her mad. “Is it because of your illness? Are you in pain?”

“I told you not to fret over me, Princess,” His teased. “You’ve proven to be quite the worrier.”

“And you’re proving to be quite evasive.” There was a slight whine in her voice that she wanted to suppress. “Please, Baldwin. I just want to understand. You cannot stop me from worrying if you refuse to give me answers.”

With a weary sigh, Baldwin’s shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had settled upon them once more. “Luceria, I ask you to trust me when I say I’m fine.” He stressed. “This journey is simply a necessity. An unavoidable political decision. That’s all.”

“That’s it?”

“I know it’s not an adequate explanation,” He said, running a hand through his golden locks. His eyes sought hers, begging her to understand. “Luceria, I promise you. There’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be fine for the journey.”

“Do you swear it?” She murmured, her heart racing.

“I would never lie to you, Lucy.” He said gently, “I swear it.”

Her traitorous heart leapt at the slip of her nickname. She met his eyes then, eyes that seemed to lay bare his very soul. How could she not trust him?

“But if you’re truly worried,” Baldwin began, a grin tugging at his lips, “Then you could ride Hosanna beside my litter during the long, long journey ahead.”

She bit back a snort, unable to resist the lightness he had returned to the conversation. “So you get to rest while I ride the whole distance?” She scoffed jokingly, “How exactly is that fair?”

“Why, you’ll have plenty of time to think of a way to finally beat me at this game.”

They settled into an easy silence, the click of wooden pieces against the marble sounding the the gentle tapping of raindrops. Strange, she mused, how easily this King could rile her up yet make her feel so utterly at ease with a single glance. One moment, his wit would set her spirits aflame, his evasiveness making her want to shake him by the shoulders. Did he only cherish her as a friend? Or were the lingering glances a sign his heart was as conflicted as her own?

She hated it. She loved it. She wasn’t sure which one was worse.

Unable to resist the treats before her, she took another nougat. Baldwin contented himself with the occasional bite, his attention focused more on the game.

“By the way,” Baldwin began as she moved one of her pieces, “Your name day is approaching.” He remarked, too casually as he captured one of her bishops with his rook. “Sixteen summers. A momentous occasion.”

“Ah, it is.” Luceria conceded sheepishly, “I’ve begged father to forgo the fuss.”

“Is there anything you desire? Something I could gift you?”

“I, uh, well…” She hesitated, reaching for one of her pawns and taking possession of his knight, “No, no. I couldn’t possibly ask anything of you.” She popped another nougat into her mouth.

“Oh, come now.” He leaned forward mischievously. “There must be something. If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to guess. And you can only imagine the absurd ideas I might come up with.”

“Oh you wouldn’t!” She protested, laughing.

“Oh I would,” He smirk widened, as he advanced his rook along the length of the board. “Shall I begin?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He tilted his head. “Hmm, let me see… Gold-plated horseshoes for Hosanna. A jewel-encrused tiara for you?

Luceria rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to giggle as he continued listing increasingly ridiculous ideas. She captured another one of his pawns. “You’re being ridiculous.” She stressed the word.

“A silk-lined litter for you to travel in…”

“Baldwin!”

“I will only stop if you tell me.”

Her eyes darted away, fingers idly tracing the carvings of her knight. “Truthfully?”

“Of course.”

The last rays of daylight gilded her veil as she shyly looked up at Baldwin from beneath her lashes. “I just…I just want you to fully recover,” She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as if giving voice to her innermost desires. “I would like us to ride together once more. On horseback.”

Baldwin stared at her, stunned for a heartbeat as her words hung between them. “I would like that too,” He whispered back, “I’m afraid I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to fulfill that wish, but I can promise you, should I be so blessed, I’ll make sure to ride with you again.”

“That is more than enough,” Luceria’s lips curved into a grateful smile, fingers idly moving to her queen. “But if you forget,” She began, a playful glint in her eyes, “Then I shall take this victory as your compensation, My Lord. Checkmate.”

Baldwin ’s mouth hung open in surprise as he gazed at the chess board. He laughed, unable to believe his defeat. These moments were what she had come to treasure.

Even if they did not ride together, even if her wish could not come true, his presence was a gift all on its own. The most precious one she could have ever asked for.

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 1 August 1177

The Royal Banquet hummed with a most agreeable commotion, as befitted the arrival of so noble a guest as Philip of Flanders. Live minstrels provided entertainment, while servants bustled about, their arms laden with roasted meats and pitchers of foreign wine.

Luceria was seated in between her siblings at the long table with the rest of the royal family and other noble guests. Her older brother, Prince Bohemond of Antioch, was talking to Count Raymond III of Tripoli, their cousin from their mother’s side. She could hear her sister, Philippa, giggling away from something one of the Ibelin Lords had said. Her husband Constable Humphrey II of Toron sat beside her, engrossed in discussion with his comrades.

She couldn’t pay attention to the discussion. Not when there were so many people gathered in one place, making conversation or telling simple jokes. Her eyes kept darting from one face to another, but they always came back to glance at him.

Baldwin sat at the end of the table, dressed in a long white robe that matched the gloves she had made for him. Anselm had recently cut his hair, and if Luceria didn’t know any better, she would think Baldwin hadn't just been bedridden for weeks.

It was his first public appearance since taking ill with lung fever. Yet he appeared as though he had never been sick at all.

When he looked in her direction, she averted her gaze.

Luceria took a sip from her chalice. Wine from the west had always disappointed her. She had grown accustomed to the full-bodied wines of the Mediterranean, but she knew the court did not want to insult their esteemed guests from Flanders. When glanced up and Baldwin once more, he was no longer looking in her direction. Instead, he was talking to the esteemed count himself—Count Philip.

He was a man in his thirties. On his golden tunic was a coat of arms embroidered with white eagles and a crown. She could see the strong resemblance to Baldwin in the shade of his flaxen hair, and the piercing blue of his eyes. But the Count was much stockier than the young king, with a muscular and imposing frame. And he had a bear, typical of those from his region of the Christendom.

But there was still something about this situation that troubled her. She turned to her brother. Her rarely came to the Holy City, and he did not just come to feast. No. His presence bore purpose, and his purpose seldom wavered.

Leaning close, she murmured. “Brother, do speak plainly as I am perplexed. The king has been sick these past few months. Why summon us all for the Count of Flanders? What is he to Jerusalem?”

“I do, yes.” Bohemond’s mouth curled. His surcoat decorated in the colors of his father’s house, red and silver. A red lion rampant was embroidered onto it. “Baldwin means to name him regent before the Haute Cour.”

Her eyes flicked to her father, Raynald de Chatillon, laughing at Baldwin’s side with his cup raised. “How does Father feel about that?” If he was indeed slighted by the matter, he was certainly good at concealing it.

“Oh I’m certain he is delighted,” Bohemond commented dryly, “Raynald has been vying for power for years and would love to hand it over to someone else.”

Luceria did not appreciate the sarcasm, but she let him continue. “A man like Raynald does not part with power gladly.” Bohemond took a sip from his cup, “Let Philip claim the reins, and where does that leave us? The count’s a stranger. Our Kingdom is at risk of plunging into chaos if this isn’t handled correctly. Personally, I would rather spend the resources taking Hārim, and even Raymond here agrees with me.”

Luceria listened to her brother as he continued to explain what had been happening. For all his contempt of foreign lords, he had wed a Byzantine princess when it suited him. He would not hesitate to leverage the assistance of Philip if it benefited him and their Principality. Anyone was a tool to these men if the price proved right.

She weighed his claims, chewing over her thoughts before speaking, “Perhaps the regency is God’s mercy,” She said, “The King is in need of healing, I'm sure he would be grateful for the assistance. If Father bears no grievance, why should we?”

“We do not,” Bohemond corrected, the annoyance in his tone apparent. He scratched his beard, the coarse hairs bristling beneath the drag of his fingertips as he glanced at her father’s imposing frame. “You know, Luceria. You do not have to do anything Raynald asks of you. You do have a choice.”

Her brows furrowed. “Father has never demanded anything of me.”

“Miriam confessed how you wept after our brother’s death,” He said softly. Her heart twisted at the mere mention of her late brother. “If you told me how you felt, you could have stayed home.”

When they last saw each other at his wedding, she did not have the heart to tell Bohemond how unhappy she had been. But life was different now, and she was doing better. “I will not lie, it was difficult for me at first.” She admitted, “But I found solace in my life here.”

“Still, I can arrange for you to go back to Antioch if you would like,” Bohemond offered, “I do not understand how you could stomach living in Kerak. That place has always seemed so dreadful to me. Antioch’s gardens are a much more appropriate court for a prince’s sister. Not some grim fortress.”

He was not wrong, Luceria had to admit. Antioch haunted her dreams, and Kerak was dismal and primitive in comparison. She would have baths at the ready, channels filled with Spring water from the Daphne. In Kerak, where wells were few, she considered herself fortunate when the servants managed to fetch enough to fill a couple of pails in the evenings. Luxury extended no further than a simple bowl and pitcher.

But while Antioch had plumbing, it was also much too distant from Jerusalem.

“Brother, that is most thoughtful,” Luceria began, “But while Kerak may be less…comfortable, my soul finds rest there.”

Bohemond’s brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Do you not get lonely at times, Luceria?”

She stiffened. “I do miss our family, yes. But I am fortunate enough to have Miriam’s company.”

“A servant is not kin.” He pressed. “And a horse does not make for good company either.”

Her cheeks flushed. She felt as though she was being tested. “I do not spend all my time riding brother, you make it sound as if that’s all I do.”

“I know you well, sister. Perhaps better than anyone, I raised you after all.” Bohemond countered, “A noble marriage awaits you in Antioch. I have received many offers, and you should know that I am considering them.”

A chill swept down her back. “Oh?”

“You can become a mother and a wife as you ought to be. You’ll be happy, pampered, and safe, and you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again. Would you not like that?”

If Bohemond had proposed this a year ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity and gladly returned home. But so much had changed since then.

“I…I appreciate you thinking of me, Brother,” Luceria said quietly. She bit her lip, eyes straying towards the end of the table where Baldwin was still speaking to Count Philip. She saw his stare blue flicker in her direction for the briefest second, before refocusing on the Flemish man before him. Luceria’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest. “But brother, I think my place is here.”

Jerusalem, 1 August 1177

Finally it was all over.

Baldwin was exhausted. All day long he had been battling a fever, waves of heat rushing over him without warning. The symptoms had worsened throughout the evening until he could no longer bear the burning in his throat, nor the aching in his joints. And when his eyes began to blur, he had no choice but to retire early.

He reclined upon his bed and Anselm approached him with a cup of medicinal broth. “How are you faring, sire?” He asked gently, “Are you still nauseated?”

Baldwin nodded, accepting the tonic and swallowing it with a grimace, “I’m afraid so,” He murmured. He resisted the urge to massage his temples.

“You bore today’s trials well,” Anselm reassured him with a sympathetic smile. “The demands placed upon you recently have been immense.”

Baldwin let out a joyless laugh as he finished the rest of the broth. It had been a long day. That morning, the Haute Cour had convened, and all agreed to extending the leadership of the Egyptian campaign to the Count of Flanders. The political maneuvering required for this had been exhausting, but for his part, Baldwin felt at least some relief. After all, the Emperor’s fleet of one hundred and fifty ships had already reached Acre.

The Count’s arrival had stirred the court like a spring wind. He came with silver from King Henry, five hundred marks to aid the land, and five hundred more for the Hospital of Jerusalem. When Baldwin broached the matter of regency, the Count seemed more than willing, regaling him with alliances forged in distant courts, and plans to wed Sibylla off to some far-off lord, binding their fortunes to the Christendom’s warlords. 

Yet despite the Count’s generous offerings, Baldwin found himself oddly unmoved.

There was a disquieting coldness to Philip that he couldn’t pinpoint. As the evening went on, Baldwin could see how the nobleman recoiled whenever their eyes met. He did not mess the uneasiness on Philip’s face when seated beside him at the royal table, seemingly unsettled until he realized that the leprous king would not be sharing food with him or the other guests. Baldwin knew that the Flemish Lord simply wished to have no contact whatsoever with a leper, or at least viewed him with some level of disgust. It soured his mood considerably. 

But he had to keep his composure. After all, Baldwin could not fault the count for his apprehension.

“I cannot say I greatly enjoyed the banquet,” Baldwin confessed.

“Oh?” Anselm raised a brow. “Did the Count say something to offend?”

“On the contrary, Count Philip has been nothing but cordial,” Baldwin murmured, shaking his head. “But he cannot conceal his arrogance. I suppose that is something to be expected from someone who sits in such high regard with the French court.” Baldwin sighed, “I am simply reminded that my presence is unwelcome tom my own subjects, even the foreign ones.

It did little to improve matters that the Count’s retinue was horrified to learn that the rumors were true—that a Leper King sat on Jerusalem’s throne. It was nearly heard of in Flanders, after all, for a King to be afflicted with such a wasting disease.

Still, Baldwin wondered if such blatant insults would be better concealed behind closed doors, or better yet, avoided altogether.

“I am sorry to hear that the evening was taxing for you sire,” Anselm sneered, “Bastards, the lot of them.”

Baldwin could not help but chuckle. Few dared such brashness before him, but Anselm had never been like the rest. Anselm had given his life to the Order of Lazarus, and though he was a sergeant by rank, he had wholeheartedly accepted his role as Baldwin’s squire. And despite not having the usual tact or polish one might expect from such a position, Anselm made up for it with his sincerity. 

Years of well-meaning sermons from William and the others had worn upon him. They insisted that lepers were blessed by God, that they would be spared suffering in purgatory, or that God would reward them tenfold in Heaven for bearing their earthly torment with courage. But Baldwin found no solace in such platitudes. To be called blessed while men flinched from his very glances felt less like grace and more like mockery.

Better, he thought, to accept the simple truth: he was cursed. Not divinely chosen.

Anselm, however, was different. Theology bored him; neither caring for psalms nor the immortal soul. To him, leprosy was no divine mystery but simply a disease—devastating not only to the flesh but to the mind and spirit as well. In his presence, Baldwin was merely nothing but a man, uncloaked by pity or reverence. It made him home that others, perhaps, may have seen beyond his illness too.

Luceria, too, met him with kindness. Her laughter had always been genuine, her smiles always warm. And despite his afflictions, she still sought him out. If he were so lucky as to have her view of him remain untainted, he would be eternally grateful.

But if it changed…if her eyes were to reflect his own disgust and fear of his crippling body, what then?

For now, she still looked at him like any other man. But she was young, beautiful, intelligent—the kind of woman countless men would give anything to call their bride. If she were to marry another…

The thought alone sent him to a coughing fit, which caused his head to pound even more furiously as he imagined another man holding her close, their flirtations unfolding in front of him. As he thought of them exchanging tender words, Baldwin could feel vomit rising in his throat.

He needed to think of something else.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing by making Philip regent?”

Anselm passed the King a cup of water, “To be honest with you, My Lord, it is not the most comfortable thing for me to imagine.” He shook his head, “I do not like that you were insulted as you were.”

Baldwin smiled wanly, “It doesn’t matter if Philip doesn’t approve of a leper king,” He answered gently. “As long as my people are kept safe, I do not care if Count Philip regards me with disdain.”

“As it should be, Your Grace.”

With that, Baldwin nodded, signaling the squire to retreat. He settled back upon his pillows before slipping into a dreamless slumber.

The Haute Cour, Jerusalem, 2 August 1177

The grand, vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall bore witness to the murmurs of the nobility. Rows of wooden benches rapidly filling, as members of the Haute Cour hurried to find their seats. Anticipation hung heavy where the assembly had gathered; they knew an announcement was coming, but it would be a while yet before the hall filled entirely.

Agnes de Courtenay stood apart, gaze sharp between her veil as she observed Archbishop Heraclius of Cesaerea feign interest in her counsel. Her true attention was on her daughter, Sibylla, as this would be her first time attending the court.

Despite being almost five months along and draped in the black fabrics of mourning, Sibylla’s beauty still managed to capture the eyes of every nobleman who passed her by. Agnes could hardly fault these courtiers for their desire to gain favor with the girl, as she would be the future Queen.

Among the men desperate for Sibylla’s attention was Baudouin de Ibelin. Agnes’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer near Sibylla, voice low enough to mock decency. Sibylla’s face was flushed, lips pressed in amusement, and Agnes resisted the urge to snarl at the Ibelin Lord. Her memory of his family was unpleasant, to say the least.

After Amalric had annulled their marriage, Agnes was forced to marry her once betrothed Hugh de Ibelin. Baudouin and Balian, his younger brothers, had always been suspicious of the match. And despite being estranged for over a decade and Hugh long dead, the brothers still resented her, and she returned their feelings tenfold. Especially since it was no secret that they held the likes of Maria Comnena in close company.

She would have to have a stern word with Sibylla later. The Ibelins were decidedly unworthy of her daughter’s attentions.

All murmurs died as Count Philip strode forth. Agnes narrowed her eyes at the men accompanying him: Count Raymond of Tripoli and Prince Bohemond of Antioch. The former had taken on the role of regent before Baldwin had reached the age of majority; while the latter was rarely seen on this side of the Levant. It rankled her that Raymond and Bohemond were treating the Count with an unsettling air of familiarity.

As if Philip were already named regent.

The silence spread as her son appeared from one of the side entrances, William of Tyre walking beside him. The archbishop helped guide Baldwin up the steps and onto his throne on the dais, where he would preside over the court. All knelt until Baldwin raised a glove hand.

“Honored Brethren,” The King began, “It is my privilege to announce the presence of our distinguished guest, the Illustrious Count of Flanders.” Baldwin declared, clearing his throat. “He comes to us at a time of great need. It has been a dark few months in the Holy Land, as we grieve the passing of Lord William of Montferrat.”

Baldwin’s gaze met that of the Flemish nobleman and continued, “Due to my own ailing condition, I find myself incapable of leading our campaign into the Heart of Egypt, nor am I able to continue my duties as the anointed sovereign of Jerusalem.”

Agnes could see the court stirring. Many had suspected that such measures would be taken. While Agnes herself was opposed to the notion, she had resigned to the fact that her son would not reconsider.

“Therefore,” Baldwin continued, “Count Philip, by the unanimous decision of myself and the members of the Haute Cour of Jerusalem, we humbly wish to offer you regency of our realm. You shall bear the responsibility of prosecuting our Holy War, with full access to the royal treasuries and coffers within this Kingdom until. We offer you command over all the lands of Outremer until such a time as my sister, the Princess Sibylla, can take a new husband to rule by her side.”

“Will you accept this most solemn of duties, Count Philip?” Baldwin’s eyes locked onto the Fleming, “Will you lead our crusading army and rule the Holy Land in my stead?”

The Count of Flanders appeared completely unsurprised, a subtle, self-satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his thin lips. “Great honor, sire, though undeserved.” He dipped his head respectfully towards Baldwin. “House of Flanders ever serves Christ’s Kingdom—” Here he paused, surveying the various lords and clergy, “Yet, I deeply regret that I must decline your gracious offer.”

“I beg your Bardon?” Baldwin sputtered, aghast. He was not alone in his shock, many other mouths were hanging open. “But you said—” The young king, rarely caught off guard in such political circles, quickly regained his composure. He cleared his throat, raising his chin before speaking once more. “May I ask why, my Lord?”

The count sighed, an apologetic smile offered to the boy, “Alas, providence binds me.” He replied, “My stay in the Holy Land cannot be for long. I’ve sworn vows to return to Flanders as soon as possible. I have no sons of my own to succeed me, and while I had named my younger brother heir, I regret to say that he has recently passed on.”

Nobles shifted, and Baldwin’s gloved fingers twitched—once, twice—against his throne. “I see. My deepest condolences, my lord,” The young King replied. “But we would still be most graceful if you were to lead our armies to Egypt.”

With another sigh weighted by performance, the Count dipped his head, “Your Majesty, you know I wish I could oblige. Truly, there is nothing I want more than to help Jerusalem.” He said, “But alas, my obligations pull me elsewhere for the time being. You see, I have recently taken on a Holy Vow to embark upon a pilgrimage to the sanctified northern lands.” He said. “To delay or abandon this pilgrimage would be to risk divine retribution, you understand my Lord?”

Wisps of disgust curled in Agnes’s throat. Liar, she nearly spat. Ever soul knew the Flemish Count was only trying to save face with his courtly theatrics.

“Truly, I am torn between my devotion to you and your people. But perhaps…” Philip’s voice took on a more pensive tone. “Perhaps there could be a way to persuade me to postpone my vows, so I may take up the crusading mantle after all.”

The weight of this sudden revelation brought an awkward silence to the Great Hall of Jerusalem, and Agnes swore she could see her son’s pale face tinge red.

Jerusalem, 3 August 1177

“You don’t seem upset, Raynald,” Bohemond noted idly. The chair groaned as he leaned against it, propping his feet up on a nearby bench and stretching them towards the hearth. The two men were seated opposite sides of a table in one of the citadel's upper chambers, two empty goblets of Byzantine wine between them. The good stuff, not the piss the Flemish Lord brought with him.

The Prince of Antioch rarely made the journey south from his principality. But with Baldwin’s deteriorating health, the politics of Outremer were becoming increasingly unstable by the day. And Bohemond would be damned if he didn’t have a seat at the court to make his opinions heard.

“Not particularly,” Raynald poured himself another cup and took a leisurely sip. The Count of Flander’s abrupt refusal of the regency had done little to dampen his mood. In fact, Raynald de Chatillon had retained his position as Jerusalem’s regent.

Bohemond arched a curious brow. “Did you know the Count was going to refuse?”

Raynald shrugged, “I did, yes.”

Leaning forward, Bohemond’s impatience began to show. “Well?” He prompted, “Are you not planning to explain yourself?”

The other man’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “What’s there to explain? Surely even a dullard could have guessed that the count would refuse.”

Bohemond snorted. “Surely, but tell me anyway. It will amuses me.”

“Ah well, if it amuses you, how could I resist?” Raynald drawled, “I trust you’ve spent some time in the Count’s company?” No reply came from Bohemond’s bored glare. Saints preserve fools suffering Chatillon’s theatrics. Bohemond wondered what his mother ever saw in him.

Raynald chuckled, tossing his red hair over his shoulders, “The Count looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here. And I could hardly blame him. Tell me, why would his fat arse shackle himself to the affairs of a leprous king?” He shook himself dismissively. “Do you truly think Philip of Flanders would risk so much, merely because our young ailing King asked nicely enough?”

Bohemond contemplated for a moment. “I suppose not."

“Indeed,” Raynald replied. “It takes far more than niceties to win that pretentious prick over. He did not give two shits for Outremer or the Christendom. At least not without sufficient gain to make it worth his while.”

“So the offer failed.” Bohemond grunted.

“Failed?” Raynald barked a laugh, “An offer of mere prestige alone could never have swayed that fool. By God’s rotten teeth, that vain cunt thought we’d appoint him King of Egypt!”

Baohemond’s brow furrowed. He knew well the terms Raynald negotiated with the Emperor. Mary herself had wrote him of the details: In exchange for one hundred and fifty ships, Jerusalem would install a patriarch of Manuel’s choosing. Furthermore, any lands conquered by the Franks in Egypt would be a part of Jerusalem’s kingdom while held under Byzantine suzerainty, with Manuel maintaining direct rule over certain cities. It was a fair agreement, for the Empire and Outremer.

But clearly not for Count Philip.

“You did tell him about the terms?” Bohemond tilted his head as he poured himself more wine.

“Of course I did,” Raynald replied, spittle flying, “Why play coy? Baldwin’s been talking about making that bastard regent for weeks.” The older man’s lips curled into a smirk. “I could tell by his reaction. The whoreson was displeased. Felt his efforts did not merely merit a regency, but a real crown to wear. Not some parchment title smeared with leper-shite.”

Bohemond drained his cup, wiping froth from his beard. It did not surprise him the least.

Raynald went on, “He feels that he deserves nothing less than full compensation for his efforts. As if leading armies gives him rights to squat in Cairo and call himself king.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes, “And that, my stepson, is why he refused to take charge of our forces. Not this saintly talk of devotion.”

Bohemond refilled Raynald’s cup, “So that’s it then? Philip’s army just…rots here?”

“He did mention being open to campaigning elsewhere,” Raynald spat. “But that’s utterly pointless, for where else could he go that would serve our interests?”

Bohemond froze mid-pour, a great realization dawning upon him.

It was obvious that such an arrangement would be unacceptable for Jerusalem, as Egypt was the only Infidel territory accessible via the Byzantine fleet. Yet, Bohemond couldn't help but wonder if this situation could perhaps be leveraged to his own advantage, with the threat of Hārim still looming along Antioch’s borders.

Bohemond had his own information about the Count that he did not wish to disclose, particularly the details of his recent conversation with Philip and Raymond of Tripoli.

While in their company, Bohemond had casually mentioned his wife, Theodora Comnena. Intrigued that the Prince of Antioch had married the Emperor's own grandniece and that Bohemond's sister was the Empress of the Byzantine Empire, the Count of Flanders had revealed that he was in fact on a diplomatic mission from King Louis of France. The French bastard wished for his youngest daughter to marry Emperor Manuel's son and heir—Bohemond's own nephew.

Yes, Bohemond had an Infidel problem of his own to contend with, and here sat Philip’s army, limp-dick and idle. If all it took to gain allies for a siege on Hārim was the promise of an audience with his sister and her husband…The opportunity was tantalizing. But at what cost

Bohemond eyed Raynald. Should he confess? Let that rutting boar in on his schemes? One misstep and he’d be knee-deep in courtly shit he did not want to deal with.

“What now for the Holy Leper?” Bohemond asked cautiously.

Raynald shrugged dismissively. “Pray, likely. He believes he can still bargain with that Flemish cunt.” He scoffed, “But I doubt our young King will like the price Philip demands in return.” He leaned back in his chair. “That boy has been far too idealistic. That’s his greatest weakness. He should have never entertained on relying on that bastard. We have everything we need right here in the Kingdom.”

Bohemond’s eyes narrowed. “Does this ‘everything’ you speak of include my sister?”

Raynald chuckled, “My daughter—” He emphasized firmly, “—will serve a worthy purpose here, I assure you.”

Bohemond set his drink aside. He heard the whispers about how that leper made his sister blush like a brothel whore. He confirmed it with his sister’s handmaiden. The idea of them together disgusted him—horrified him. Raynald’s intentions were clear to Bohemond: wed her to that walking corpse, thereby securing his own influence over Jerusalem.

Bohemond would never allow that.

Luceria’s dowry—lands fat with olive groves, coin enough to buy a cardinal’s soul—rested in his coffers. Let Raynald scheme, but without Antioch’s gold, his ambitions could suck Templar cock.

“Serve a purpose? You mean in that leper’s bed?” Bohemond sneered.

Raynald met Bohemond’s glare with an infuriatingly cool stare. “That leper happens to be your King.” He replied, “Surely even a hot-headed fool like yourself can grasp that marrying a King could work very much in your favor? Or are you truly as stupid as you look?”

“You condescending prick,” Boehmond spat. “Crown him twice and he’s still a sagging cock unfit for whores, let alone my sister! You dare hitch her to some impotent corpse? Do not tell me you’ve gone completely mad, Raynald. That girl needs to bear healthy sons!”

“Since when do marriages need stiff dicks?” Raynald snorted, “God’s blood, Bohemond. You’ve been married twice already. And your Byzantine bitch—oh wait. It’s been half a year and her belly’s still flat as glass. You of all people should know that an heir is not required for power. The mere possibility is enough.”

“Speak of my wife and I'll line this room with your teeth!” He slammed his fist onto the table, causing their goblets and bottles to rattle. “Unlike that divinely-cursed cripple, I am able to produce heirs! I already have two sons so do not dare even compare me to him. I am nothing like that stunted, leprous whelp. My sister deserves better than some worthless invalid, and if she is wed to that sack of rot I will tear you limb from limb.”

“Now, now,” Raynald chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “No need to be so crass, dear boy. If you have such distaste for our king, you’re welcome to try and force your sister back to Antioch.” His eyes glinted challengingly, “But do you want Luceria to hate you? Because she certainly will.” He taunted, lips curled into a sneer. “She’d never speak to you again until she hangs herself from sorrow. Would that please you, Bohemond? It certainly wouldn’t please me. As her father, I feel a responsibility for her happiness.”

Bohemond’s fists clenched, his hands almost numbed with rage. He wanted to smack that smug smirk off Raynald de Chatillon’s face. Luceria was an impressionable girl, prone to fits of melancholy and this insufferable bastard was using her loneliness to his advantage. And now he was grooming her to marry that wretched sickly king.

But what Raynald did not know is that Bohemond held the power to sabotage the entire campaign and the leper’s negotiations with that Flemish count. Part of him balked at such a betrayal, but it would be worth seeing that smug grin wiped from Raynald’s face.

“Push me too far and see where it gets you,” He growled, rising from his seat.

Raynald let out a harsh laugh. “I used to think your sister took after your mother in looks alone, but it seems she’s inherited Constance’s stubbornness as well.” His lips curled. “By all means, try to take her from me, boy. But you’ll need more than empty threats.”

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 11 August 1177

He missed her birthday.

He missed Luceria’s birthday.

Baldwin let out a long, weary sigh, his eyes closed in deep contemplation, his bare, calloused hands resting limply on his knees. Anselm was kneeling before him, carefully cleaning his wounds and wrapping the bandages that covered the ravages of his affliction. It seemed as if he could never catch a break, sickness after sickness assailing him without warning or pause.

The high fevers had only exacerbated the effects of his leprosy, and the unsightly macules were now starting to spread along the back of his once proud neck.

He wondered how much time he had before the disease began to disfigure his face. Baldwin felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. Perhaps, when the time came, he could have a silver mask specifically crafted so the people wouldn’t see the extent of the rot. The once handsome features of their king reduced to such a grotesque caricature.

What a pitiful sight that would be, he mused bitterly, a king in a mask.

His throat tightened as memories assailed him unbidden; the anguish on the faces of those closest to him when they first learned about his disease—his mother’s stifling sobs, the dismay in his sister’s eyes, and the panic that had gripped his entire court.

But most of all, Baldwin remembered the loneliness that had consumed him.

The boys he had once played with running carefree through the streets while he was forced to watch from the sidelines; already crowned a king at the tender age of thirteen. Though he understood his duty, the ache that had blossomed in his chest where once there had been a carefree exuberance, was a wound he had never truly healed.

And now this isolating pain had return, only far worse, for he had tasted her companionship.

“Did she like the comfits I sent her,” He asked the squire, his voice hoarse and cracking as he tried to steady himself. He had given instructions to Anselm to procure some confections for the princess; a meager token to celebrate her special day. He knew it didn’t make up for not being there, but it was better than nothing. It was all he could manage to do in his weakened state.

“She received them happily, Your Grace.” Anselm had stopped winding the fresh linens around Baldwin’s forearm and looked up at the king with concern on his rugged features. The squire smelled the the saracenic ointment he applied on the King. “She wishes nothing more than for you to recover, sire.”

Baldwin let out another exasperated sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “So do I.”

The past few days had been a living hell. His fever had returned, once again putting him dangerously close to the bring of death. And while he had been desperately battling to cling to life, Count Philip had been relentless in his demands, with the Haute Cour’s patience wearing thin as he insisted on arranging marriages for both Sibylla and Isabella.’

Philip wanted Sibylla to wed Robert de Bethune, and for Isabella to be betrothed to Robert’s younger brother, William. Both of these men conveniently accompanied Philip on his retinue to Jerusalem. Their father was one of Philip’s most powerful vassals, one of the greatest nobles in all of Flanders. Even now, the mere thought of it caused Baldwin to grit his teeth in Fury.

Sibylla’s case was the easier one to resolve; she was still mourning her late husband’s passing and was legally permitted to abstain from any marital obligations till the following year. But the idea of marrying his little sister Isabella, who was still a child, far below the age of Pubertati Priximi, send Baldwin’s blood boiling with rage.

The Count clearly lacked an understanding of the ways of Jerusalem’s High Court—as the Court had the right to elect the Holy Land’s ruling Sovereign. Count Philip obviously saw the Court filled with Poulains and looked at them like lesser nobility; so he mistakenly believed he could apply the same degree of political maneuvering in Jerusalem as he would find back home in Flanders.

Baldwin could hardly fathom how his own flesh and blood—his cousin of all people!—had become the source of such an endless, vexing array of problems. The Nobles of the High Court had descended into a mess of petty squabbles, with the relentless demands of Count Philip provoking Lord Balian’s temper to the point of losing all composure. This regrettable outburst ultimately forced Baldwin to postpone the Egyptian Campaign to the following year.

And to think he once thought of Philip as Outremer’s savior. Now Baldwin wanted nothing more than to wring the man’s neck!

Perhaps his mother had been right all along. They should’ve remained in Ascalon. He never should’ve risked the journey, or summoned the Haute Cour. Baldwin had gambled, and now he was paying the price—the Count an ever-present thorn at his side, while Baldwin himself lay wretchedly ill.

Too ill to even see Luceria.

Baldwin’s heart ached with the guilt of it. He would have to make this right.

Jerusalem, 13 August 1177

“Do you really have to go?” Luceria asked wistfully. Beside her, Bohemond moved briskly through the room directing orders at servants bearing his colors. He was departing Jerusalem that very day, heading back to Antioch with the Count of Tripoli.

Bohemond did not pause. “I’ve already stayed longer than I initially intended.” He said as he rifled through some chests a servant had opened.

She watched him still. Trying to keep pace. “When will you next visit?”

“I don’t know.” He said, not bothering to look up at her as he continued sorting through his things, the matter requiring too much of his undivided attention. “Whenever something important comes up? Perhaps for your next birthday?”

“I’d like that,” She said quietly, but the disappointment was clear in her voice, and Bohemond could hear it.

The morning of her name day, Bohemond had surprised her with a basketful of honey sweets. In the afternoon, they had ridden together just beyond the Jaffa gate, and headed back to the kitchen to indulge in sweets again once evening came. This was a taste of normalcy she had forgotten to crave.

After supper, Philipa and her husband had arranged another surprise—a board game called Senet won from Damascene merchants in Egypt. merchants in Egypt. Young Humphrey had played rashly as he liked to do, and Lady Stephanie trounced him repeatedly.

Even her father had participated briefly. For a moment, it felt like a true family celebration.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me?” Bohemond said, finally looking at her.

Luceria shifted nervously, “No, I… I think it would be best if I remained here with Father.”

The mention of her father caused an unpleasant expression to pass over Bohemond’s features. She couldn’t help but wonder what exactly had transpired between the two men. Since the Haute Cour convened, their relationship had been tense. She did not wish to ask, for she was certain her brother would not be inclined to discuss it.

“Very well then.” His tone was clipped. “If that is your wish.”

She hated disappointing him.

“Are you angry with me?”

His expression softened as he approached her. “Not with you,” he said, gently pulling her to his chest. It was a long time since anyone held her like this. “It’s just that I worry for you.” He loosened his hold slightly, gazing down at her with gentle eyes. His hand reached out to pat her golden hair, “It will not do for you to stay alone here with Raynald. So please come home with me. Back to where you belong.”

There was a knot of guilt twisting in her stomach. “I’m sorry,” She murmured. “It’s just…” She looked away, she didn’t have the courage to look at him. “I just want to stay here for now.”

He pulled away, and she instantly missed his embrace. “For now?” He asked. “You cannot rely on the king for companionship.” He said firmly, grasping her hands. “This world awaits you, you cannot waste your life waiting on an ailing man, Luceria.”

“Brother, he is my friend.” She insisted weakly. He could already see the judgement in his eyes, but Bohemond did not understand the quiet hours reading beside Baldwin’s chair, nor his laughter at her antics, nor the way he made her feel. She did not think that she would be capable of making him understand, but to take her away from Jerusalem now would only bring her misery. “I don’t want to leave. Not yet.”

Bohemond frowned. “Luceria, please, you are no longer a child.” He scolded her like she was still the little girl in Antioch. She didn’t want to hear this. Why couldn’t he just let her be. “Stop being so naive. I will find you a husband, and you will accept his suit.”

No. She did not want that.

“I love you, but your duty extends far beyond your desires—”

No.

“—You are a part of this court, and it’s time you started acting like it.”

No. No. No.

“Do you understand me, Luceria?”

“NO!” The outburst stunned them both. She rarely raised her voice, and certainly not to her brother. But she couldn’t help it. It felt like he was taking away everything that mattered to her. “No,” She repeated, quieter, “Please. I’m sorry. I don’t want this right now.”

Bohemond was caught off guard for a moment, but his expression quickly hardened. “No?” He repeated, “You dare defy me after all I’ve ever done for you? After all the sacrifices I’ve made?”

“I’m not ready to marry, Brother!” She exclaimed, hot tears of anger and frustration brimming in her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of her brother, but he acted like he no longer cared about her feelings. As if she had no real say in the matter of her life or marriage.

As if this entire discussion was already decided, regardless of what she wanted.

Bohemond sighed again, disgusted with her. She averted her eyes, looking down at the floor. “Luceria.” He reached for her chin, forcing her to meet his cold stare. “This sort of behavior…It won’t do.”

He loomed above her, tall and imposing. She felt small beside him, just like when they were children. “Do you want me to send you a convent? Is that what you want?”

She swallowed. The look on his face terrified her, and she just wanted to shrink away.

“Your reputation has already been tarnished,” He hissed through gritted teeth. “If you do not marry soon, the damage will be irreparable.” She struggled against his grasp as his hands gripped her shoulders. “You’ve been seen with him, Luceria. In his chambers!”

“That’s none of your business!” The words tumbled out of her before she could think. She regretted them immediately.

“None of my business?” His voice rose angrily. “Half the court says you spread your legs for that rotting cripple!”

“Stop it!” She begged weakly, fighting back a flood of emotions. Bohemond shook her again, violence drawing fresh tears. “Please…” She wept desperately, “Brother, you don’t understand—”

“What don’t I understand, Luceria?” He yelled furiously, giving her another rough jostle. “Tell me! What part of this isn’t perfectly clear?”

“B-Bohemond—!”

“Stop it. Stop these foolish games. Stop indulging fantasies. Stop behaving like a common whore doing whatever you please without a thought for others! Start acting your station!”

“I—He is sick.” Her voice cracked on the last word, pleading, desperate for him to relent.

“He is a leper!” Bohemond snarled, “He is not for you!”

“He is my friend! It doesn’t matter what he is!”

“IT DOES MATTER!” He raised his voice yet again, shaking her roughly by the shoulder. “IT VERY WELL DOES MATTER IF YOU EXPECT TO HAVE A NORMAL MARRIAGE! A NORMAL LIFE!”

She couldn’t take it. It was all too much. He had gone too far. She couldn’t bear to hear anything else from him. All she wanted to do was curl up in her room, to hide from the pain and ugliness of the world.

But Bohemond was relentless. He grabbed her by her arm, fingers digging in. “Please listen to yourself. You will get sick. Your flesh will rot. Is that what you want? To become a leper like him?”

She choked, crying so hard that her nose was running. She was trembling with humiliation, but she refused to back down. “I’m not going back to Antioch,” She said stubbornly. “I won’t.” The words sounded pathetic even to her, but she meant them.

Bohemond let go and Luceria’s knees gave out, causing her to fall to the ground in an ugly sobbing heap. She couldn't get to her feet, instead burying her face in her hands. In that moment, she wished the earth would swallow her whole so she’d never have to endure such agonizing scrutiny again.

“You know, sister, I’ve always been there to protect you. Whenever you needed me, whether you realized it or not.” He turned away, and she could see his outline through blurry tears as he continued preparing his luggage. “But fine. Stay here with that sick bastard. Let him defile you as you wish. But soon you will learn that the world is a cruel place.”

He tied the strings and grasped the handles firmly, heading towards the door without so much another glance.

Jerusalem, 24 August 1177

“Lucy?” Baldwin called out to her, “Luceria?”

“Your Grace?” She glanced up briefly, blinking. The formal address made him easy. It seems she didn’t realize she’d fallen into the same daze that Baldwin found himself drifting to when something wasn’t quite right.

“Is something amiss? You seem quite distracted.” He tilted his head, “You’ve barely explained the rules.”

She sighed, entirely unlike herself, “I’m sorry…It’s nothing.” She reached into the wooden box, randomly dropping pieces onto the board. “My mind wanders more than usual lately.” She paused to collect herself. “But it’s fine. Shall we begin?”

Baldwin pursed her lips. He knew that fine meant anything but. “It’s been a while since we’ve had time together,” He remarked softly. “Would you like to just talk for a moment?”

Luceria shook her head, tracing the engraved symbols on the small pieces. “I’m afraid I’m not really in a conversational mood.”

He frowned, he knew she found it difficult to talk about the things that troubled her, but he had to try. He wanted to help her, even if it was just by listening. “Is there anything I can do?” He asked cautiously, “Anything to make you feel even a little better?”

She gave a faint smile, one that did not quite meet her eyes. Her pallor suggested weeks of restless nights. “Not unless you have a hidden stash of sweets, Your Grace.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps after the game, Luceria.” He appreciated her attempt at humor, but he couldn’t ignore the heaviness he felt pressing on him. Whatever it was that was weighing down upon her, he wished she would just confide in him. “Lucy, you know you can always talk to me. You are my friend. If something is wrong, I will help you.”

She stared at him for several moments, her jaw clenched as she struggled with her emotions. But she did not speak of them any further. Instead, she looked away. “Thank you, but you don’t have to worry,” She murmured. Her hands moved the pieces again, placing them in different positions. “We should start the game before Humphrey wants to borrow it.”

He knew better than to push further; she would open up when she was ready.

“Of course,” He smiled. Reaching for a senet piece, he idly twirled it between gloved fingers. “So what are the rules? Must we perform some incantation or blessing first?” He joked, hoping to coax a smile from her. It had been too long since they’d last bantered like this.

She rolled her eyes, “No.” She said, unable to suppress a smile. “You just roll the dice and move.” She gestured to the board.

“Is that all?” He feigned surprise. “How dreadfully simple and unimaginative.”

“Well it’s more nuanced than that,” She chuckled. “Those are just the basics.”

“Then explain the rest of it,” He smiled, glad to hear her laugh again.

She explained the rest of the game; how pieces could only travel a set number of spaces determined by the die’s symbols. Certain “house” tiles were safe havens, while landing on the “water” tiles forced him back a previous square.

“And how do I win?” He asked, intent on playing his full effort. He would not let her win just because she was upset. That would be a disservice to them both.

“Get all your pieces off the board first. Simple is it not?”

“Dreadfully so.”

It was a game of chance, and so far, his luck had been horrendous.

Over the past weeks, Jerusalem had been in disarray. Count Philip departed, offering a flimsy excuse of continuing his northern “pilgrimage” to “see” the Holy sites. But Baldwin knew the truth—the greedy bastard left because he wasn’t getting his way.

His other cousin, Raymond of Tripoli, as well as Prince Bohemond had also retreated from the capital, but had promised to return for the expedition next spring. All the departures had left the entire court drained. Baldwin could feel the weight of his responsibilities threatening to sap his strength and enthusiasm even for a simple game.

But he was grateful for any opportunity to forget, however temporarily, about the many matters that plagued him.

After all, today marked an entire year since he had first me Luceria—not that he was counting.

“What happens if I land on a tile you’ve already occupied?” He asked, eyeing the game pieces before him. His set consisted of longer, thinner wooden tokens, while Luceria’s were shorter and stouter. He picked one up, turning it over to examine the tiny etched symbols before setting it down with a clack.

“Well, then I get to capture you, my king,” She grinned, playfully knocking his piece off the tile in demonstration. “And you’ll have to start over!”

Baldwin chuckled. If she wanted to capture him, he was more than happy to oblige.

It had been too long since had and Luceria enjoyed each other’s company. A recent bout of fever left him bedridden for weeks, and in that time apart she was always on his mind. He wasn’t even sure when this longing began, only that his loneliness grew in her absence. Being apart from her too long made him restless.

And now that he was feeling better, he intended to savor every moment of this silly game.

Luceria dropped a small, polished white pyramid die into his waiting palm—four sides marked with symbols representing 0 through 3 to determine how many spaces he could advance. He rolled the die on the wooden table, watching it skitter and bounce before settling with three dots facing up.

He moved the piece forward three safe “house” tiles at the start of the board where the Princess could not capture him. She then scooped up the die and rolled her turn watching it with the same three dots up. She let out a chuckle, “Ah a roll of three as well.”

“It seems we’re both favored by luck today,” He quipped, happy to hear her laugh, “Or you’ve brought me weighted dice.”

She scrunched her nose in mock offense, “I do not need to cheat to beat you, Baldwin.”

“I should hope not,” He laughed, “But I do enjoy the banter.”

She grinned, “Oh you should have heard the Constable. Some of the words he was muttering were so…completely…vulgar.” She lowered her voice, mimicking the gruff man, “What in the name of God’s holy arsehole is wrong with these damned dice?”

“Princess!” Baldwin nearly fell out of his chair, laughing. "He did not say that! Not in front of ladies.”

Luceria grinned, “Oh, but he did!”

“You wicked girl.” They both laughed, enjoying the levity for the first time in too long. Baldwin wiped the tears from his eyes. “How did you even get Lord Humphrey to play?” He was the oldest member of his court, after all. And the King could not imagine him playing such simple parlor games.

“Well, I think my sister made him, honestly.” She said, “The gift was from the both of them, after all.” Her birthday. Baldwin wished he could have celebrated with her too.

He had profusely apologized, but she was understanding as she always was.

Perhaps his true luck in the world was finding her.

“I would have imagined Lord Raynald or Prince Bohemond to be quite competitive as well.” He said, “I should like to see that match.”

The mention of her family caused her to visibly stiffen. “No,” She said quickly, her voice shaky. “My brother and father wouldn’t play.”

Baldwin knew her too well not to notice that this was related to what had been troubling her. “Is something amiss, My Lady?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, her eyes fixed on the senet board. He knew that look of apprehension. He’d seen it often enough in the mirror.

“Did something…happen between you and your brother?” He gently asked.

She bit her lip, still evading his gaze. “We…disagreed on several matters.” She murmured softly. “But I think he only wants what’s best for me.”

“I’m sure he does,” He said softly, “But sometimes what our family considers best and what we consider best may not perfectly align.”

“I suppose not,” She admitted quietly. Baldwin knew how close she was to Bohemond. It must have been devastating for her to have the Prince depart on such strained terms.

“I’m sorry,” He said gently. “It cannot feel good for him to have left that way.”

“Bohemond has been my guardian practically my whole life,” She said, picking up the die with slender fingers. “His approval has always been so important to me. This is the first time I feel like I’ve truly disappointed him.”

She rolled the die half-heartedly. She was holding back. It pained him to see her burdened with such heavy emotions, but he hoped that one day he would be worthy of sharing them. Perhaps even helping her carry that load.

“Perhaps you only need to give him some time,” He offered gently.

“I don’t know,” She muttered distractedly, sighing again, “Things are…different. He’s different.”

“How so?”

There was a prolonged hesitation. As if she was scared of how he’d react. “He feels…He’s just more stubborn. I just wish he’d listen to me,” She whispered miserably.

“He’ll come around, Luce,” Baldwin promised, “You both mean too much to each other to lose your bond or whatever this is.”

“I’m sorry,” She mumbled apologetically. “This wasn’t the evening I envisioned.”

“I wish for us to be honest with one another, even when we’re feeling troubled.”

She smiled slightly, averting her gaze to his hands rather than his face; a sign she was still uneasy about something, though not willing or ready to speak of it.

But he wanted to comfort her. Even if it was just with words. “Whatever is bothering you, please know it’s safe with me. If there comes a time you’re willing to share your troubles, I’ll be here. Always.”

“It means a lot that you trust me so,” She mumbled. “Not everyone feels I’m worth their time.”

“Of course, Luceria,” He said, his heart breaking for whatever made her feel this way. “There’s no person I’d rather spend my time with than you.”

“I wish time could just stand still,” She remarked wistfully. “So we might have more moments like these, just the two of us.”

“And what would we do if time froze?” He asked, his heart fluttering at the thought of spending every waking moment together. Of being able to just look at her whenever he pleased, without so much as a care for propriety.

“Well, we could play board games every afternoon,” She mused, “And talk all day long with no one to bother us.” Her words grew quieter as she watched him roll the die and move his peace.

“But what if we grew bored? We’d want others around eventually would we not?”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” She chuckled. “At some point we’d run out of things to talk about, and you’d tire of hearing me chatter aimlessly.”

“Never, Luceria.” He insisted softly. “That could never happen.”

She looked away with flushed cheeks, “Still, I wish it was just us sometimes.”

“As do I,” He replied quietly, longing evident in his tone.

“Well then,” She began, rolling the die again, “Let us live in our own little world for now, shall we, my king?”

Baldwin took the die and rolled, moving his piece three spaces ahead, his piece landing on the same tile as hers. “As you wish, Lucy.” He smiled.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, with an impish grin, “I do believe I’ve captured you. All the way back you go.” She knocked over his token with her own, resetting it to the first house tile. He had to admit, he liked seeing her win these little victories.

“So it seems,” He chuckled. “But I’m certain I’ll win in the end, my lady.” He picked up the small pyramid.

“Is that so?”

His hand remained steady as he rolled onto the game board. The die tumbled across before slowly resting with two dots facing up. Baldwin smiled with satisfaction, moving his piece across two spaces.

“Oh I’m certain it is.” He replied.

“We shall see how long you last then, My Lord,” She declared boldly, “I shall not make it easy for you.”

“Lucky for you, princess, it’s a game of chance. Anything could happen.”

“But don’t forget I won our last chess match,” Luceria countered smugly. It was her only victory against him. “And I’m currently winning this game.”

“Just roll the die, Luceria.” Baldwin chuckled.

She giggled, tossing the die onto the smooth, polished surface of the table. The small pyramid tumbled and spun, but eventually rolled off the edge to drop to the floor with a muffled clatter. Without hesitation, Baldwin quickly knelt to retrieve it and Luceria mirrored his movements, kneeling in front of him.

They both reached for the fallen die.

Baldwin looked up into Luceria’s startled, wide turquoise eyes, as time slowed between them. Neither one broke eye contact as their fingertips brushed ever so gently over the other’s. The unexpected, featherlight contact made his heart skip a beat, sending a thrill through his veins. But he couldn’t tear himself away. This accidental touch had awakened a primal longing within him—a yearning he had long denied himself, terrified of the consequences.

It was the first time he had ever touched her.

“Luceria,” Baldwin breathed. In an instant, she pulled her hand away, clenching it into a tight fist against her heaving chest. The unexpected loss of her gentle touch left Baldwin’s heart pounding lightly.

“I-I-I apologize, Your Highness,” She stammered, “I…” Her voice trailed off into silence, as the two of them lingered in their crouched position, staring at each other with nervous uncertainty. “I was careless once again.”

“It’s alright,” He whispered. He felt her shift slightly in her spot, inching just a bit closer to him. “Accidents happen.”

He could feel her warm, sweet breath sending prickles of goosebumps across his flesh. He found himself moving closer and closer towards her, wanting nothing more than to take her hand in his, and kiss those plump pink lips that hovered close. Tantalizingly too close.

“W-what number did it land on?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“One.” He murmured, eyes falling to the smooth, inviting curve of her neck. It was difficult to resist the temptation. To resist her.

Her eyes were half-lidded and focused solely upon him, her cheeks an alluring crimson. A soft exhale escaped her parted lips. Baldwin’s pulse raced as his eyes flickered between her mouth and her blue-green eyes.

Searching. Waiting. Desperately hoping.

He knew, deep down, he should stop this. That he should rise and put some much needed distance between them before he gave into the foolish impulse threatening to overwhelm his restraint. But try as he might, he found that he could not bring himself to pull away. He wanted to remain there, lingering in her warmth. The die lay long forgotten between them.

Yet, just as he was about to lean it, to close that final, aching, unbearable gap between them, a sudden knock at the door caused them both to jump.

“Your Grace?”

“Y-Yes, enter.” He replied hastily, but his heart was still hammering wildly against his ribs.

Anselm stepped into the room, bowing deeply towards the King. “Your Grace, Queen Maria has arrived from Nablus and she demands an audience with you immediately. She says it’s urgent.”

Baldwin glanced back towards Luceria, noting the way her pupils dilated, her breathing quickened as their eyes met once more. Then, almost as quickly, her gaze dropped to the floor.

What was on her mind?

“P-perhaps we could continue tomorrow instead, if you’re not otherwise occupied?” She suggested in a whisper.

It took all of his effort not to grasp at her hand in that instant. To ask her to stay beside him and tell him how she feels. Instead, he nodded. “Very well,” He managed to utter. “Tomorrow then.”

She curtsied politely and quickly excused herself. Baldwin watched her go, his mind replaying the intimate moment they shared just moments prior. He gazed at his gloved fingers which tingled at the memory of Luceria’s fingertips brushing against them.

What had just happened?

He touched Luceria.

His heart could not stop pounding.

He wanted to kiss her.

Would she have allowed it?

He could have made her sick.

But to his horror and shame, he realized he wanted to kiss her anyway.

Jerusalem, 24 August 1177

Raynald watched Queen Maria with tempered admiration. She stood before the Curia Regis—the King’s personal royal court—composure firm, even as Agnes of Courtenay glowered daggers in her direction.

The King’s mother was a striking woman in her own right, but it must have pained her greatly to watch Amalric walk around with this much younger woman. Perhaps even worse was that Maria was crowned Queen, a title that Agnes had never possessed but had always coverted.

Raynald had learned over the years that an angry woman, was a dangerous woman, having seen it in Constance’s eyes. Now he saw the same thing burning within Agnes.

She would make a powerful ally, Raynald decided. She seemed to share in his own penchant for meddling.

Beside Raynald, stood other member’s of the King’s court including Joscelin de Courtenay, the Constable Humphrey de Toron, and the appointed Chancellor Archbishop William of Tyre. Baldwin sat at the center of the dressed in simple garb, composure firm despite having come out of another fever.

Though he was appointed regent, Raynald’s power was still largely controlled by the boy. But he was a patient man, having survived over a decade in Saracen dungeons, and with his experience he was willing to play the long game.

There was more he wanted to do than simply conquer Egypt. His ambitions were grander than such petty aspirations, but he needed more resources. More allies. More men. More gold.

Luceria was the perfect means to secure these things. She was his pawn after all, and even Bohemond was no match to him in the games of power. If only the bloody King would hurry up and marry the girl, then everything else would easily fall into place.

“Please speak, Madame,” The King commanded, his tone a little bit strained.

Maria bowed respectfully to her stepson. “I come with troubling news, so forgive me, sire.” She inhaled deeply, bracing herself. “It concerns your cousin, the Count of Flanders.”

“I suppose you wish to protest his marital plans for Isabella,” Baldwin began, “However, I assure you such issues have already been resolved. The Count has traveled north to visit our holy sites. He will return before the Egyptian Expedition, which has been postponed until next spring.”

The discord in the Haute Cour had lasted weeks; Baldwin’s illness and the Count and other lord’s uncooperative stance had all forced the delay. Raynald resisted the urge to scoff aloud. It was all a political shit-show.

“No, Sire, that is why I must speak with you.” Maria wrung her hands nervously, “The Count sought my counsel in Nablus.”

Agnes’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as she stared down the dowager Queen, “And you made him feel welcome?” She snapped, “Did you agree for your daughter to marry one of his half-witted vassals?”

Agnes was one of the few nobles comfortable with voicing what the rest undoubtedly thought, though Raynald suspected her opinion was also tinged with a bit of jealousy. “I thought we both decided that none of us would permit our daughters to be auctioned off like some prized mare.”

“No one in the court would agree to Philip’s demands,” Raynald added, “Though Lord Balian made his objections known most vehemently of all.”

He had never witnessed such an outburst from Balian of Ibelin of all men! The man had lost all composure, yelling obscenities at the Count for demanding Isabella wed one of his vassal’s grown sons. The disgust was palpable, but Balian’s vehemence left Raynald wondering. Was he truly more repulsed than the rest? Or did he harbor affection for the girl’s beautiful mother?

“Of course, I do not approve of the Count’s schemes,” Maria said defensively. “But I had little choice. I could not turn him away, not until I heard what he had to say. As the former Queen, it is my duty to serve the Court’s interests, even if that means cooperating with the Count against my wishes.”

Raynald’s lips curved into an amused grin as he watched the color rise in Agnes’s cheeks. Even Baldwin’s lips twitched upwards slightly.

“Count Philip shall not ride south with your army, Sire.”

Maria’s revelation fell like a stone into still water. The other nobles shifted easily.

“Please, explain yourself, Madame.” Baldwin said. He did not look pleased. “The Count pledged his support for my campaign to Egypt. He cannot withdraw on this.”

“A mere formality,” Maria steadied herself, “The Count is already headed to campaign up North with prince Bohemond and Count Raymond.”

Raynald felt every eye shift to focus on him, and for a moment, his mouth hung slack.

Damn that Bohemond. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

It was true that damned whiny brat of a prince had long been complaining about Hārim, voicing how much he’d prefer to besiege it than participate in the Egyptian Campaign. It was also known that Count Raymond harbored a deep contempt for the Emperor. But to go behind Jerusalem’s back and collude together?

“Did you know about this, Lord Raynald?” Agnes de Courtenay was the first to speak, her tone sharp and accusatory.

“Absolutely not!” Raynald said, his composure cracking as he barked. He almost wanted to spit on the ground in his anger, and he fought to keep his jaw from trembling. At this moment Bohemond was lucky he was not in the room else Raynald might have strangled him with his bare hands.

Agnes arched a skeptical brow, “How about your daughter?” She prodded. “Did she know? I hear she is quite close to her brother.”

They were clearly seeking a scapegoat, and Raynald had no intention of allowing his daughter to be the target. His eyes narrowed as he readied himself to defend her.

To his surprise, the King interjected before he could begin swearing insults at Agnes on his daughter’s behalf. “I hardly believe Princess Luceria to be capable of such underhanded maneuvers,” Baldwin interrupted curtly, his gaze narrowing as he leveled Agnes with a stern, disapproving stare.

The Leper King then turned to Maria, “Madame, with all due respect, how do you know Count Philip’s intentions? This is sensitive; we cannot have it misrepresented.”

“Because Prince Bohemond promised him an audience with the Emperor and his wife,” Maria declared flatly. “The Count was sent to arrange a marriage between King Louis’s daughter and my granduncle’s heir.” She took a deep breath, before continuing in a hushed tone. “Philip beseeched me to write a letter on his behalf.”

Baldwin’s jaw tightened, “You obliged?”

“My duty compelled me.” Maria lifted her chin. “He approached me due to my standing in the Byzantine Court. I had to consider the Empire’s best interests, so I advised him on approaching my granduncle.”

Raynald scratched his beard. He would have to talk to his stepdaughter, the Empress, about this development.

Baldwin frowned deeply, but gave the former Queen a subtle nod. He had regained his control, swiftly subduing his rising temper, “Please continue, Madame. We shall hear you in full.”

“After I agreed, the Count grew boastful,” She sighed heavily, “He said he has no intention of returning in the spring, simply because you refused to make it worth his while.”

Agnes scoffed, “Of course. These greedy men only care about power!”

“Be that as it may, this is how Philip feels,” Maria shook her head. “I advised the Count that if Jerusalem waged war against Saladin while he was still present in Outremer, it would reflect most poorly upon him. The Haute Cour would undoubtedly blame him for any failures, and while he could care less what Jerusalem’s Court thinks, he was clearly wary of antagonizing my granduncle. The Empire would assuredly hold the Count accountable as well.”

“So the bastard wishes to ensure he will not be held accountable for anything.” Raynald sneered. “How convenient and despicable.”

The King nodded slowly. The wheels were turning in his head as well. “I would have to agree,” He said, a hint of distress in his voice, “If true, this puts us in a very difficult situation. I believe the Count will not keep his promise, so we must begin all preparations now.”

Baldwin was mentally strong, Raynald would give him that.

“You have done right, Madame, to speak of this privately here before everyone. We are most grateful for this information.” Baldwin seemed genuinely appreciative of Maria’s efforts.

“Of course, your Grace,” She bowed her head, “I thought it best to tell you before word spread amongst the other Lords. This news will cause much unrest.”

Raynald mentally scoffed at Maria’s comment. That was the bloody understatement of the century. Even now, the members of the court were already whispering among themselves.

Baldwin carefully rose from his seat, silencing the room. “The Court is adjourned for now until I have deliberated an appropriate response with my advisors,” He declared, “Lord Humphrey, Lord Raynald, I would like a word with you both regarding the disposition of our forces.”

The constable and regent quickly rose, prepared to obey their King’s summons. Their eyes met briefly, and Raynald noted the man’s weary expression.

What lay in store for them now?

Chapter Text

I am sick with a love to last a thousand years.

Your smile is a melody. Your hair is the sun in the skies.

My body yearns for your touch.

My lips burn with the desire to kiss yours.

Every breath, every moment of my life I want to spend by your side.

Will you ever see me the way I see you?

Do I dare ask for more than I can have?

Jerusalem, September 1177

They had not been alone together since.

Since she had almost…

Luceria’s thoughts were haunted by those intense, fleeting moments. The warmth of his gaze. His hot breath brushing her skin as she leaned closer. The sensation of his fingertips ghosting over hers. Her head bowed as her heart raced in anticipation. She had been close enough to count every last one of Baldwin's pale blonde lashes.

It was agony. And ecstasy.

And she wanted it to happen all over again.

She was utterly consumed. Her mind constantly drifted back to that charged, tender instant that had left her so breathless and dizzy with want. With need.

At first she dared to dream Baldwin might feel something too. That he might desire more, despite the consequences. But his actions seemed to indicate otherwise. He had kept his distance, never once attempting to broach the topic of their near-kiss.

Instead, he seemed to avoid her company as much as he was able. Being overly polite, yet curt, when they were in public together. Never alone.

Before their game of Senet, Luceria had been oblivious to the depths of her infatuation until she had nearly...nearly…

The princess possessed an accursed talent for endlessly brooding over her troubles.

Luceria threw her head back onto her pillows, her thoughts a mess.

She was a mess.

She wanted to do nothing more than to waste the day away wrestling with her anguish.

A knock sounded at her bedroom door, followed by a series of quick frantic raps, startling Luceria. She sat up straight, smoothing her loose blonde strands before replying with a soft, uncertain voice.

“Who is it?”

“Sister! It's me, Philippa” Came the familiar feminine reply, “I thought you might want to go out for a walk.”

“Enter,” Luceria called weakly.

“God’s breath, girl—are you still moping?” Philippa chuckled as she swept into the chambers. Even after weeks of dwelling in Jerusalem during this unstable time, her elder sister carried herself as if the entire world were hers. “Rotting in your chambers won’t make matters better.”

She smiled, radiant as always. Philippa was the middle child and unlike Mary who was more regally handsome, Anna who was more demure and pious, and Alice who was ever so sweet, Philipp was beautiful in all the ways men admired—full figured, golden haired, and brash with confidence that could captivate even the most jaded of hearts.

And here Luceria was unkempt, tired, and distraught.

“I am enjoying the quiet.” Luceria replied wryly. “I'm not feeling well.”

“You’ve been like this for over a week now,” Philippa said, raising an eyebrow. “You're only going to feel worse if you continue to wallow in self pity.”

Luceria hugged her pillow. Since Bohemond left, Philippa had been her only true companion, but her sister was not prone to long bouts of melancholy. She was too pragmatic for that. Luceria loved her dearly, yet there were moments she wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Even if it meant suffering alone in her misery.

“At least let me comb your hair, will you?” Philippa sighed, sitting beside her on the bed. “Miriam hasn't been tending to you as of late and your hair looks like a bird’s nest.”

No, Miriam had not been present. Luceria had sent her away, unable to deal with her maidservant’s doting, concerned nature.

Luceria sighed. “I just want to be left alone, that’s all.”

Philippa pursed her lips before reaching for Luceria's prized ivory comb on the bedside table. “Come now, sit up.” She gave Luceria's tresses a frim pull, causing the younger woman to whine in protest. “It will be easier if you just do as I say.”

Luceria reluctantly complied, her movements stiff and slow. She didn't know why, but the maternal gestures seemed to comfort her, despite her initial reluctance. Philippa began to brush her sister's hair in slow, soothing strokes.

“Now tell me, what has gotten into you?”

Luceria shook her head, “Nothing of importance, sister.”

“Liar,” Philippa chided, pinching Luceria’s ear. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Will you cut that out? You’re worse than Alice,” Luceria complained, rubbing her sore earlobe, “It truly is nothing of note.”

Philippa continued her ministrations on her littlest sister’s golden tresses. “Do you remember when you were a child, how the sunbird egg cracked and you found the dead chick inside? You were quiet for days, just like this. You hardly spoke or played or smiled.”

“I'm not a little girl anymore.” Luceria murmured.

“But the sadness is still there, even now. What is it?” Philippa continued to press.

“Bohemond and I argued,” Luceria confessed, “He thinks I should return to Antioch and that he's better suited to decide who I should marry than anyone else.” She knew she sounded petulant, but it was the truth.

“And you feel as though you cannot trust your brother’s judgement in these matters?”

Luceria frowned, looking back over her shoulder, “It's not that. It's that I'm not ready.”

Philippa smiled wistfully. “I think we all wish for the same thing, but life is not always so kind to us.”

Luceria was only seven when the scandal broke loose, but she was old enough to remember the vicious whispers being said about Philippa and Androkinos. The details of their relationship had always been left vague and Bohemond had remained quiet on the subject. But Luceria knew it must have been painful. Even now, as they talked, there was the tiniest of twinges in Philippa’s voice, though her face remained impassive as ever. Her sister truly did know heartache.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. Philippa waved her concern away, but Luceria continued, “Do...do you ever regret marrying Lord Humphrey?”

“Of course not,” Philippa said firmly, “But he does have his faults, just like every other man.” A faint smile appeared on her lips, “He sees the world with open eyes. And while that may not be the easiest quality to live with, it is an admirable trait. He has become everything to me.”

“Even if you never loved him in the beginning?”

Philippa paused, running ivory teeth of the comb through golden strands. “Perhaps it would have been different, but when we were married we did not know each other. Nor could we have predicted what was to come.” She continued, her tone serious and thoughtful. “But I would do it all over again knowing what I know now.”

The thought of her arranged marriage and her husband-to-be filled Luceria with unease. She could not imagine feeling that way about some stranger. Would he even treat her kindly, let alone make her happy?

“I just want to be happy.” She muttered softly, “I know that it's selfish of me to say.”

“Oh, Lucy,” Philippa murmured sympathetically, “You should not worry. It is only natural to feel this way, little sister. All of us in this life have taken a leap for a chance at happiness. No matter how fleeting, how distant it seems.”

“You and I both know that it’s never that simple. Especially for those of our station.” Luceria could not let these glittery words fool her into false hope. “I have to think about my duty.”

“Did Bohemond tell you this?” Philippa asked.

“He told me I needed to grow up.”

Philippa’s lips quirked wryly. “You know, Bohemond is not exactly the best judge of what makes for a happy marriage. Especially since he’s annulling his own marriage.”

“I beg your pardon?” Luceria’s eyes widened in surprise.

“He doesn’t love his wife, I don’t actually think he cares for her at all.” Philippa said nonchalantly. “This is what happens when marriages are arranged too quickly without considering the feelings of those involved.”

Luceria bit her lip, her mind racing. “I don't understand. Is this not the man who has always insisted we listen to what he says?”

“Men are fickle, Luceria,” Philippa chuckled. “Perhaps Bohemond most of all. He is the type of man who does whatever is most convenient for him, regardless of consequences. That is why half the Kingdom is perpetually upset with his antics.”

Luceria did not believe it. It could not possibly be true. Bohemond may have had his flaws, but what Philippa was saying was simply too callous, even for him. She knew her brother and he was not that sort of man. Princess Theodora was the Emperor’s niece, she would not see her family’s reputation sullied so. And Bohemond wouldn’t dare place his family in an unfavorable position.

Besides, Philippa shared Alice’s tendency to gossip. It could not be entirely reliable information.

“I’m sorry but I don't believe it. Not Bohemond. Not him.”

Philippa shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you but he told me himself. You know he can be rather candid when he’s intoxicated. I don’t know if this is worse than the little stunt he pulled with Raynald and that Flemish Count.”

“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Good God, Luceria. Do you not keep up with the Court?”

“No one ever tells me what takes place in the Haute Cour!”

“You really need to start taking an interest. It will benefit you to stay current on these affairs. You are not going to remain in the shadow of the court for long, especially with Bohemond pushing for marriage.” She paused, looking over her shoulder as she braided Luceria’s hair. “Trading gossip with the right people can be advantageous.”

“Perhaps…” Luceria relented, still unsure. “But I don't want to hurt anyone...”

“Of course not! That isn't the point of gossiping. The goal is to gather information, not spread malicious rumors.” Her sister replied, “The trick is to be subtle enough to make others reveal their secrets, but not too obvious as to give away your intentions.”

Luceria sighed. It was exhausting trying to navigate all these courtly politics. “So what were you going to say?”

“Well, you know how Bohemond has been thinking about besieging Hārim for a while now?” Philippa began, already exasperated, “Raymond agrees with him. And they’re also been weary about the Egyptian Expedition. Raymond mainly because he does not like the Emperor much since Cousin’s Melisende’s death. And Bohemond because he’s…well…Bohemond,” She paused, making sure she had Luceria’s full attention. “So they went behind the King’s back to inform Philip of their plans. Apparently, he agreed and left the capital, claiming he was going on a pilgrimage. But really he went to Nablus to speak to Queen Maria, and now they’ve gathered up an army and are headed North!”

It was a mouthful, but the information still failed to fully process in Luceria’s mind. She couldn't believe her ears. “Are you….are you joking?”

“Would I joke about something this serious?” Philippa seemed slightly affronted.

Yes, would have been the proper response. But Luceria was aghast. “Would this not affect our relations with the Byzantines?”

“Oh yes. Humphrey tells me they may even pull their ships and sail back to Constantinople!”

Luceria’s jaw dropped at the notion of facing the Saracens without Byzantine support. “Surely this cannot be true, Philippa!”

“But it is! My husband heard it directly from Queen Maria herself.” Philippa shook her head. “Well, at least someone is happy amidst all this. The King has apparently arranged for her marriage to Lord Balian. We all know he’s been infatuated with her for quite some time, so it was long overdue.”

Luceria didn't care much about Lord Balian’s feelings, nor was she particularly interested in the gossip surrounding the Queen's marriage prospects. Her head spun. If Bohemond jeopardized Baldwin's relations with the Empire, what would the consequences be? The Sultan’s forces were too strong to be defeated on their own. They needed those ships—and the thousands of soldiers aboard them—to take Egypt.

“How can our brother be so reckless?” Luceria lamented. Could this be why Baldwin had been so evasive her her lately? Did he blame her for Bohemond’s carelessness?

“Well Bohemond has always been impulsive, with little regard for the repercussions of his actions,” Philippa replied wistfully, “Nor does the spare a thought for those around him.” She shook her head, “He has the audacity to judge me for what I’ve done, but he’s been parading his concubine in front of Princess Theodora!”

Shock stiffened Luceria’s spine. “In court? That is such a grave disrespect!”

“Indeed. But that’s Bohemond’s way. You’ve only been shielded from the full extent of his transgressions only because he dotes upon you so.” The older woman playfully poked her nose, and Luceria swatter her sister’s hand away.

“But he speaks about his duty—”

“—And that duty has always been to himself.” The older woman interjected. “Once the Emperor passes and our dear sister takes charge of the Empire, even she will not care what Bohemond does with his wife. As long as the Church blesses the annulment, our brother will be free to do as he pleases. As he has always done.”

Bohemond's loveless union with Princess Theodora had always been one of political convenience, but she had naively believed he would at least honor his commitment. To learn that he was merely biding his time until he could cast aside his wife without consequence unsettled her deeply.

“I confess, I did not think him so... heartless,” she murmured. Or hypocritical.

“Luceria, most men of nobility are of a similar type,” Philippa shrugged. Luceria shot her a withering stare, but her sister simply continued. “Our beloved older brother is hardly an exception.”

“It is just disappointing to hear of his callousness, when he was the one who raised me. To think of him treating his wife so cruelly…” Her voice trailed off.

Philippa's face softened, “He’s been like this for years. He may dote on you, little sister, but it does not make him less cruel in other respects.” She leaned forward, wrapping Luceria in her arms, “He cares about you. I would do whatever is necessary to keep you safe. But that is the extent of his kindness.”

Luceria rested her forehead on Philippa's shoulder, taking comfort in the embrace. Her sister's words stung, but there was no way to refute them. Bohemond was selfish and often disregarded others in pursuit of his own desires. But Luceria knew him better than most. And in her eyes, despite his flaws, she loved him. Perhaps he did not love Theodora, but the least he could have done was treat her with dignity.

“I am telling you this because I do not want you to end up like that poor woman,” Philippa said softly, “Truly noble men, like my Humphrey, or even your King, are rare. You must take matters into your own hands and protect yourself. Do not let anyone, not even Bohemond, control your destiny. No man will ever truly care as much as he claims to and certainly not enough to give you true happiness. That is your job to go and seize it.”

“Philippa, you knew?” Luceria’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Since when? Tell me, I beg you!”

The older woman simply laughed, curls bobbing as she shook head in amusement, “Sister, darling, as clever and graceful as you are, you have absolutely no guile whatsoever. You’ve forever been the poorest liar I’ve ever known. Besides, the way you look at him…”

“Do not tell, please!” Luceria pleaded, “I don’t know what the King will do if he finds out! You mustn’t speak of this to anyone, Philippa. Promise me!”

“Oh, Lucy…” Philipa giggled, “You truly have no clue of your charms, do you?”

She rolled her eyes, “Just promise me, Philipa. Please. I-I do not wish to cause trouble for Baldwin. If the Haute Cour finds out—”

“It will be difficult to not notice, Luceria,” Her sister laughed, “But very well, I won’t say anything. If it will help ease your troubled heart, I solemnly vow to keep quiet. But you should at least talk to him instead of wallowing in here.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Luceria conceded. She did miss Baldwin’s company terribly, and the way he's been avoiding her as of late has only made it worse. She needed to seize the opportunity while she still could. To spend as much time with him as possible.

Philippa smiled wistfully. "You've grown so much. You’re no longer my little baby sister hiding behind my skirts.” Her sister chuckled, pulling back from their embrace. “Promise to see to your own happiness. That's all I ask.”

Jerusalem, September 1177

Baldwin descend the all-too-familiar chapel stairs, his steps as heavy as his mind. Even in God’s house, it seemed that shame had a way of reaching him. How frail and feeble his will was—especially when temptation wore Luceria’s face.

His pious mother had warned him time and time again. How men with his condition were more susceptible to sin. She begged him to stay away her from insisting that she was a distraction to his station, to his faith, and to his self-control.

Such advice, had always fallen upon deaf ears.

But day and night he’d throw himself upon the mercy of the confessional, and plead for the Almighty’s forgiveness and divine strength to stave off the cravings of the flesh. He needed discipline. Restraint. And perhaps, most of all, divine intervention. For since that game of Senet, every time she was near him, he feared his control would falter. That he might touch her once again.

And crush his hungry mouth to her lips and drink deeply of sinful euphoria.

They met now only surrounded by chaperones—gray-bearded chaplains and madames who smelled like day-old pottage. But still in those scarce moments they were left alone, when she’d look at him with pleading eyes that begged to understand his sudden aloofness, he’d become so distracted by her lips he’d fail to form words.

He forced himself to remain apart at a respectful distance, but even in moments of separation, he physically ached for her.

His starved flesh cried out with the agonizing need to envelop her beauty in his arms, to bury his face in the fragrant softness of her hair and cradle her lithe form against his own. Late at night, his treacherous thoughts would turn to sinful nightmares of their bodies entwined, skin sliding against skin. He would rouse in bed, drenched with sweat from heated, shame-ridden dreams.

The mere fantasy was enough to reawaken his self-disgust. Enough for Baldwin to feel guilt and remorse for not being the virtuous man he should be. A holy man of God, a just and righteous ruler, a loving son honoring his mother, a pious servant of the Lord. He always thought himself above these weaknesses, but now he knew differently. He craved the impossible. The sinful. The immoral. The beautiful perfect princess whom he wanted but could never possess.

It was as though Luceria was the verdant earth; and he was the scorching sun entranced by her. Forever destined to orbit around her presence. A helpless cosmic dance of desire and longing, of devotion and submission.

If he came too close, he could easily destroy her; burn up her beauty, her radiance, consume her existence with the flames of his lust.

For the sake of their friendship and her integrity, Baldwin knew he could not pursue her, could not even allow her to know how desperately he yearned for her. It was as plain as the scars that disfigured his flesh—the unclean leper King must never desire the pure Princess Luceria as anything more than a friend.

And so he walked towards the gardens seeking clarity, his physician having declared the afternoon heat mild enough for brief excursions. Summer lingered stubbornly in Jerusalem, but soon the autumnal rains would parch his orchard. Much like like bustans cultivated by the Saracens, he preferred his gardens tailored towards practicality over ornamental—orderly rows of fruit trees and vegetable beds promising future bounties to grace the royal tables.

If only he could ride, he would be able to escape his prison of thoughts.

When Baldwin finally arrived to his usual spot, he found them already there beneath the gnarled orange tree. Luceria sat on an old mantle spread over the grass, her back against the trunk. Before her, young Humphrey IV and Baldwin’s own half-sister were crouched over a kite, whispering and giggling like they were lost in their own world.

She was not in fine silks today, only a linen dress of pale yellow muslin, her hair braided loosely beneath a veil. Simplicity suited her much too well. Baldwin’s fist curled. She was beautiful. Utterly, devastatingly beautiful. As always.

A gust stirred the orchard and Luceria tucked a stray curl beneath her veil. Then her eyes turned towards him and widened. He could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest.

“Your Grace.” She stood swiftly, dusting the grass from her skirts as she dipped into a curtsy. Beside her, Isabella and young Humphrey took belatedly took notice of his appearance.

After a clumsily executed curtsy, Isabella piped up eagerly, “Brother! Look what Humphrey made!” One small hand flung outwards to reveal a creation of brightly-dyed silk and carved wood frames. “Do you like it?”

“You have a skilled hand, Young Humphrey,” He said, shooting the children an indulgent smile, the warmth reaching his eyes as boyish mischief so often did not.

The boy’s narrow chest puffed out with pride. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Young Humphrey bowed slightly, “Would you like to see it in Action? I promise it’s not dangerous at all!” He added the reassurance after sensing Luceria’s withering stare.

“Stay and watch if fly! Please!” Isabella begged along.

“I’ve got things to attend to—”

“But Madame Esther says it will rain tomorrow and I won’t get to play then,” She whined.

“But Isabella—”

“Pleeeeeeease.”

“Very well then, Bella.” He relented, not wanting to disappoint her. His eyes turned back to Luceria’s, seeking unspoken permission. “If you do not mind…?”

Luceria shook her head, “Oh, no. Not at all.” She replied, nodding as she scooted over on the grass to make room beside her. “Join us, please.”

He lowered himself beside her, careful not to get too close. Even sitting a respectable distance apart, he yearned to get closer, to drink in the fragrance of her skin and hair. She smelled like the sugared confections she so adored, a sweetness fit to undo fasts.

“Don’t blink!” Isabella’s shout carried over the breeze.

“Go ahead, Bella. I’m watching.”

As the children played away, Luceria turned to study him closely. “Your Majesty…” She began hesitantly. “Is all well with you?”

“Yes, My Lady,” He said softly. “I merely wish I could join them in their fun, that’s all.”

“You may if you wish,” She gently teased. “Who says you can’t fly a kite, Your Grace? I daresay it might even improve the mood.” She flashed a cheeky smile, but the joke fell flat upon hearing it aloud. How could she so comfortably tease him when he was so cold to her?

“Perhaps later,” He murmured softly. The mood was already spoiled.

“Did I say something to upset you?” She asked quietly. “It’s just…you haven't been yourself lately.”

He didn’t know how much he ought to reveal, how to dance around the subject without lying to her. “I just feel like I haven’t made many proper decisions lately.”

He could tell she was confused, and possibly concerned, by his vague answer. “If it means anything, I want you to know that I don’t agree with what Bohemond did. I cannot excuse him for undermining your authority so rashly without even consulting the court.”

He chuckled. It was a naive assessment. Everything that went wrong in the realm, Baldwin knew it was because he had failed somehow. Bohemond, Raymond, Philip—they were merely the symptoms of his incompetence. He had allowed his weakness to show.

The Byzantine ambassadors were pulling their fleet from Arce and were now sailing back to Constantinople. The trio were on their way to besiege Hārim. Unsurprisingly, the new Master of the Knights of St.John—Roger des Moulins (given his previous service in the Hospitaller preceptory of Antioch)—had chosen to support them. It was only natural then that the Knights Hospitaller and many Knights Templar had followed them.

As a result, the bulk of Outremer's military was now focused on the northern front, rather than the meticulously strategized expedition to Egypt that Baldwin had so carefully orchestrated over countless months of planning. Months now utterly wasted.

But the silly thing was, despite all that, what kept him up at night was this silly girl beside him, and the fear of shattering everything he had built between them. Her innocence made even fantasy treason. His heart was already heavy with guilt for betraying her trust by lusting after her like an animal.

He composed himself carefully. “What matters now is ensuring our success,” He said, “If your brother’s unsanctioned campaign is fruitful, then the damage they have caused can be amended. If not…well…I’ll deal with it when the situation arises.”

He could tell she wasn't entirely convinced of his words. She was not the type to easily relinquish her doubts. “I just can't help but feel like it's more than just that, your Highness,” She whispered, “I know I'm not exactly well informed about these political affairs, and you are under no obligation to discuss them with me, but something is clearly weighing on your mind.”

Baldwin studied the grass between them, its blades bent where Luceria’s skirts had pressed. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Luceria. But it is nothing you should trouble yourself over.” He murmured. Even though her concern was endearing, he had no desire to further this conversation.

He could see the frustration growing in her face, her lips pressed together tightly. "But is everything well between us?”

His throat tightened, his voice stuck. What could he say? That she was too beautiful to be near without fear of touching her? That his love and desire for her was so intense, so all consuming, that his skin crawled with need for her?

“Why would anything be wrong between us?”

“I feel like you've been avoiding me ever since Bohemond left.” Her voice sounded strained. “If it’s what he did I truly knew nothing. If I had, I would’ve—”

“My lady, I would never condemn you for your family.” He insisted hastily.

“Then have I done something to offend you?” She begged.

“No.” He sighed, “There is nothing, not a single thing, that you could ever do to offend me.”

“Then why?” Her voice cracked. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“Luceria, you must understand—”

“No,” She pleaded. “You need to explain it to me. Is it because of how I acted during senet?”

“No!” Baldwin’s voice rose in dismay.

“Then why?” She begged, “Did you not say you wished for us to confide in each other? Why can’t you tell me what troubles you?”

His eyes raked over her form, taking in her disarrayed skirts and loosened braids. And Baldwin found that he could not contain himself any longer.

“It’s because I like you!” The words rushed out in a breathless jumble before he could even stop them. “I like you, Luceria.” he breathed, feeling like a fool. He averted his eyes shamefully, refusing to face her, unable to face the consequences of the truth that now hung between them.

It was like standing naked before God's all-seeing judgement; awaiting His verdict of eternal damnation.

She was quiet. Too stunned to respond. And for a moment, Baldwin feared that she might never reply and run away instead. He did not know what was worse—her potential disgust or the deafening silence dragging between them.

“P-pardon?” It was all she could say.

Baldwin swallowed hard. He had to give her the honesty she deserved. He had no choice left, he could not take the words back now.

“Luceria, I like you.” The raw confession shook him with every breath. “As…more than a friend. Much more.”

She simply stared at him, eyes wide with astonishment. “You do?”

He nodded.

She did not speak again, and the silence was heavier than a shroud.

“You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t.” Baldwin said softly. His fingers combed through his blonde locks in a nervous gesture. “I know it cannot be between us. It is wrong, utterly wrong. I understand.”

He hung his head low, unable to look at her. She did not move. Did not speak. And for one awful moment, Baldwin thought he must truly be repulsive—unworthy of her, unworthy of her love and affections and all that was beautiful in this world.

“Baldwin…” She started gently. No doubt getting ready to reject him. “Your Majesty—I…I am flattered you feel so strongly about me. I-I care for you, too, of course—”

“I don’t expect anything.” He interjected hastily. “Really, you are under no obligations. There need never be any talk of this ever again, My Lady.” He could not bear to see her pity for him; to hear her kind condescending lies or hollow platitudes offered out of mere pity.

Luceria bit her lip, “But I feel…I feel the same.” The admission was barely audible. A whisper in the breeze.

He stared at her stunned. Not daring to move lest he shatter this impossible dream. “…The same?”

She gave a curt nod, a blush creeping up to her ears. “I like you.” She repeated again, more firmly now, meeting his gaze once more. “More than is proper?”

He dared not break eye contact with her, scarcely able to draw breath. “You do?” The words caught in his throat, scarcely daring to hope.

Her hands clenched into fists, “Y-Yes.” She breathed the response like a sacred incantation, the word exhaling on her next breath.

Baldwin exhaled, his broad shoulders sagging forward as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them, the breath escaping in a sharp gust as he struggled to process what he'd just heard.

Luceria reciprocated his forbidden feelings for her. She had given voice to those words out loud. Those words he never dared to dream would be spoken back to him.

She liked him. As more than a friend.

“Say it again,” He whispered softly. “Please?”

She blushed and looked away. “You're making this incredibly embarrassing,” she murmured, unable to quite meet his gaze.

His heart leaped into his throat. “Please,” Baldwin asked again, his tone bordered on pleading. Begging. Almost pathetic, if it came to that. “I've spent far too long dreaming of this moment. I need to hear it again, to remind myself it’s real.”

Luceria laughed in disbelief, shaking her head slightly, but didn't protest further. The corners of her eyes crinkled warmly and she tilted her face to meet his gaze again. He held himself utterly still, scarcely daring to breathe. “I like you.”

“Again?”

Her lips quirked into a faint half-grin. “Again?” She repeated teasingly. Her eyes softened, her voice gentling to an intimate murmur meant only for him, “I like you.” She paused and added with deliberate emphasis, “My dearest Baldwin, I like you. As more than a friend.”

The words sent tingles coursing through his body; his skin flushed and prickled hotly from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His heart hammered frantically in his chest, beating fast, threatening to escape out of him like a caged beast desperate for freedom. The truth of her confession settled into his core with profound, piercing finality.

He almost did not dare to fully believe his senses. Surely, this was a dream!

His cheeks ached from grinning so widely, his entire face felt as though it might shatter from sheer joy. “You know, my lady, I did not expect these words to reach me in this lifetime.” He admitted, “Nothing has ever sounded so wonderful. So thank you.”

Luceria smiled, blushing again, “And you... I... Your Majesty, I never considered... I never dared to entertain the thought that my feelings could be reciprocated.” Her long lashes fluttered against the apples of her cheeks.

And Baldwin looked at her with a most tender smile, drinking in her features as if committing them to eternal memory.

Surely God himself must have been merciful to grant Baldwin this gift of such pure, transcendent happiness. This unparalleled joy. And in this verdant garden, under the shade of a flowering orange tree, Baldwin's life became beautifully, gloriously whole—if only for one perfect moment.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, October 1177.

The last time Sibylla had set foot in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for a wedding, it had been her own.

Candlelight washed over statues of saints as she pressed a hand to the curve of her womb. Seven months had gone by, the bump unmistakable beneath the thick linen of her mourning gown. It had been over a year since she had wed William of Montferrat, and a mere four months since he had been taken from her.

Today’s ceremony meant nothing to her but duty. Nobility did not grieve openly. She stood rigid, maintaining the composure expected of a bereaved widow. It was not a celebration she had wished to witness.

But within, Sibylla simmered with a different emotion. Anger. Anger at the cruel twists of fate that brought her to this moment, anger at the life that had been so cruelly cut short. Anger at William for getting sick, for dying and leaving her all alone in this world.

And anger at God for taking him from her.

She had wanted to be a queen, to wear crowns and rule with an iron fist. Not to be some grieving, pregnant widow, rushed by the court to remarry in order to secure the future of Jerusalem.

Lords murmured approval behind her as the Patriarch draped silken cords over the couple’s joined hands. Everyone but Sibylla's own mother, it seemed, was thrilled to witness Queen Maria's happiness in her second marriage. Balian of Ibelin smiled beside Queen Maria in a manner that reminded Sibylla far too much of the way William once smiled. 

Lord Balian was a good man with a good reputation. He would be kind to her.

Yet the scene sent a dull ache radiating through Sibylla’s heart.

Oh God. She missed him. She missed William.

The only happiness Sibylla had was knowing that soon, the heir of Jerusalem would be born.

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, October 1177

“I think I should like to wear this today, Miriam,” The Princess of Antioch held out a gown of deep crimson velvet. The handmaiden noted the choice with quiet surprise—Luceria typically was more preoccupied with her horses or studies than sartorial matters. But beneath the weight of her station, Luceria was still a simple girl with simple joys.

“You do look radiant in red, my lady,” Miriam replied, testing the fabric between her fingers. It was smooth to the touch and cost more than an artisan might earn in years.

“Mmm…Do you really think so?” Luceria asked, turning to face her reflection in the mirror as the handmaiden started brushing her flaxen locks.

“Indeed I do,” Miriam affirmed as she began weaving ribbons through the strands of Luceria’s hair. “Though I wonder what occasion warrants such finery.”

“N-no particular reason,” The princess’s neck flushed pink above her collar. “Only a wake with Philippa in the gardens. Perhaps it has put me in the mood for something…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…pretty.”

Miriam’s mouth tightened. She’d seen that look before, on the face of Luceria’s mother when those Frankish knights first sailed to Antioch. On Luceria’s own mother, Princess Constance, when Raymond of Poitiers entered the room. Before war cruelly stole him away.

And since the day of Queen Maria's wedding, Luceria had been...happier. The most mundane occurrences—a bird alighting on her window, some phrase in an illuminated manuscript—would elicit uncharacteristically wide, girlish smiles. And her laughter rang more freely and brightly than Miriam had heard it in years.

Sometimes, Luceria would even hum to herself.

“Miriam,” Luceria called out, breaking Miriam’s thoughts, “Rouge. Just a touch, please.”

The handmaiden hesitated, but reached for the small Damascene box on the vanity. Miriam smoothed the rouge across Luceria’s face, staining her lips and cheeks with the color of blooming pomegranates.

Will he be there? Miriam wanted to ask. But no answer nor denial was needed. Miriam already knew deep down.

“Thank you, Miriam,” Luceria beamed, the sunlight haloing her form. “How wonderful you are.”

Miriam returned the smile, although it did not reach her eyes.

Jerusalem, October 1177

“Do you know much about love poems, William?” The young King of Jerusalem asked his tutor. He sat near the arched window of his study, gazing at the fluttering of the linen curtains.

He peeked through the fabric at the courtyard below, where knights trained in the heat. Yet his mind seemed far from the clash of swords and shouts of men. All morning he had been uncharacteristically distracted, his quill stopping mid-stroke during his Latin exercises, and his gaze never leaving the window.

“Love poetry, sire?” William adjusted his robe. “Perhaps you’d like me to recite some lines from Ars Amatoria? Or Catullus, perhaps, in the original—”

“No, no more Latin today,” Baldwin cut in, sharper than he intended. He turned, and William noticed the flush creeping up the boy’s neck (not from the sun, but perhaps from something more mischievous?). “I seek…recommendations, William. Poems that speak of…gentler things.”

William leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking, “And what qualities will make these poems ‘good’, Your Grace?”

Baldwin hesitated, but only for a second. “I’m not sure. Perhaps…verses of romance? But not the epics. Those are much to cliche. Something sweeter. More…intimate, perhaps?”

“Indeed.” William hid a smile beneath his beard. He could see through the scholarly pretense, but he admired the boy’s attempt at discretion. “A well-rounded education befits any King. I shall find you some passages that I believe will…enrich your studies.”

Baldwin’s newfound interest, William mused, was no dry exercise in literature. It was the first tender sign of something profound, something that would challenge even William’s old learned mind: the awakening of a man’s heart.

“And I would, perhaps, like to attempt some verses of my own.” Baldwin said after a moment’s pause. He glanced at his tutor, not seeking permission, but understanding. “For, um, the sake of my cultural awareness, I mean.”

William’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “As Your Majesty wills.”

You th. A marvelous time, William recalled, of boundless emotions and passions. Even for one so ill-fated as Baldwin, there were many joys still to be savored and cherished.

“And, if our lessons have concluded,” Baldwin said, a little too eagerly, “I would like to go to the gardens.”

“I thought we were due for a game of chess today,” The archbishop pointed out. “It wouldn’t do for you to be rusty.”

“We can play tomorrow, I promise it.” Baldwin replied, gaze drifting back to the window. There was an urgency in his dismissal, a rare impatience that spoke volumes.

This was a very rare thing for the Young King to abandon their routine so easily, and William wasn’t daft. He knew it would most definitely involve the Princess Luceria in some way or another.

“Very well sire, as you wish.” William chuckled.

"There is more to life than chess, William." Baldwin smiled to himself. "And it's a beautiful day today."

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” William’s eyes glanced over to where Baldwin’s gaze rested, and found what was on the boy’s mind—or perhaps, more specifically, the boy’s heart. From the windows, the archbishop had caught a glimpse of a young blonde princess crossing the courtyard and making her way to the gardens.

“A very beautiful day…” The king murmured, so softly that William almost missed it.

Jerusalem, October 1177

“Are you…wearing rouge?” Philippa pressed a hand to her mouth, suppressing a girlish giggle.

Luceria’s cheeks pinkened, as she adjusted her veil over face. “Miriam insisted.” She murmured. She didn’t know why she lied and said that. It wasn’t like there were secrets between the two of them now. “Does it look strange?”

“No,” Philippa said reassuringly, taking her sister’s hands in hers. “Not at all. I mean you always look lovely, but I think you’re dressed a little more nicely this morning.” She teased.

“I suppose I felt like looking nice today.” She tried to shrug off the observation, but she knew Philippa could read her plain as day.

So perhaps she was dressing better in the hopes of running into Baldwin. And perhaps, she had been dressing better all week if it meant that Baldwin would notice her. If she happened to loiter where he would see her from his windows, that was merely…coincidental.

But her feelings for him were so fresh, so tender and fragile. It was hard to keep them contained. Her emotions swirled like the lupines in the fresh spring wind, and they threatened to carry her away with them.

Did you know that a boy’s eyes could be so blue? And that when he looked at you—really look at you—you could feel yourself melt in their depths? Or that his smile could make you forget yourself for the briefest of moments?

Luceria did not. At least not until recently.

“What do you think?" Philippa must have noticed Luceria’s thoughts were elsewhere as she gently squeezed her sister’s hand.

“Sorry?”

“As I was saying,” Philippa rolled her eyes. “We are heading back to Toron next week. Humphrey has matters to deal with back home.” She added. “I had asked if you wanted to come spend time with me.

While she truly, truly enjoyed Philippa’s company—even though most of the time the older girl’s jesting made her blush to her roots—Luceria knew how she could not leave Jerusalem now.

“I shall have to consider it, Pippa. I don’t think father will want me to leave the Kingdom so soon.”

“Uh huh.” Philippa grinned, “Your father or the king?”

The princess laughed, a small blush flushing her cheeks. “Both, I expect.”

Philippa was about to say something more, but abruptly closed her mouth, lips twitching into a grin. “Weeell, I expect you can talk your way into staying if you really wanted to.” She whispered into Luceria’s ear. “After all, I see a certain someone who will try to persuade you not to leave.”

Before she could ask what Philippa meant, she looked behind her, her vision focusing on what—or rather who—it was that had Philippa smirking so widely. Her heart caught at the sight of the King walking across the pathway. Beside him, was Anselm, the ever diligent squire.

For a moment, both Luceria and Baldwin merely stared awkwardly at each other.

“Er…Good day, Lady Philippa, Princess Luceria,” Baldwin said, dipping his head respectfully in greeting. The pinkishness in his cheeks made him look more boyish than Kingly. “Why, I did not know you ladies would be enjoying a stroll in the gardens today.

Luceria could’ve sworn she heard Anselm stifling a laugh as the two ladies curtsied in return. Philippa shared a mischievious glance with the squire as the four of them stood in silence, the only sounds being the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant trickle of a fountain.

“Perhaps you can tell me what squires do these day, sir?” Philippa leaned over to Anselm.

Anselm lifted a brow, cheeks flushing at Philippa’s attentions. Usually, the squire was quite cool and dignified, but under the Lady of Toron’s gaze, he seemed to lose all his composure. He scratched his head, fingers raking through tawny hair, before he realized the woman’s true intentions—an excuse to leave the teenagers alone together.

He nodded and cleared his throat. “If you do not mind, Sire.”

Baldwin nodded knowingly and eagerly walked towards Luceria. They exchanged shy, awkward smiles at each other. He cleared his throat, “I hope I wasn’t disturbing your conversation.” He bowed his head slightly, “But, might I have the pleasure of speaking with you?”

“Of course,” Her hand brushed her cheek absentmindedly in nervousness.

“Did you do something different with your appearance today?” Baldwin asked as they strolled slowly down the path that wove through the greenery. Their steps fell into quiet harmony, Anselm and Philippa trailing at a respectful distance, chatting away amiably with one another.

Luceria’s cheeks flushed. She adjusted the embroidered edge of her veil, “Oh, you’ve noticed.” She was almost ashamed of her vanity. “It must seem…silly…I know…But I just felt like dressing a little nicely today.” How could she tell him that it was only because she wanted to run into him.

“No, no.” Baldwin hastened to reassure her with a shake of his golden-haired head. “Forgive me. I meant not judgement. I merely meant to say that you look…” He hesitated, “…beautiful. You do every day. That much I can attest to.”

Luceria wondered if he could hear her heartbeat.

“…Especially so today.” He then seemed to realize he was staring and quickly averted his eyes, embarassed by the forwardness.

“Oh.” She was taken aback with the compliment, her cheeks already burning more than she could bear. “I-I think you are always handsome as well…” She returned shyly.

His cheeks flushed pink too. “Thank you, Princess,” He murmured bashfully. His hands brushed idly at the front of his robes, suddenly becoming preoccupied with looking straight ahead, at the shrubs and flowers that lined their path.

Neither of them knew quite what to say after that for a while. The pair of teenagers continued on their walk, sleeves almost brushing, never touching. It stretched on for what perhaps was an eternity, yet felt like the blink of an eye.

“Baldwin—”

“Lucy—”

They both began speaking at the exact same time and simultaneously glanced at one another, before laughing.

“We’ve been doing that quite a bit, lately.” She grinned.

“We have, haven’t we?”

“What were you going to say?” Luceria asked. “You go first.”

He blushed, and shook his head politely. “No, I insist you go first. I’m sure your question is more important than mine.”

“Well, I just wanted to know what your morning has been like,” Luceria prompted, studying the golden patterns embroidered on the collar of his robe, and on the edges where he had tied his sash.

“Not overly eventful. I spent most of it in my study with William.” Baldwin shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. “But then I came to take a walk because the day seemed rather pleasant.”

“Well it is a fine day.” She agreed. “I’m glad we…had the same thought.” She couldn’t stop smiling even if she tried. She traced the embroidery on her own sleeve, as if the patterns held the courage she needed. “So, what were you going to ask me?”

His cheeks reddened. “Oh—it’s nothing important.” He said hurriedly, “Just something…silly.”

The princess’s lips upturned. “I’d still like to hear it.”

They walked furhter, passing some flowers that had recently bloomed in the sun. “I wonder, when you told me that you returned my affections…” A faint flush crept his cheekbones. “Would you…would you mind telling me when you know…or perhaps why?”

She glanced at the flowers. They were beautiful, but not as beautiful as the boy beside her, she felt like saying. It wasn’t easy to know when such thoughts begun. They were like a bud—slow to bloom, slowly opening up its petals to let its fragrance free. “I—I suppose I have known for a while, I think.” She replied quietly after some hesitation. “Although, I didn’t realize what it really meant until…”

“Our game of senet?” He grinned. She could only nod in response, blushing at the reminder of how they kissed under the table, how their fingertips had lingered over each other. So brief it was like lightning.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.” She looked down at her hands then. “What about you? Did you know then too?” Luceria’s heart raced in anticipation. “Rather…When did you first start to like me? I mean as more than a friend?”

He chuckled softly at her question. “I think I’ve always found you pretty.” He answered honestly, this time without shyness nor reservation. “In truth, when we first met, you quite intimidated me.”

“I did?” She didn’t seem like someone who could intimidate anyone, let alone someone like him. Yet she felt flattered and amused that Baldwin had felt that way about her. She wondered why it was so.

“Yes, I was quite terrified of being alone with you,” He confessed as they strolled along, steps in perfect rhythm. “And yet, here I am…walking with you in the gardens.”

“What were you so worried about?”

He scratched his cheek sheepishly. “Well, I think, at first, perhaps—er…it was your beauty…” He admitted quietly. “The first time we met at my sister’s wedding, you took my breath away. I do not exaggerate, I mean I physically could not breathe.”

They both laughed at the memory. “I am glad you are still breathing now.” Luceria teased.

“You, Princess, are the sole reason for all my bouts of lung fever.” He shot her another smile, blue eyes sparkling brighter in the morning sun. “I do not know if I ever want to seek treatment out of it.”

Luceria couldn’t help but laugh some more. “You shouldn’t say things like that, you know? God is listening.

“I'll take my chances with that,” He shrugged, “Anything for you.”

“You flatterer,” She shook her head. “But is that the only reason then?” She asked. “Do you only like me for my face.” She half-jested, but she truly wanted to know.

“No—no, of course not!” He hurried to reply, trying to gain composure after having raised his voice. “I…I like you because we can talk so openly like this, and laugh together over nothing at all. I love every game we play together, and though you are usually no good at them, you still like to try.” He paused teased causing her to giggle. “You’re a most competitive rider, and you devour sweets like there is no tomorrow. I like how you are shy sometimes, yet teasing even more often.”

Luceria laughed at that, “Baldwin, if I am no good at gaming it is because you are much too competitive. Though I confess, I think your talents are quite extraordinary, really.” She confessed. “You see everything so clearly with all your plans…I wish I had some of those qualities in me.” She let out an exhale as she looked up at him. “I admire that very much, your intelligence.”

“I am quite smart, aren’t I?” Baldwin joked self-consciously and Luceria rolled her eyes.

“And modest too.” She added playfully.

“And handsome…?”

“That as well.” She admitted shyly. “But really, I’ve always thought you were…well, kind and generous towards everyone. That is what I like most about you, Baldwin. You are so very warm.”

“Luceria…” The king seemed taken aback by her words for a moment but his face slowly split into a smile that caused her heart to melt. “Thank you for telling me, though you make me feel as though my heart is going to burst.”

“But that is exactly how you make me feel!” She exclaimed. Her face ached from the grin that she bore, but she didn’t mind it at all. She couldn’t contain her happiness at his mere presence. Luceria knew as long as they were together, talking like this, they would never stop smiling.

“Baldwin, I never want to stop feeling this way,” She whispered.

It sounded so foolish and she was worried that it might be silly, but the king’s cheeks just blushed a deep pink color in reaction, and he smiled too—a sweet, bashful smile that she had learned meant that he too, felt the same way she did.

“Neither do I,” Baldwin whispered back, “And I believe I never will.”

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 20 November 1177

“How does the Constable fare?” Baldwin asked carefully, lining polished stones along his palm.

“Philippa writes that he still burns with fever, so she urges us all to pray for him,” Replied Luceria, who’d received a letter from her sister that very morning. Since returning to Toron, Constable Humphrey II—the most respect and experienced member of Baldwin’s court—had lain stricken. Everyone prayed fervently for him to make a complete recovery.

“He’ll overcome, God Willing.” Baldwin replied calmly. He deposited the stones one by one into the shallow pits carved into the wooden block in front of them. They were engaged in a game of Mancala, a strategy came from beyond the Jordan. Mary had sent it as a late birthday gift from Constantinople, along with an embroidered scarf made of Byzantine silk and dyed with Tyrian purple. The fabric now draped across her shoulder's like an air of nobility.

It was quiet today. Only two liveried servants attended to them beyond the songbirds.

“That is a lovely color on you,” Baldwin pointed out, “It brings out the green in tour eyes.”

Luceria smiled modestly, “I’ll be sure to praise my sister’s choice when I write back to her.” Every day brought fresh compliments, even when she didn’t put much thought into what she wore or what she did, he found her charming regardless.

The young king had arrived bearing freshly candied oranges that morning as a sweet treat to eat as they played together. It was another reason why she liked him so much: that he always seemed to enjoy her company so fully and completely. These afternoons together had become the happiest parts of her days. Luceria prayed that it would never change, never wished for anything else than what she already had.

Studying the carved board, she took stock of her tones. She reached into one of the pits and carefully gathered them up, depositing them one by one into succeeding pits with a soft, clicking sound.

Baldwin took a moment to take a sip of water before returning his attentions to the game. “It would appear that we both have a good chance of winning this round.” There was a hint of friendly competition in his voice.

“That’s true,” She agreed. “Now wouldn’t you say this is far more fun than our endless matches of chess?”

She already knew is answer—that nothing could ever beat chess. It appeared Baldwin was skilled at every strategy game she introduced him to, but chess was still his favorite, and it was at times irksome to lose repeatedly against him. Yet, he had never gone easy on her, even from the very start.

Luceria saw it as an incentive to do better. Or find a better game.

He grinned, “No. Chess always beats any other game.”

Luceria let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You are such an incredible bore, Baldwin.”

“You have called me worse.”

“Yes, and I have meant each and every one of my insults,” she fired back without hesitation.

He threw his head back and laughed, “God knows you never cease to amuse me.” He sighed. He selected a pit containing four stones. Carefully he distributed them, his last one landing in his Mancala, granting him another turn.

“Why, thank you, Your Majesty,” She said swiftly, attempting her most radiant smile. She clasped her hands together, and batted her lashes at him in a playful display of feigned innocence. This earned another warm chuckle from Baldwin.

“You are lucky, Lucy,” The young king began as he surveyed the board, “That you are so very pretty.” A smirk toyed with his lips as Luceria felt heat rush to her cheeks. But she didn't take the bait for once.

“And you will regret underestimating me once you realize I’m going to beat you!”

He grinned, “Ah, yes. Keep dreaming, Luceria.”

She was about to deliver another snarky retort when the garden’s stillness was shattered by the squire’s hurried footsteps. Anselm stumbled into the courtyard, his face slick with sweat, and dropped to one knee before Baldwin.

“Your Majesty—forgive me,” He panted, eyes lowered. “Lord Raynald demands your presence at once. There’s been urgent news from Gaza.”

Her breath stilled, her stomach tightening into knots as she dreaded whatever grim tidings her father had heard from the South. She looked at Anselm who avoided her gaze.

Baldwin nodded, placing the stone he had been holding to one side as he rose from his seat. “I understand. It is no trouble, Anselm.” Turning to Luceria, he gave her an apologetic look. “It appears we must resume our game at a later time, My Lady.”

“There will be many more games, Your Highness. Do not trouble yourself.” She reassured him, “I hope your meeting with Father goes well.”

Baldwin’s smile faltered. “All is in the Lord’s hands,” He said, too gently. His attendants followed like shadows as he departed, their footfalls fading until she was all alone.

The War Council Chamber, Jerusalem, 20 November 1177

“Is it an invasion?” He demanded, the growl in his voice betraying the fear churning in his gut. The war council reeked of sweat. Noblemen packed shoulder-to-shoulder around an old wooden table.

“The scouts say the infidel force is far too large for a mere raiding party,” Raynald de Chatillon’s face was grave. “It seems Saladin intends to burn our whole Kingdom while those bastards up north are headed for Hārim.”

Baldwin's jaw tightened as he surveyed the fidgeting, anxious faces of the nobles. Some frowned in dismay, others nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. They had prepared for such an eventuality; however, this was far larger and sooner than anticipated.

If it was indeed a full-scale invasion, Jerusalem and its surrounding towns were vulnerable without adequate defenses in place. They weren't ready.

“Saladin knows how to exploit our weaknesses,” Baldwin spat, pounding his fist on the table. “How many are coming? How fast do they march?”

“Around fifteen thousand men. They ride for Gaza as we speak and will arrive by sundown.” Raynald leaned in, elbows resting on the weathered wood.

“Christ…Even with Odo’s Templars…” Joscelin, his uncle, hissed.

“Eighty God-Forsaken knights!” Raynald barked. “They’ll be mounting our heads on spears before sunrise!”

Baldwin's heart sank.

Eighty Templars were marching towards Gaza, while their forces in the Holy City amounted to a mere four hundred knights. Even faith alone couldn’t save them from such overwhelming odds. The young king clenched his fists. Four hundred knights and a handful of templars might hold off a raid, but a full-scale assault from Salah ad-Din’s army?

They would face annihilation.

Baldwin’s mind raced as he shifted his gaze from his grim-faced uncle to the Lord of Oultrejordain. If he summoned the arriére ban—the urgent military obligation of all able-bodied men to defend their homeland—he could gather no more than four or five thousand soldiers to face Salah ad-Din’s vast horde.

But would even that be enough?

The nobles shifted. All eyes on him.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. He felt a migraine coming on. The pain behind his eyes pounded at a steady, dull throb. He had to think clearly. To remain calm. But with the threat of losing his kingdom and his own life looming over his head, his nerves were beginning to fray.

Baldwin’s bandaged fist struck the table, “Lord Raynald, muster every man from here to Hebron. Riders go now.” He commanded. “We must invoke the arrière ban. Every able-bodied man in the realm must be called to arms to defend our lands.”

Raynald nodded sharply. "I’ll drag every pissing vassal from their keeps by the hair if need be.”

Baldwin braced his hands against the worn wooden table, squaring his shoulders. They could not head for Gaza, there would be no time to muster a large force from Jerusalem to fortify the defenses. Not when Saladin and his men marched so swiftly.

Instead, Baldwin would take his knights to defend the next logical place that would halt the Saracen army. “We must march immediately to Ascalon. That is where Saladin will surely strike next. Have our vassals and their men meet us there. With the aid of Master Odo and his Templars, we may be able to buy time to bolster the garrison forces there and hold the line.”

Raynald de Chatillon straightened, lifting his chin proudly. “A worthy plan, sire, and we shall see it accomplished. When we meet the heathens in battle, they shall quake and flee in the name of Christ.”

Raynald’s grin made Baldwin’s rotting skin crawl. Except for Lord Chatillon, everyone had the same look of apprehension in the room. It was as though the entire chamber held its breath, waiting for the storm to come. Waiting for a boy king to lead them through this Armageddon.

“With God's blessing, perhaps Master Odo can hold them off long enough for us to mount a proper defense.” Joscelin’s voice was filled with quiet conviction.

Baldwin shook his head. “Let us pray then uncle. We cannot afford to waste a single moment more. Inform our knights to prepare themselves immediately. We march on Ascalon at first light.”

The Stairwell, Jerusalem, 14 November, 1177

Luceria hugged her knees tightly.

Her father had just delivered the news. Outremer was under attack, thousands of Infidels marching through the Holy City while her mother wept inconsolably in the adjacent chamber. It wasn’t a raid. They could all die.

The princess was hiding in a corner in the stairwell, numb and frozen. Everyone was scrambling. Lights from torches bouncing on stone walls, armored knights running through the parapets. She couldn’t bear the panicked cries. Her lips trembled. Everyone was preparing for the impending war.

Preparing for a slaughter.

The army would ride out before dawn. If they failed, Jerusalem would burn by the infidel hand.

The Saracens were heretics who believed in a false god, she was reminded by her father. And they would burn the churches, kill all the innocents, and pillage the land if they got to Jerusalem. It was up to the Crusaders to stop that from happening, to do their best to prevent these barbarians from having their way with the Holy City.

Her throat tightened. Baldwin, barely just sixteen, would lead them. He, like countless others, could fall beneath the scimitar blade of the fierce Mamluk warriors. His death would crush her soul.

She buried her face in her arms as she curled tighter against the stairs. A voice called from the bottom of the steps, “Princess? Luceria is that you?”

She stiffened. “Don’t come up,” She whispered, scrubbing her sleeve across her cheeks. “I won’t have you see me this way.”

“I’ve been searching everywhere for you! I even checked the stables!” He sounded exasperated. “I needed to speak with you before we left,” He said, pausing on the steps, not daring to climb up until he knew she wanted him to. She could hear his foot bouncing in anticipation. The door at the bottom of the steps were partly opened but they were alone, and most servants were too busy scrambling to notice them, “You’ve been crying.” He said softly.

“It’s nothing,” Her voice breaking as she tried to choke back a sob. “It will pass.” She was trying to convince herself as much as him.

“We will be riding to war.” He began hesitantly. He climbed a step. Then another. “I will be leaving you soon. I can’t bear the thought of parting with you in tears.” His voice shook slightly, words trembling upon his lips, “Please, do not cry.”

“Oh God,” She choked out, burying her face in her hands. “Please, I beg you, do not go.” It was the only coherent thing she could choke out. She couldn’t bear to lose him, not like she had lost her brother.

In battle their are casualties. Her father had said. I cannot think of a more noble way to meet God. Baldwin was only sixteen. If he were to ride out with the knights, what waited him was certain death.

He was too young to face God.

“Luceria, you know I must,” He murmured gently, “There is no other choice.”

“But I cannot bear the thought of you leaving me!” She could barely speak between her ragged breaths. She was a hear breaking sight—her cheeks ugly and inflamed from crying, her hair disheveled and falling across her face as she sobbed. A wretched vision of misery. “Please…I’m terrified. I’m so scared of losing you.”

“I know, Luceria. I’m scared too.” His voice cracked slightly. There was pain there—a pain she had never heard before. Fear. He was afraid to die. He was only sixteen. Old enough to be a man. A king. But far too young to face death in battle. All men riding to war were.

It was all so cruelly, achingly unfair.

“Before I leave, I need to tell you something,” Baldwin said, and she could hear coming closer, but she could not make him out through the blurriness in her eye. “If I’m destined to die in battle…I just want you to know that his past year with you has been the happiest of my life.”

She clutched at her chest. She hated goodbyes more than anything, despised her finality. “Please,” She pleaded weakly. “Don’t speak of such things. Don’t talk to me as if this’ll be our last moment together.”

He sighed, “But Luceria, I need you to know…To know how deeply I—”

“Stop. Please. I can’t hear this!” She cried out in a shuddering gasp. “Don’t say those words to me now because they could mean never again.” She was hysterical now, the words tumbling out so desperately…she needed to make him understand the agony of what receiving such a confession without knowing if she would ever see him again. “If you truly feel that way then fight to return to me! You must come home!”

“Luceria—”

She buried her face in her hands once more, ripping strands of hair out by the root as she tugged at her head. “Promise me you’ll come back.” She begged, “Please, please promise no matter what.”

“You know I cannot.” He sounded so helpless, so lost.

“I do not care!” She screamed. She looked down at him, his blue eyes widened in bewilderment. She just needed to hear him say it. “Just promise me, Baldwin.”

The silence between them thickened, cold as the steps beneath her legs. His hand was on the railing, the other clutched into a fist at his side. And his eyes stayed steady on hers.

“Please promise me,” She sobbed, breaking the stillness. “Please.”

She heard him take a breath, his voice low as he murmured, “I promise you, Luceria.” There was no hesitation then. No doubt. Only certainty, a vow to do all in his power to make it true. “Now I must go, before I cannot bear to leave your side.”

Boots scraped stone as her turned. Down he went back to his men, back to the world of steel and horse. She counted them—ten, eleven, twelve—until the dark swallowed away all his sound. Her forehead pressed against the wall as she clutched at the golden cross at her throat.

His last words struck her with agonizing despair, for she feared they had just said goodbye forever.

Ascalon, 22 November 1177

The ominous booms of Saracen war drums thundered over the plains of Ascalon, shuddering through stone walls and rattling the teeth of the Frankish knights waiting behind the gates.

Knights gripped reins beneath blue surcoats bearing Jerusalem’s golden cross, their faces shadowed by linen keffiyeh scarves against the pale winter sun. Foot soldiers shifted spears in their hands, muttering last prayers. Behind them, turcopole archers, men of half-castes trained in the art of Byzantine cavalry, ready to march into the hell of battle when the order was given.

At the sound of his name chanted, Baldwin felt his pulse quicken. Baldwin guided his mount through the ranks, his thin frame covered in hauberk. He gazed out at the sea of soliders standing at attention, ready to face death alongside him without a shred of hesitation. Baldwin knew that the night prior, these very men had sought out priests to confess their sins, desperate to absolve themselves before marching into battle.

They knew what followed. Slaughter. Glory. A chance to blunt Saladin’s advance toward the Holy City. Baldwin’s throat tightened. These farmers and nobles-turned-warriors would charge into the Saracen host for a land their grandsires had won, now tangled with their own bloodlines and grudges.

The townspeople who had crowded within the walls of Ascalon’s fortress peered down from the parapets. Their wailing prayers and cheers moved with the drums' dissonant beat. To these weary souls, the Franks must have looked like God's own army. November’s son burned across the steel of their armor, nearly blinding those who dared to gaze upon them. Billowing blue banners snapped over the five-fold cross as the gathered crowd cheered them on from the ramparts above.

Even the aged and infirm, those too frail or ill to take up arms, found the strength to urge the mighty Crusaders onward with rallying cries.

Baldwin held his head high, as dignified as his illness and anxieties would allow him. He waved proudly to the crowd and the army mirrored his resolve. Their pageantry was a last attempt to bolster their spirits.

And right now, they would need every ounce of courage they could muster.

While the common folk believed wholeheartedly that victory was theirs, that the Almighty would ensure their triumph over this looming invasion, the soldiers marching forth knew that today could very well be their final stand.

Behind Ascalon’s walls, the soldiers had already been organized into the formations that would make up the vanguard and rearguard. Naturally, Lord Raynald de Chatillon, a battle-hardened veteran, was his second-in-command. The Lord of Oultrejordain had asked the King to lead the rearguard alongside his uncle, Joscelin de Courtenay, and his stepfather, Reginald of Sidon.

Prince Hughes of Galilee and his younger brothers, princes Will and Raoul of Saint-Omer, had all been stationed within the rearguard as well, but most of the knights hailing from their principality were presently fighting alongside their stepfather, Count Raymond, in the distant battles at Hārim.

In the vanguard, Baldwin could see the noble Ibelin brothers, Baudouin and Balian, standing at the ready. The Lord of Caesarea, Guyon de Grenier, and his brother Gautier were also present, their armor gleaming in the winter sun. Aimery de Lusignan, Walter and Guidon de Brisbarre, the Lords of Asuf, Haifa, and Montgisard, as well as the formidable Viscount of Acre, had all taken up positions of honor within the vanguard, each man having brought the full might of their personal retinues to bolster the ranks.

They would have had far more men at their disposal, but Saladin’s troops had already taken several of Baldwin's soldiers captive as they made their way to Ascalon. No doubt these hapless men were now strapped to the Saracen’s camels, destined to be sold off into slavery.

Even so, the remaining men readied their lines of attack, squires rushing to prepare the horses and ensure their quivers were fully stocked. Despite their numerical disadvantage, they would stand firm.

Once the battle formations had been set, Raynald and Baldwin addressed their troops. Raynald’s speech lasted three sentences.

“Kill the bastards before they kill you. Spare none who raise a blade. God will sort the rest.”

Baldwin said even less. Any attempt at an inspirational speech would have been futile, for there was simply no way to encourage the soldiers to defeat a colossal enemy force of fifteen thousand with their own numbers being less than half that size.

Instead, Bishop Albert of Bethlehem, who had brought the revered relic of the True Cross, now placed it before the assembled Crusader Army. Those who had not sought absolution the previous day now rushed to him, desperate for final blessings.

The King watched in silence, his head bowed as he too began to pray once more. He prayed for the souls of his men, for the safety of his family, for the lives of their enemies, and for the peace of his beloved Kingdom.

Most of all, he prayed to see Luceria again.

He promised her. He promised her he would return. He clutched the red velvet ribbon tied to his belt as he prayed.

Please, God. Let me return.

Suddenly, a scout rode in with urgent news. Salah ad-Din's army was close. With a heavy heart, Baldwin signaled the order to begin their slow, steady advance. Ascalon’s gates groaned shut behind them. Saracen drums thrummed closer, , the din increasing with each passing minute as the monstrous instruments carried their deafening roar across the Holy Land.

Baldwin’s heart raced in time with the insistent beat, his breathing shallow and quick as he sat astride his magnificent Arabian, Asad. The noble steed trotted gracefully, his head held high with ears pricked towards the clamorous noise. The reins hung loosely from the King’s hand, for he trusted Asad to obey his slightest command. Even after Baldwin had gone many months without a proper ride, his body and horse still remembered everything. There was nothing more natural to the King than the comfort of a saddle, even when faced with the dangers of war.

The horizon birthed shadows.

First, a haze of dust. Then saffron banners swam into focus—not the fifteen thousand his scouts swore, but an army so large they blurred all the same. His men gasped. Stopped. The drums drowned their curses. They had never seen so many. Thirty thousand. Maybe more.

And as Salah ad-Din's men began to fan out and surround them, it became painfully evident that they outnumbered Baldwin's troops by a staggering ratio of six to one.

Chapter Text

Ascalon, 22 November 1177

In truth, he wanted to laugh.

He wanted to throw his head back in wild abandon and let out the maniacal cackle of utter helplessness until he had no breath left to give. But Baldwin bit down hard, stifling the urge as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

They were outnumbered. They were greatly outnumbered. The blood drained from Baldwin’s face at the realization.

How could he even think they could withstand this? How could they fight a battle with such immense odds stacked against them?

It was absolute lunacy to have ever believed in such a possible victory.

As the pieces moved in Baldwin’s mind, every strategy he created led to the same inescapable outcome.

They were doomed.

Across the field, saffron banners waved in the wind, and Salah ad-Din’s thirty thousand disciplined warriors stood proud and defiant. The Sultan seemed content to let them make the first move, his confidence in victory plain to Baldwin’s very eyes.

Jerusalem’s meager force appeared but insects before the true might of the Ayyubid dynasty.

It would be easy to give the signal, to march into battle, to face certain death. Perhaps the bravest thing was to accept your demise and keep moving. To not waver from the course you were set on, even as you walked blindly into oblivion.

But as Baldwin surveyed his tense, restless soldiers astride their mounts, he could not bring himself to call them to advance against such impossible odds.

There had been minor skirmishes, with Baldwin’s front line using their experience fighting the Saracens to lure and probe, trying to glean what they could about their opponents’ strength. But these were mere tests, resulting in little harm to either side.

Now they were at a standstill, a game of bluff that Baldwin dared not call. One misstep could see his entire army wiped out. His mind worked, formulating a plan. What would cause the least loss for his people?

As the afternoon dragged on, Saracen archers launched a few experimental arrows, but any injuries were only superficial. Saladin seemed content to wait, letting the Franks know that they were trapped and could do little else other than watch and pray.

And Baldwin’s men were growing restless, their spirits wavering as the minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly. They did not want to ride out to their deaths, but they could see that the more time they wasted, the weaker they became.

Saladin knew this. And so he waited until his enemies would be worn thin and weak, waiting until they broke in their minds. Then his seasoned riders would charge the shattered Crusaders, slaughtering every last man on the field.

But Baldwin could not let this happen.

As the sun bled into dusk, Baldwin slammed his gauntlet against his saddle, summoning his council. They retreated to the rear, just beyond the reach of the Saracen scouts.

“They know our numbers are low,” Baldwin declared quietly, “They mean to tire us before charging. But we can’t engage them when we’re so outnumbered. We need to fall back to Ascalon.”

Joscelin grimly agreed. “Aye, son. As much as it pains me to concede, to fight them head-on would be suicide.”

Even Raynald nodded, his brown furrowed as he studied the Saracen formations across the field. “We need to wait till sundown to withdraw. Those bastards will make camp. This is our chance to escape with the rest of our piss poor army.”

Baldwin gripped his reins hard, trying to remain composed. Inside, he was wracked with dread. “This is our best option. But we need to be quiet. We cannot give away our plans.”

In his mind, he remembered the tales of past sieges, where cities were turned into graveyards. Walls breached, streets choked with the dead. Women raped, babes spitted on spears, priests burned alive in their churches. Even that hell was better than this.

At least with a siege, they would have a fighting chance.

“When night falls, have the men retreat in small groups,” Baldwin instructed gravely, “Small enough that our movements won’t be noticed by the Saracen scouts patrolling the perimeter. Tell them to take their time and keep a sharp eye out.”

Ascalon, 23 November 1177

Baldwin had not slept all night.

After withdrawing behind Ascalon’s walls, he spent hours issuing commands—scouts sent to track Saladin’s forces, riders discreetly dispatched to summon aid. Soldiers patrolled the old battlements while others raced to inspect rainwater stores, knowing the city’s survival depended on those crumbling cisterns. None of them were certain reinforcements would even arrive in time.

Jerusalem was in the direct path of Saladin’s army. They had to hold.

“Damn it!” Baldwin cursed aloud, rubbing his temples as a splitting headache threatened to cleave his skull into two. His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left to purge. He already vomited three times, and his throat burned raw from all the stress. He paced the chamber back and forth and absently raked his fingers through his hair.

His father had always stayed calm even under the threat of disaster; but how had he ever done so?

Baldwin didn't understand. How could anyone stay calm in the face of calamity?

He wished his father was here now.

But there was no time to dwell on these matters. He needed to pull himself together. His kingdom, his people depended on him.

She depended on him.

The study door crashed open. Anselm stumbled inside, eyes wild in panic. “Your Majesty!“ He gasped, one hand braced against the doorframe. “You must see this at once!”

He lurched forward and grabbed the King by the elbow. Before Baldwin could speak, the squire hauled him into the corridor, their boots pounding heavily over the flagstones as they climbed the stairs to the ramparts. Anselm was muttering incoherently but Baldwin heard nothing but his own pulse.

When they emerged atop the battlements, Anselm’s panicked babbling faded into an indistinct drone. Baldwin gripped at the parapet, squinting over the plain.

“What in God’s Holy name…?”

Empty.

But not entirely. Where Saladin’s army once stood proud merely hours before, only a scattering of crimson tents now camped beyond the battered foothills, the saffron fabric of billowing Ayyubid banners vivid against the rocky landscape.

It was a strange and unsettling disposition. If Saladin knew their forces were few and ripe for conquest, why had he only left a small portion of his troops to maintain the siege? Why leave behind a mere handful of men when the full, unstoppable mass of his army could simply crash against Ascalon’s walls without mercy?

Then, like a sickening blow to the gut, the realization struck Baldwin.

This was a chevauchée.

The War Council Chamber, Ascalon, 24 November 1177

“The Saracens have divided their armies and are striking down the rest of the coastal cities before heading for Jerusalem,” The young king hissed, glaring angrily at the figures gathered before him in the war room. They huddled around the great wooden table, but maps and charts strewn before them might as well have been kindling for the fire. No strategy here. No more men left.

His gut lurched. He wanted to vomit again. Hundreds or thousands of his subjects might be killed by the Advancing Saracens. Their towns razed to the ground, and all traces of their civilization annihilated from this land.

And it’d be his name they’d spit as they died. A leper king. God’s joke.

He’d be the catalyst of their utter ruin.

Raynald de Chatillon’s fist cracked thundered against the table, hard enough to scatter the wine goblets. “They have us cooped up like chickens, cowering behind our city walls like bloody fucking cowards!” He spat, “While the bastards pillage, murder, and plunder! I say we ride out and face them. By God, I will kill those whoresons myself, all thirty fucking thousand of them!”

Only fourteen of Outremer’s cities and towns had sturdy walls. But the lesser settlements like Ramlah and Nablus were guarded by little more than mere castles, their garrisions already stripped bare by Baldwin’s urgent calls to arms. They would be easy pickings for the Saracen invaders.

Refugees clogged Ascalon’s gates, reeking of panic. Over the past day, men had staggered in from the surrounding villages—Ramlah, Ibelin, Mirabel—their homes reduced to ruins. Any Franks unable to flee were captured or killed. The streets were now littered with the mangled corpses of pigs and dogs. Every horse and cow seized. Every granary stripped.

With a grave expression, Joscelin mused, “Let us pray they'll be appeased by pillaging the countryside... Though I fear the worst.”

“Pray?” Raynald slammed his goblet down, “You know that murderous filth shall never be sated. Those godless dogs are bereft of mercy! Mark my words, Joscelin, they shall lay waste to every town and castle between here and Jerusalem. All in the name of their fucking Jihad.”

At this declaration, Baldwin felt his blood run cold. The haunting vision more horrific than his darkest dreams: thousands of souls—men, women, and children alike, be they Christian, Jewish, or Muslim—their sacred grounds defiled by the Saracen hordes. His people enslaved or slain. The entire population of Outremer left to burn along the path to Jerusalem, slaughtered like lambs. And his sisters and mother's screams as some ghulam ripped their gowns.

Luceria’s blue-green eyes staring, empty, from a pile of corpses.

He needed to keep his promise and return to her. If he didn’t…

“We cannot allow that to happen,” Baldwin growled, his icy gaze boring into Raynald’s, whose own green eyes blazed with conviction, “Even if we risk annihilation, we cannot surrender our Holy City to the Saracens. Every last one of our people are depending on us to protect them.”

The lords grunted solemnly. If they failed to halt Saladin's invasion here, Jerusalem would soon face the full brunt of his wrath.

“Gaza lies a mere eight miles away. And if Saladin has left behind a fraction of his force there, just as he did here, it may grant the Templars a chance to escape with their lives,” Baldwin said, his eyes studying the map before him. “Have a scout send word to Master Odo. They can take the safer path to Jerusalem by cutting underneath the Saracens toward Hebron. But...” His eyes raised slowly to meet Lord Balian’s.

Balian of Ibelin spoke loud and clear, “We know this place better than Saladin," He gestured to the marshes that formed around the valley when the rains came each winter, "The marshes of this region are deadly. We shall lure the Saracens there.”

Unlike Lord Raynald, bred on the fields of France, Balian was a true son of the Levant. Like the other Poulain lords, every ditch, stream, and rocky outcrop held secrets known only to those born upon this ancient land. If providence favored them, the terrain itself would prove the greatest weapon.

“But, my lord, these marshes lie near Ibelin,” Baldwin cautioned, “Your lands will bear the brunt of this slaughter.”

Balian's head dipped in solemn resignation. “My lands are already ashes, Your Majesty. They can suffer no more.”

Even Lord Raynald could not muster a biting comment after that declaration. The nobleman's lands were desecrated along with the rest of this region. For these warriors, there was nothing left to lose.

The king's gaze swept across the assembled nobles, “Prepare the army. We leave when night falls, no matter the cost. We will defend the Holy Land to our last man, to our dying breath.”

Raynald's eyes glinted, “Aye, that we shall. If our people must perish, let their sacrifices hold meaning. For the Lord's sake, we shall strike this infidel horde and show the beasts how we fight with honor and dignity. May God have mercy on their damned souls.”

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 24 November 1177

Night had fallen.

The people were crowded into the Tower of David, huddling within its walls, seeking protection from the Saracen army that marched upon them. Jerusalem had not faced such a threat in decades, and her walls were in desperate need of reinforcing.

The citadel’s halls lay quiet but for whispers of prayer before. Jerusalem had endured sieges before, but none in living memory. Not like this. Luceria sat stiffly on a cold bench, hands clasped until her fingers lost feeling, repeating pleas to the Saints and the Virgin for mercy.

A rider from Ascalon had come at sundown. Ramlah burned. Ibelin’s fields gone. The Saracens marched closer, unstoppable as the desert wind.

Lady Stephanie shifted beside her, breaking the silence and causing her to look up from her prayers. “Your father is a seasoned knight,” she said, smoothing Humphrey’s sweat-damp hair. The boy sniffled into her skirt. “He’ll return to us.”

Luceria forced a nod, but she knew the woman well enough to see the worry in her eyes. “I’m sure he will,” She replied weakly. But they both knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for the Crusaders to triumph. Only God could save them now.

Across the hall, Queen Maria rocked young Isabella, trying in vain to console her that all would be well. Even Agnes de Courtenay seemed softened by fear, eyes cast downward in prayer. Princess Sibylla stared at the floor, one palm pressed to her unborn child as her ladies-in-waiting reassured her.

Miriam offered them a bowl of warm broth, which they drank in silence. As though soup could calm their nerves.

“Do you remember our prayers, Humphrey?” Luceria asked gently, reaching out to take his hand.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice cracking from the effort.

“Then recite them with me, please. For father,” She begged softly, holding his trembling hand. For the king.

The boy’s voice wavered. “Our father, who art in Heaven…” She joined him, sending desperate please to the Lord for Mercy. Begging Him to save them.

Baldwin. Oh God, how could she cope if he didn't return? Luceria hoped beyond all hope that he would live. The very thought threatened to shatter her. She had to cling to faith, to the desperate plea that God would listen.

All she could do now was wait—wait for news from the battle and pray that Baldwin would live to come home.

For if he did not...

Luceria feared she might break apart long before the Saracens ever reached Jerusalem’s walls.

Outremer, 25 November 1177

The sun had not yet risen, but the desert sky was already bleeding red.

They had slipped from Ascalon under the cover of darkness, the Crusader army moving like phantoms silent as the grave. For hours on end, they had pushed onward, riding for twenty wearying miles, but fatigue was a luxury they could not afford.

Every village along their path had been reduced to ruins—houses, marketplaces, all turned to piles of ash and rubble. The fields were razed, their crops trampled to dust. Livestock lay slaughtered where they fell, or carried off to a crueler fate. Outremer was utterly devoid of life.

Baldwin clutched the red velvet ribbon at his belt as he urged Asad forward. If he did not return from this day, would Luceria understand? Could he call himself worthy of her affections if he died a hero in defense of the Holy Land?

He wished he had told her the depths of what she meant to him. Perhaps then he could embrace his death with the peace of knowing she understood how much he cared for her.

How much he loved her.

“Your Majesty.” Raynald's gruff tone snapped Baldwin's attention towards him. The seasoned commander fixed him with an intense stare. “If this goes to hell, you retreat to the hills. Understood?”

Baldwin held his gaze, “I will not abandon my people to save my own skin, Lord Raynald.”

“You may think yourself ready for death, Your Majesty,” Raynald grinned, all teeth, “but I assure you, you have only seen but a fraction of it. You’re not ready.”

He wasn’t.

But he knew he was going to die all his life. The leprosy had seen to that. Would dying in battle truly be so different? At least now he clutched his sword’s hilt, able to take control of his own life. “I know I will meet God in battle today, Lord Raynald,” He declared. “But I won’t flee like a coward.”

Raynald chuckled, “You're no coward, boy. A king, through and through. You’d make your father proud.”

Baldwin gave a mute nod, fingers tightening around the velvet ribbon bound to his belt. “Your words honor me, sir.”

“Just don't go dying too soon, son. You've more than earned my respect.”

The young king exhaled a weighted sigh. “Lord Raynald, if...if we somehow survive this day...” He swallowed thickly against the lump constricting his throat. “Will you allow me the honor of marrying your daughter?”

The Lord of Kerak threw back his head, laughter booming loud enough to turn nearby knights’ heads. “Stay alive and find out for yourself, boy!” He chortled, clapping the young king on the back.

Just then, a scout broke through their ranks, rushing towards the front of the army with frantic urgency. “Your Majesty,” he called out, “We've found the Saracens. They lie but a few miles ahead, near Montgisard.”

Chapter Text

Revelation 19:11-13

And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.

His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.

And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.

The Battlefield, Montgisard, 25 November 1177

Naive kings did not return from Holy Wars. Only legends did. And those were written in other men’s blood.

The air, once blue, was now the color of a bruise, thick with the dust of hooves and the smoke of exertion.

Baldwin quickly wiped the sweat from his brow before it could sting his eyes, his grip on the hilt of his sword never easing. His heart pounded loudly in his ears. If he dropped his weapon now, it could mean the very end of his life.

He pressed his knees against Asad’s flanks, causing the Arabian to dance sideways, moving through the endless horde of soldiers. This was the first time they’d ever experienced true war on the battlefield, and he needed to remain calm despite his instincts telling him to retreat back into the mountains. Would anyone blame him if he did so?

During his lessons, he studied the Saracens. The Constable told him to know his enemies better than he knew himself. He learned about the weapons they wielded—the bow, the thrusting spear, the sword. He familiarized himself with their defenses, from their lamellar armor to their padded jackets and where best to strike. He learned their ranks, their formations, their strategies. He even studied their language, and rode a coveted Arabian as many of them did. But the most important thing he learned above all was his odds.

In the majority of clashes with the Saracens, the Arabs had triumphed over the Franks.

But God was watching.

Around them, the battle erupted in a riot of carnage. The clangor of the Saracen scimitars clashed against the Crusader's steel; echoing the cries and gurgling moans of those dying around them. “Lord, have mercy!” His men would scream with their last dying breaths, while the enemies would utter their final prayers, “Astaghfirullah!”

I seek forgiveness in God.

Even worse than the sound was the smell. Blood. Sweat. Bowels. All threatening to overpower his senses. Baldwin gritted his teeth, swallowing the bile that rose to his throat as he swung his own blade. The enemy reached for his circular shield but it was too late. Baldwin’s sword cleaved through flesh with ease, parting skin and muscle the same way his own knife cut through his last supper.

No one had warned him of this. The very way life bloomed crimson on his hands for the first time. He had never taken anyone's life before. And he could almost feel the soul slipping from its body as he plunged his sword into another Saracen's chest, his sword easily penetrating through the man’s padded overcoat.

It was too easy to kill. Too easy to become a monster.

Where were the heroics, the chivalry, the promises of glory in the face of death? Here he was, hacking through bodies with the same frantic conviction as his enemies. There were no heroes on this battlefield; only rage.

Only desperation.

But he had to. He had to persevere. There was no other choice.

He was Jerusalem.

His sword sliced through another throat. Baldwin could not bring himself to pause, lest he succumb to his revulsion. Onward he slashed until his arm was drenched to the elbow in blood—both his and his enemies’. And for once in his life, Baldwin was glad for the numbness in his body. Glad he could not feel half the blows his enemies had dealt him. He carried no shield, and only defended himself with the help of his men and his blade.

He had met the Saracens in battle before, in the skirmishes of Damascus, in the dusty plains of the Beqaa Valley. But those raids were nothing compared to this…This slaughter. Here, he stared into the eyes of men who would eagerly take his life. Men that would gladly kill him if he did not kill them first.

He saw Lord Raynald, a lion in human form, his once-blue surcoat hung black with Saracen blood. His face mad with rage. Like an unstoppable force of nature, Raynald carved through the enemies as he charged headlong into the fray, his men following close behind.

There was a sudden scream from behind him—the shrill shriek of a horse sliced down by a Saracen Yatagan. Baldwin turned just in time to see a rider and mount go tumbling down onto the blood-soaked dirt, their bodies rolling and kicking up a cloud of dust, as the warrior pulled back his gilt-decorated short sword.

It was horrifying. But there was no time to react as another enemy flew by on his tijfaf-covered horse, nearly colliding into the young king with his golden saber. He had nearly killed him, nearly decapitated him, but only managed to slice the thin skin on his left cheek. Baldwin cried out in overwhelming agony, but he gritted his teeth and quickly used his sword to block the next attack.

His household knights, trusted men who pledged oaths to protect him at all costs, immediately surrounded him in a desperate attempt to shield him from further harm. One knight was struck down—Baldwin could barely see him beyond his dinted helm—with a sickening crunch as an enemy soldier bashed him over the head with his mace.

The knight crumpled to the ground and was trampled beneath the stampede of metal-clad horses. There was no mercy. No time to feel sorrow or terror.

Only the instinct to survive.

Baldwin wanted to shut his eyes but he could not. His men were sacrificing their lives for him and their Holy Land. So he swallowed hard against the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and swung his sword again. Eyes wild and mind numb to the screams and clamor surrounding him.

As he held his breath, a single thought consumed his mind, pulsing in time with his racing heart:

I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

“God, please...” he rasped, the plea trailing off as his vision blurred; blood dripping from his nose, arms, and cheek.

I want to live.

The battle raged on, the sounds of death ringing in his ears.

The Battlefield, Montgisard, 25 November 1177

Raynald de Chatillon was said to take to war the way most men took to women. He was forged from the very fires of conflict. Reveled in battle, bathed in its bloodshed.

And today, his enemies were sloppy.

He recognized it as soon as the plains of Montgisard came into view. Saladin’s hubris was glaring; and the moment the sultan called to swap the right and left wing of his army was the moment the crusaders secured their chance at victory.

“Deus le veult!” The crusaders chanted in unison as they approached the Saracen army in a dauntingly slow, steady march. The foot soldiers formed a strong line behind them, while the crossbow men prepared to fire.

As they approached within an arrows shot of the Ayyubids, the crusaders increased their pace, charging across the battlefield atop their warhorses with their lances lowered and swords raised proudly above their heads. The crossbowmen fired their weapons, bolts shattering enemy shields and armor. They carved through the scrambling infidels, making their ranks crumble like sand.

“For St. George! For Jerusalem! For King Baldwin!”

Jerusalem has come.

Raynald laughed, the sound a harsh bark that could curdle milk, as he plunged his longsword into the neck of another infidel. The man fell back to the ground clutching at his throat with a scream Raynald could not hear, trampled by another horse before Raynald could even blink.

Deus vult! God wills it!

His red curls were streaked black with blood; his green eyes wild with manic rage as he raised his sword high. Raynald had cut through the swathes of heathens like a crimson storm born from hellfire. His horse—a massive war stallion armored from head to hind in barding—trampled over all he rode past, hooves stained by spilled lives of both Crusaders and Saracens alike.

Deus vult! Deus vult!

Raynald had walked across more battlefields, seen more corpses than any man alive. But this…

This was different.

This was a last stand battle, a desperate fight against impossible odds. And Raynald didn't give a damn what his chances were. His sword was God’s very will, and he would fight like a madman and kill as many infidels as God would allow him to execute. He would send them to fires of hell through his blade until his own bones lay shattered in the dirt.

And he had not yet met his match.

The Franks had always been intimidated by the Ayyubids, fearful of their massive numbers. But Raynald had been locked behind prison walls for fifteen long years, dreaming of freedom, yearning to make the heathens pay for every breath they drew. A lifetime’s worth of unchecked rage, just begging to be unleashed.

So what if they numbered thirty thousand? What could mere numbers accomplish before a beast of vengeance?

As long as he stood breathing, none of Saladin's dogs would escape him. Their severed heads would decorate his bedchambers, their hacked limbs would adorn Kerak’s halls.

Deus vult. God wills it.

His mouth tasted like metal as he spit blood on the ground, cutting through the heretics left and right. The enemies were endless, and the sheer mass of Saracen soldiers crashed upon the Crusaders like waves; the relentless sea upon an unyielding rock. Until there was no telling where the bodies ended and the ground began.

Like instinct, he aimed for the throat first, always going in for the killing blow as soon as the infidels got close enough to swing at him. He was fast. And he was merciless. He wanted to hear them scream. Hear those heathen bastards squeal beneath his sword like pigs about to be slaughtered. But to his disappointment, Raynald found that their howls only sounded like gurgling. The last desperate whimpers of men about to die.

Deus vult.

The battle raged on and the infidels poured forth like the flood from hell. Raynald continued to hack men down as he drove onward, his lungs screaming for clean air. But his eyes stayed focused on saffron tunics, the uniforms worn by Saladin's askar, the sultan's personal bodyguards. These one thousand Mamluk warriors were some of the best fighters in the land—and Raynald had a personal score to settle with the infidel bastard who had ordered his imprisonment.

Grinning, he charged headlong through the mob. The moment Raynald spotted a flash of gold among their ranks, his blood sang, his eyes grew wide with excitement. The figure—undeniably that of Saladin himself—raced back towards the safety of the desert, the sharp finial of his aventail helmet gleaming under the winter sun. The camel's hindquarters kicked high as it galloped through the fray, its rider hunched over with reins clutched tightly in one golden fist.

God wills it.

“We have them!” Raynald yelled hoarsely above the clashing swords. His eyes gleamed, bright as the very flames of Hell itself. “The bastards are fleeing!”

He roared like a man possessed, the sound tearing out from deep within his chest. “After Saladin! After him you useless imbeciles!” Raynald shouted, spurring his stallion onward. “Kill them all! Every last infidel bastard! Kill them all! KILL THEM!”

The crusaders followed close behind, bloodied and weary, but driven by the mad thrill of victory.

The Aftermath, Montgisard, 25 November 1177

It was over.

Baldwin could barely believe it as the dust settled around the field, the razed and ravaged landscape now silent and still. Even the wind had seemed to halt her song in acknowledgment.

A great deal had been lost—the fields and harvests, crops scorched in the wake of Saladin's forces, and all the towns along their path to Jerusalem razed to the ground. Yet by some grace, the crusaders had held. Faith and stubborn courage had helped them triumph. Men whispered it was God’s hand that turned the tide.

Stiffly, he slid from Asad’s saddle, legs trembling under him. The Arabian dipped its head, breath warm against Baldwin’s neck. He closed his eyes, fingers brushing the horse’s muzzle, allowing himself a moment of calm. He was still on the edge, his hand shaking from hours locked around his sword.

His breath was short, his lungs burned from inhaling all the bitter smoke. His armor had absorbed so many blows he couldn’t tell what was injury and what wasn't. But they had won.

As impossible as it seemed, they had won.

“Praise be to God!” Lord Balian’s cry pierced the air, his arms outstretched toward the heavens. Around him, weary warriors raised swords and lances skyward, their voices raw but fervent. “Praise be to God! The enemy is defeated! Long live the King of Jerusalem!”

Cheers rippled across the field as men learned of their deliverance on this feast day of Saint Catherine. Baldwin’s throat tightened as his knights tore off dented helms, tears streaking their soot-stained faces. Nobles and foot soldiers alike roared prayers skyward, their gratitude a living thing. The young king sank to one knee, gloved hands clasped. Lord, You shielded us when there was no hope. You spared Your children.

You spared Outremer.

Strong hands seized him—knights and guardsmen lifting his frail body onto their shoulders. “Long live Baldwin!” they bellowed, their fervor shaking the earth. “Hail the Lion of Jerusalem! Long live the king!”

Across the battlefield, the crusaders embraced one another and laughed. They cried and chanted as they celebrated their impossible victory. Men threw themselves to the ground in prayer, lifted their helms and scarves into the air.

There was nothing Baldwin could do but weep; tears of joy and relief staining his cheeks. His heart was heavy with nothing but gratitude, as his men raised him higher and higher, celebrating as though he was not a leper but a hero. Touching him as though he was not diseased.

Today, he was not seen as cursed or unclean.

Today, he was the warrior king who led them to victory.

For the first time in his scarred life, Baldwin felt invincible. Truly invincible. Unshakable against anything that might attempt to tear the kingdom apart. What was disease when he could now defend what belonged to his realm?

“Sire! Thank the Lord you're alive!”

Anselm stumbled through the crowd, helm gone, a ragged cut splitting his filthy face. Blood crusted his nose—broken, likely, in the fray.

Baldwin wiped his tears, smiling faintly. “I’m doing a lot better than our enemies, that’s for sure,” He chuckled, “Thanks to the bravery of men like you. You’ve all fought with honor. I couldn’t have asked for a better army.”

The squire grinned crookedly, a tooth missing. “And we couldn’t have been blessed with a better King to lead us, sire!” Clasping Baldwin's forearm, he gave it a firm shake. “I am relieved to see that I will live to serve you.”

Baldwin laughed then, his voice still hoarse from battle, “As am I!”

Anselm's grin widened. “Lord Baudouin and Lord Joscelin are already gathering the survivors as we speak. By the grace of God, our losses appear minimal.”

The words should have reassured him, but they didn’t. “And what happened to Saladin?”

The squire shook his head. “Fled, Sire. The Sultan is likely heading for Egypt, tail between his legs like a wounded animal. ” Anselm's mouth twisted in a faint smirk, “Lord Raynald has led the pursuit, but we've had no word since.”

Baldwin chuckled and shook his head, “Well, Lord Raynald never did grasp the concept of quitting.”

Anselm grinned, “He’ll make sure to give Saladin nightmares for weeks, sire. The Saracens would do well to remember this day as the day they sealed their fate. But there is still much to do after this.”

Baldwin nodded. It would be a long road ahead of them to rebuild everything they had lost. But after witnessing his men prevail despite such overwhelming odds, Baldwin felt nothing but hope. “There shall be much to restore when we head home. I am not eager for the paperwork,” He said, a smile spreading on his lips as his armored fingers instinctively brushed the ribbon bound on his belt. Luceria’s favor miraculously remained unscathed despite the carnage.

Anselm's grin held a teasing edge, “Well, I for one shall welcome the chance to rest, Your Majesty. Though judging by that smile on your face, I wager you look forward to returning even more eagerly than I.”

A flush crept up Baldwin's neck, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Well…uh...Let’s just say there will be much to celebrate upon our return, Anselm,” The young king's smile broadened, “But just between you and I, Lord Raynald gave me the most uplifting spiel before battle.”

Anselm blinked, “Did he? He never struck me as a man who ever has anything encouraging or even positive to say.” He paused, brows raising with surprise, “Was the lord in good spirits? The last time I saw him, his anger could have burned the very ground beneath my feet!”

A dry chuckle escaped Baldwin's cracked lips. “That is Lord Raynald through and through. However...” He paused, suddenly hesitant, though his lips curved into an indulgent smile, “He has granted me his blessing to seek Luceria's hand.”

For a heartbeat, the squire could only gape speechlessly before a wild, gap-toothed grin split his bloodied face. “You intend to propose to the Princess?!” He all but crowed the question, “Truly, Sire?”

“Shh…Keep it down!” Baldwin shushed the squire, not wanting others to overhear. But his smile grew broader as he thought about the prospect, “Indeed I do. So let us pray Saladin shows no inclination to return anytime soon. I find myself with far more pressing matters before any new Crusade!”

Anselm laughed then, a bark of amusement as he shook his helmless head in open admiration. “A king’s royal wedding...” He breathed, gaze sweeping the scarred terrain around them. “Now that is an event worth witnessing, Your Grace.”

“She still must accept my proposal first, of course,” Baldwin grinned, a faint flush warming his cheeks. “Though I pray with every fiber of my being that she will agree to be my wife. I could not be content otherwise.”

The squire arched a dark brow, his eyes gleaming with undisguised humor as he surveyed his king. “Oh, I've no doubts the princess will accept, Your Majesty.” A wry chuckle escaped his split lips. “Even a blind man could see the lady is quite smitten with you. And now you are returning home a hero!”

Baldwin averted his gaze shyly as calloused fingers traced the velvet ribbon at his belt. “Is it truly so obvious, Anselm? I would not wish to appear overconfident.”

“Your Highness, believe me, everyone could see it. The two of you were always dancing around each other like lovesick fools.” A smirk tugged on his chapped lips. “Had me worried I was bearing witness to a court scandal in the making at times!”

The young king sputtered, flushing an even deeper shade of scarlet. “Anselm!” He reprimanded, but could not help but laugh.

“I am telling you, your majesty. All you must do is ask. You needn’t even make a spectacle of it! I reckon she will say yes and you will be married long before Lord Raynald returns from chasing Saladin to Egypt!”

“Lord Raynald may very well have my head if I elope with his daughter,” He chuckled, “She deserves a proper proposal, Anselm. And if she accepts, I vow we shall throw the grandest wedding this kingdom has ever seen.” Grander than his stepmother’s. Perhaps even grander than Sibylla’s. Unable to contain his excitement any longer, an incandescent smile lit up the young king’s face, forgetting for a moment how terribly his joints hurt as he envisioned the future that awaited both him and Luceria.

Yes, once he returned home there would be much to do. There would be people to tend to, land that needed to be restored. A ring to be made. A beautiful girl to propose to. Yet despite the daunting tasks ahead, Baldwin had never felt stronger, as though perhaps he would live to be a hundred years old. In this moment of triumph, he couldn’t even care about what troubles the future might bring as only one thought prevailed in his mind.

He had kept his promise. He would return to her side.

Chapter Text

Midas sits in his kingdom come

His mighty throne aglow

A blessing, the curse of alchemy

A splendor to behold

A tormented heart, he must abstain

From human touch's bliss

For all he grasps transforms to gold

An eternal, corrupted kiss

The king now longs for freedom's reach

To feel the world anew

But still his kingdom, once his wish

Remains a gilded view

Midas prays for heaven’s grace

A peace he’ll live to see

And sometimes when he dares to dream

Midas dares to dream of me

Jerusalem, 25 December 1177

“Do you not think it’s a little…much?” Luceria asked, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror. Her hand gently caressed the cool brocade of the gown, the gold shuttle-woven threads forming a pattern that glittered in the candlelight. The garment had been her mother’s, brought from Antioch decades past—worn by Princess Constance herself in happier days.

It was strange to wear such a treasured thing (as though the dress was reserved for a woman far more elegant than she), but it made Luceria feel closer to her mother somehow.

“Perhaps, but your father was quite adamant,” Miriam replied, her voice steady as she tightened a braid. Luceria winced as tiny pearls were pinned into her hair. The maidservant had labored for hours, twisting flaxen waves into coils that shimmered like gold. Painful, yet fitting for the occasion.

“Even so,” Luceria countered, a hint of hesitation in her voice, “Considering the recent war, I cannot help but question how appropriate it is to wear something so… so opulent. On Christmastide of all events. I do not wish to come across as gaudy.”

“Nonsense, my lady,” Miriam simply continued to braid her locks, “This is a time for joy and celebration. Not just to honor Christ’s birth, but also to give thanks to the Almighty for granting us peace once more. And I, for one, cannot wait to break my fast.”

“I suppose, Miriam,” Luceria forced a smile to her face, her fingers still stroking the fabric of her gown in a soothing motion, almost an anxious gesture. They had been fasting for the past four days, but Luceria was not hungry. “It is true,” She said, her thoughts wandering into another direction. “We are most blessed.”

“Then why the long face, my Lady?” The handmaiden asked with a sympathetic smile. Luceria simply sighed.

“I just want to look presentable,” She said lamely. This was no lie. Indeed, she wanted to appear dignified during the festivities. But most importantly, she wanted to look...her best for Baldwin. Not too garish, not too subdued. Just...right. Luceria sighed again, more heavily this time.

“Your beauty radiates with or without embellishment, princess. You need not worry on that front.”

"You flatter me, Miriam," Luceria smiled sheepishly. She looked away from her reflection, back toward her handmaiden, "It's just...Well...Do you suppose that he will be in attendance?”

There was no need to clarify who he was. For both women knew just who Luceria was speaking of.

“It is his celebration, princess.”

This would be the first feast since the Crusaders had returned from their hard-won victory against Saladin. Though many towns throughout Outremer still lay in smoldering ruins, it wouldn’t deter the Franks from celebrating. Not on Christmas, at least.

And Baldwin deserved to celebrate. After all, he’d won a great triumph for all of Christendom.

Luceria still remembered how the trumpets blared when they announced the return of the army at the Jaffa Gate. She remembered how she held her breath, realizing, perhaps, that she had been holding it since the night Baldwin parted with her on the steps.

Bright blue banners danced in the wind of that sunny afternoon. The people were cheering, commoners and noblemen alike as they welcomed the crusaders back home.

The sound was so blaring, Luceria could barely hear her own thoughts.

Her father had ridden proudly amongst the rest of the returning warriors, a great smile on his face of hard-earned glory. Her stepmother loosened her grip on Luceria’s hand, swiping at tears before they could shame her.

But as grateful as Luceria was for her father’s return, she could not breathe yet. She was still looking for him.

Her eyes searched desperately for a glimpse of his golden locks, his familiar blue eyes, or just any sign at all that he was home. Her nails bit into her palms as she dreaded the arrival of a royal casket instead. Only when she spotted Asad, with the king’s horse litter attached to him, that her chest finally unlocked.

Baldwin’s litter passed her by—curtains parting briefly—revealing a sliver of a bandaged face. The corners of his blue eyes crinkled, just slightly as he saw her, his bandaged fingers brushing a wave.

And Luceria responded in kind.

A gentle smile, a wave.

An impossible breath finally exhaled.

For he was alive.

Baldwin was alive.

And despite having been through hellfire, he still looked like an angel.

They hadn’t spoken much since his return. But she knew he needed his rest and it would take much time for him to recover. She didn’t care. He was safe and sound and home.

That was enough. For now, at least, it was enough.

So the suns had set, and the moons had come and gone. And each night, Luceria would sit by the window seat and look up at the stars, praying, wishing, hoping beyond all reason that Baldwin was looking up at those same glittering skies. The stars had become her confidants, their winking glow her greatest friend.

And she would whisper to them every night. Whisper her gratitude. Her prayers of wellness. And how she dared to dream.

During one of those nights of Baldwin’s convalescence, Sibylla had brought new life into the world, blessing Outremer with a bundle of joy who carried the King’s noble name.

Indeed, there were many reasons to rejoice on this Holy day.

Miriam ran Luceria’s cherished ivory comb through her locks once more, carefully pinning the matching veil onto her head. “There, my lady.” She said warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “Now you are perfect.”

“Do you truly think so, Miriam?”

“Of course, my lady,” The handmaiden affirmed, patting the young girl on the back, “Now you may not believe me, but I truly think you are the most beautiful princess in all of the Levant. You shall turn every head at court tonight. I am sure of it.”

A faint blush rose to Luceria’s cheeks at Miriam’s flattering words, but Luceria’s gaze lingered on her reflection. There was only one pair of blue eyes whose admiring gaze truly mattered to her. “Thank you, Miriam.”

Miriam smiled softly, “We best get going. Your father is waiting downstairs, and you know how much he dislikes tardiness.”

“Let me just find my shoes Miriam,” Luceria said, rising from her chair, “I shall meet you downstairs shortly.”

“The jeweled turnshoes might be best, princess,” Miriam suggested as she gave the girl a knowing look, before exiting the chambers.

The castle courtyard hummed with lute and pipe when Luceria stepped outside. A chill wind brushed her cheeks and Miriam quickly fetched her a velvet cloak. Protection against the biting winter breeze.

But Luceria did not feel the cold at all. Not while her heart was pounding with anticipation.

Miriam lead her down the broad steps where the nobles had already gathered. Warm smiles and well-wishes were exchanged, and Luceria responded with her own rehearsed pleasantries. As she passed each dancing nobleman and woman, her eyes scanned the crowd. Searching desperately for the one face she longed to see. But Baldwin was still nowhere to be found.

This year’s celebration, though still very festive, seemed subdued compared to the grand parties of the previous year. But everyone was happy. Happy and thankful for being able to celebrate. Happy and thankful for being alive.

Finally, she reached her father’s company, and Raynald greeted her arrival with a rare smile. Luceria dipped into an elegant curtsy before rising to press chaste kisses to his and Stephanie’s cheeks. “Merry Christmastide, father, Lady Stephanie.”

Raynald’s face was beaming with pride, and he reached out to affectionately cup her cheek. “You become lovelier with each passing month, daughter.” He said warmly. “You are the very image of your mother. Constance would be so proud to see how much you’ve grown.”

Luceria’s heart swelled at his compliment. She hadn’t grown used to receiving them from her father. But perhaps he too was grateful to be alive today, celebrating this Christmastide with his family. “You are too kind, father. I wish mother was with us tonight.”

He smiled at her words, but there was sorrow behind his eyes. Perhaps a long to see the woman he had once loved so dearly.

Stephanie placed a gentle hand on Raynald’s arm in solidarity. “Perhaps she is with us in spirit tonight, my dear. We should celebrate this night in her memory as well.” She gave him a sympathetic smile and then turned to embrace her stepdaughter warmly. “Merry Christmastide, my sweet girl! Come, come!”

They gathered into a small group, laughing and chatting along merrily. Luceria smiled warmly, listening, laughing at jokes, offering a polite remark here and there. She sipped on wine and munched on sweet cakes as their party continued, watching the festivities unfolding all around her. But still no sign of Baldwin.

And as if on cue, the horns began to sound. The music paused, and every one of the guests turned to face the grand entrance.

Sibylla entered first looking just like the virgin Mary. Baldwin the younger cradled against her breast. From where Luceria stood, she noted the boy’s resemblance to his namesake uncle—round, dimpled cheeks, eyes keen and blue. Though his head was only fuzz at the moment, Luceria had no doubt that golden curls would soon crown him.

And Sibylla, herself, was as beautiful as she always was. Her thick hair gleamed beneath her veil, and though the gown draping her still-swollen belly was the color of mourning, her pale complexion glowed beneath the torchlight.

Agnes followed, her step light despite her years. The burgundy silk of her sleeves whispered wealth as she scanned the crowd, mouth curving with a smile.

Then the hall stilled.

And he appeared—Baldwin IV, the King of Jerusalem himself.

The hero of Montgisard.

The savior of the Holy Land.

The Leper King.

The man Luceria had come to love.

His movements were unhurried, his attendants hovering closely behind him. He walked with confident grace, arms held loosely at his sides. He was dressed in his finest white silks (which had started to become his signature color) and over his wavy locks was Jerusalem’s crown. And though his face was still wrapped in linen bandages—leaving only a small gap for his eyes and mouth—he was nothing short of handsome. When at last he reached the courtyard floor, his eyes lifted and found hers across the crowd.

She could feel her cheeks warm when their eyes met and held. The world around her seemed to still and narrow until there was nothing left but the space between them.

Then, he smiled. A charming smile—so radiant that she nearly forgot to breathe.

He was perfect, perfect, perfect...

The most beautiful boy she had ever seen.

Jerusalem, 25 December 1177

“…And in Egypt, rings symbolized eternity,” Baldwin declared, clearing his throat as he held his head high and dignified. He opened his gloved palm and revealed a glistening golden ring, “The circle has no beginning nor end, just like the sun and moon above us. So please take this ring as a symbol, a promise of my everlasting love. Will you marry me, Luceria?”

Anselm applauded, his gap-toothed grin spreading from ear to ear. “Well spoken, Your Majesty!” He howled, “You will have the princess swooning in no time! Well, perhaps if I was a lass myself I would be swooning as well!”

“I don’t know, Anselm,” Baldwin rubbed his chin, contemplating the speech. He had been practicing the proposal for days, trying to get it right. With each attempt, he had rewritten and revised every line. The words all sounded so wrong. But this last try had been promising, he thought, and Anselm seemed to agree. Perhaps it was his voice that needed work. Or maybe he still needed to polish up the delivery.

It wouldn't be long now till he would see her again, and as the minutes passed, his nerves began to grow. His doubt gnawing away at him with each agonizing breath. “Do you not think it a bit much? Perhaps a more…subdued approach would be wiser. Or perhaps something even more poetic—bah, that wouldn’t work. She already knows all of those things I could say about her. I should write something down, I think. What do you suggest? Should I compare her hair to strands of sunlight or something similar. Her eyes to the sea, or—”

“It is a proposal, Sire, must you really worry about being wise or clever?” Anselm chuckled good-naturedly. “Your speech seems perfectly fine to me, though I've never been on the receiving end of a proposal myself.”

The young King shook his head, uncertain. “But if I say the wrong thing, she may reject my proposal, or think me an idiot. You understand this, yes?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t think such a thing, Your Majesty!” The squire laughed heartily, shaking his head in amusement, “She may even think you to be quite charming.”

“Or she may just laugh in my face,” Baldwin countered with a frown, turning toward the mirror. He stared at his reflection, trying to think what Luceria could find attractive in this form, hidden beneath the many layers of cloths and linen wrapped about him. Why did he not propose before battle? He'd looked far better then.

“Perhaps you should just speak from the heart, instead of thinking so hard!” Anselm patted the King upon his shoulder, grinning broadly, “There isn't anything to fear, Sire.”

With a sigh, he looked at the ring in his hand. Upon returning from Ascalon, he had commissioned the finest jeweler in Acre to create this gift for Luceria. The turquoise gem he had requested reminded him of Outremer’s summer skies—and her eyes, those beautiful perfect blue-green eyes like the Mediterranean sea.

He had been dreaming of nothing more than seeing her eyes again, to hear her laughter, her soft gentle voice. All his life he'd wanted to feel normal, wanted a taste of that which he could not have. Love. Acceptance. A future. Even if he could never touch another person again without fear of infecting them, so long as she accepted him, stayed by his side, he would know happiness.

For what were mere dreams compared to her? Baldwin would gladly cast away all his dreams if he could hold her in his arms just once.

“A man only gets to propose once,” The king remarked, slipping the ring back into its container, “It must be perfect.”

“Many of the lords in your court will disagree with you on that matter.”

Baldwin thought he might laugh if not for the nerves coursing through his veins. In just a few hours he would be with her. It was all that kept him going these past days, all that had given him the strength to pull through against the fatigue in his bones. Baldwin was restless, longing to see her, wondering if she had been thinking of him as he had of her.

Now that he knew happiness was within his reach, to have such a wonderful life, a wife that he loved...he almost could not breathe from it all. The fear, the anticipation, the joy, the anxiety.

It was never a possibility for him, not until he was certain of his own death in Ascalon—in Montgisard—but instead coming home alive. God had made him a leper, but God also granted him the miracle of life once more. That night of victory, he was certain the stars aligned. For surely there was no other reason to be living, except to live the rest of his life by her side.

“You worry over nothing,” Anselm spoke up reassuringly. “You know how the Princess sees you.”

Baldwin chuckled ruefully. “Yet the fear of her refusal is somehow worse than any anxiety I've felt in Montgisard.”

“I'm sure you needn't worry, but you should let her make the decision. Just be the man she is so very fond of. That is more than enough.”

“And what will I do if she rejects me?”

“I suppose you will die old, and alone, with only my presence to console your graying head.”

The Leper King snorted a chuckle at this statement, and found himself thankful that Anselm had been brought into his service. “Then let us pray she does not!”

"She won't!" Anselm replied, and gave his king an encouraging smile. “Although you really must hurry and finish getting dressed, or you'll miss your chance to propose entirely!”

Sibylla cradled the little prince, gently rocking him as Baldwin took his seat beside her. The baby’s chubby fists were tightly clutched around the golden cross pendant (a gift given to her by the late William of Montferrat) that dangled from her neck. Their mother looked on delightedly as Sibylla vainly attempted to pry the precious jewelry from his grip, which was far too strong and tenacious for a babe but a few weeks old. “He certainly does take after you, brother.” she teased lightly.

Baldwin’s rich laughter filled the air, “I hope not too much.” He said, gaze drifting towards the squirming infant. The baby boy did nothing more than sleep all day, so it was rare for Baldwin to see his nephew so animated. “I think we’ll need to find a nickname for him soon. Two Baldwins would bring about more trouble than we would wish.”

Sibylla smiled. She was clearly enamored by the small life resting against her heart, “I suppose you’re right,” She agreed, “Though I’ve already began to call him Baudouinet.”

Baldwin grimaced. “You have once proposed that nickname for me when we were younger. Fortunately, Father put an end to the use of it before it could catch on.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “But it is perfect for him. You will soon see.”

The baby gurgled and let out a high-pitched cry. Sibylla tried her best to rock him as he continued wriggling in her embrace. Baldwin shot her a raised brow and Sibylla ignored him as a maid swiftly appeared and whisked the baby Baudouinet away at her lady’s gentle beckoning. Sibylla sighed contentedly, relieved to have a brief respite from her maternal duties. “He’ll sleep through the feast, thank goodness. All this noise would just be too much for him.”

Agnes chuckled fondly, reaching out to stroke her daughter’s tired cheeks. “I remember when you were that small. When both of you were that small.” She looked at Baldwin warmly, “And now my son is a hero, and my daughter has blessed us with a prince.”

Though somewhat obscured by his bandages, Baldwin could not help but smile. Hearing words of affirmation from the mother he had been denied from knowing as a child was something he would never get used to. But it was a comfort, nonetheless.

Baldwin inclined his head towards Agnes in silent thanks, and then turned his gaze back to his sister as she settled into her seat, complaining about all the months left of mourning clothes she still had to wear. It was such a trivial thing. So trivial that it made Baldwin smile.

For the first time, he felt as though Outremer was truly at peace. Its nobles had gathered amidst music, laughter, and joyous celebration. Baldwin took another sip of his wine—his second glass of the night—and already started to feel its warming effects; the lightness in his limbs, the pleasant heat spreading through his chest.

He was still trembling at the notion of asking Luceria to be his bride. So much for liquid courage, he thought dryly, his heart thumping so loudly he was certain everyone would notice. Perhaps it was best to avoid the wine, lest he lose all his composure in her presence and make an absolute fool of himself.

As the evening continued, his anxiety had not dissipated one bit. He was waiting for the perfect moment, praying that he could speak with her alone before they were interrupted yet again by the prying but well-meaning courtiers who surrounded him.

It seemed as though every single nobleman in the Levant was vying for his attention tonight. Wanting to know his thoughts about Montgisard. His plans for the future. His plans for new crusades. Asking him about the monastery he planned to build, dedicated to St. Catherine near the battlefield.

All of it was important. But Baldwin didn’t want to bother with any of it at the moment, thoughts clouded from the alcohol and his own anxiety.

Still, they’d approach him one at a time, congratulating him on his victory, and thanking him for securing Outremer’s safety. He was humble and flattered at first, but now his responses were beginning to feel like a well-rehearsed script. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” He would say, his smile growing more and more strained each time.

The whole time, Baldwin was watching Luceria from the corners of his eyes, but it seemed she was just as preoccupied as he was. The young princess had gathered a sizeable crowd as well, and the men that surrounded her seemed to be competing for her attention. Baldwin tried not to scowl, as he did not want to think that any man present could whisk her away tonight and ask her to be theirs.

No, it had to be him. All he had to do was reach her side.

No longer content to wait, he stood and began circulating among the guests, determined to find her before another interruption arose. He moved through the courtyard, exchanging courteous nods and blessings with the other nobles. Though he carried himself as a king ought—back straight, voice steady— he also tried to look as nonchalant as possible in hopes to fool the people into letting him pass unbothered by their company.

It did not always work.

But as he circled the great tables for a second time, he at last caught her eye. Her face brightened as she recognized him, and after saying goodbye to a group of her admirers, Luceria quickly met him halfway across the courtyard floor.

“Princess,” Baldwin said gently as she neared. She was cloaked in gold from head to toe, and yet the most radiant thing about her was her smile. Never had he seen her so captivating, nor had he felt his heart pound so loudly that Baldwin thought for a moment she could hear his nervousness.

She dipped into a curtsy, blue-green eyes meeting his as she rose, “Your majesty.” Her voice held a faint tremor, and Baldwin wondered how much of a fool he looked at this moment. “It has been too long. You look well this evening, I hope you are feeling much better?”

“Better than I look, I assure you,” he replied, smiling. “And better still now that you’re here.”

Luceria tilted her head, her smile softening. Was that a blush on her cheeks, or a trick of the flickering torches? “You certainly are well enough for humor, I suppose.” She quipped.

“Then will you humor me for the night as well?” Baldwin asked her hopefully, bowing chivalrously before her. Even with the many layers between them, Baldwin could feel her heat radiating off her in gentle waves.

“Are you not dreadfully busy entertaining everyone?” Luceria said teasingly as she began to walk towards the gardens, Baldwin trailing closely behind her.

“To my great fortune and dismay, I've managed a brief respite.” Baldwin said, as they now meandered side-by-side.

“They are quite enamored with tales of your bravery, you know. What is it that they call you now?” She tapped at at her chin for a second, “Ah!” She clapped her hands together, “The great Crusader King, the Hero of Montgisard.”

A soft chuckle escaped him as he shook his head gently. The moniker sounded strange coming from the lips of the one who would always call him simply by name, “Does it not suit me?”

She smiled at him. “Perhaps, but it is quite a mouthful. I like Baldwin just fine.”

He could think of other names, terms of endearment he wanted to be called and to call her in turn. And the urge to do so, to whisper them in her ear grew greater still. But that had to wait for a while longer until he mustered the courage to utter those very words to her face. To ask her permission first, and then call her the sweetest things he’s only ever had the chance to whisper in his dreams.

“I prefer it when you say it like so as well,” He admitted, turning to face her. “But do you know what else I'd prefer, princess?”

“Hmm? Pray, tell me.”

“A moment to ourselves. Just a tiny one will suffice.”

“And why is that?” She asked playfully, moving ever so slightly towards him.

“Because,” He said, lowering himself slightly as he spoke, “I've much to speak to you about, away from prying eyes and ears.”

“You sound like a scoundrel, Baldwin.” She murmured coyly.

“Or worse...an idiot.” Baldwin countered, causing her to giggle even more.

“Perhaps.” Luceria agreed. Her nose crinkled ever so adorably as she did so, and Baldwin was certain that his heart may burst from pure joy or perhaps sheer, unadulterated adoration. He just might die if she did not agree to become his bride tonight.

It was now or never, Baldwin decided. She was here, staring expectantly up at him, so full of happiness that it nearly stole the very words he wanted to say.

“Perhaps, princess, if we keep to tradition, you might permit me to steal you away for a moonlit ride?”

“Are you not obliged to preside over the gaiety?” She continued to tease, and Baldwin tried not to tremble as she drew nearer towards him.

Luceria retreated a pace, cheeks flushed. For a heartbeat, he feared refusal. Then her smile returned, brighter still, as she lifted her hem to reveal riding boots laced snugly on her feet. “Then let us make our escape before anyone takes notice.”

Jerusalem, 25 December 1177

The lights of Jerusalem twinkled like fallen stars behind them. The desert was quiet, the only sound was their breathing and the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Luceria adjusted her grip on worn leather reins. The moon was full, just as it had been the year before.

She still remembered last Christmastide, how they rode out into the desert just like this. She’d been brooding then, but it was that night where she realized how special Baldwin was to her.

On top of his Arabian, Baldwin looked otherworldly. Like a being crafted from marble and starlight. His white silk robes billowed behind him, and she wondered if he looked this majestic fighting in Montgisard. She was terrified of losing him those nights, thinking he had been killed or even captured.

But he had survived, though not unchanged.

Despite the bandages wrapped about his arms and face, he rode as naturally as if he were made for it, as though there was no pain at all. His hair shone gold under the moonlight like a halo, his piercing gaze trained straight ahead on their path. Even from behind, Luceria knew he was smiling.

She urged Hosanna forward, eager to close the distance. As soon as she rode by his side, he turned his attention to her. His eyes held all the warmth she cherished so greatly.

“I must confess,” She began, “I’ve missed riding out with you like this. Under the night sky. They are some of my most favorite memories.”

Baldwin’s smile grew, voice lowering as he spoke, “And if I were to offer you a new memory worth holding on to?”

Her heart fluttered wildly, her fingers almost losing their hold on Hosanna's reins, “I think that might be most welcome.”

Baldwin inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips as he surveyed the path ahead. His knees pressed against Asad’s flanks, signaling the Arabian to a halt, “Shall we take a moment to walk? Our horses deserve to rest a moment. We did leave the party in quite a hurry.”

Luceria swung down from her mare, her riding boots sinking into the sand. “Hosanna thanks you for the mercy.” Side-by-side, the two teenagers led their horses by the leather reins, walking along the edge of the trail until their path crested over a towering dune.

At the ridge’s crest, a nnake eagle pierced the heavens, flying over the moon and disappearing behind a cloud. Baldwin halted at the precipice, gloved fingers brushing Asad’s neck. Luceria stepped past him, the night air cool against her face as she closed her eyes.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve come home safely, Baldwin,” Luceria said, breaking the silence between them. “I was so worried when you left. I think we all were.”

Baldwin nodded, his voice matching her solemn tone as he responded to her, “When I left for Ascalon, there was a part of me that was certain we would never meet again. I think, to some degree, part of me was prepared for that outcome, but I remembered how you looked on the steps that night…and I just…I just knew that could not be the last time I ever saw you.”

“Father told me some of what transpired in Montgisard. He said…He said it was,” Her voice trailed off, trying to find words that could possibly describe the carnage she did not even face.

“A bloody affair?” Baldwin offered softly, finishing her sentence for her with a gentle smile. For a moment, his voice sounded tired. Different from the enthusiastic tone he had been using to describe his victory to the other nobles all night. “It was awful, Lucy. I hope we never have to go to war like that again.”

She swallowed, her hands tightening at her sides. The horrors he must have endured—she dared not dwell on them. “I’m sorry,” She murmured. “I cannot imagine what you had to go through. I am just happy you're home. With me. If you never returned…” Her chest tightened, silencing her.

Baldwin’s eyes found hers, “I thought of you every night and every day while we were apart.”

“You did?”

“I did.” He affirmed with a gentle smile, “I had a promise to keep. And I knew that if I broke it, you’d raise hell. For Saladin’s sake, I had to prevail.”

The unexpected jest startled a giggle from her lips. Then he laughed, and so did she. They laughed so much their stomachs hurts. She clutched her sides, heaving between giggles. She wiped a tear of laughter from her face.

When silence returned, he leaned closer. “It is true what I said, though. I thought of you every moment, Luceria.”

“You’ve never left my thoughts as well, Baldwin,” Luceria sighed, “In fact, I’ve been thinking long and hard about what I can give you for Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” She said sheepishly, fidgeting with the sleeve of her velvet cloak. Her hands moved to her pockets, “Though nothing seemed quite good enough. It’s hard to think about what one can give a hero. Especially when that hero also happens to be the king.”

“Luceria,” He interjected, a slight groan of embarrassment to his voice that made her chuckle, “You know there is nothing you need to—” But she shook her head, cutting him off before he could begin with his protests.

“Baldwin, let me finish,” She said gently. Luceria’s fingers twitched against the fabric, before pulling them out—a pair of silk gloves. She carefully slipped them on, trying to calm her nerves for what she was about to do. Baldwin watched her with confusion as he waited for her to continue, to explain what it was exactly she wanted to give to him.

She took a deep breath.

And held her hand out towards him.

“Lucy?” He chuckled, “Where exactly is this gift? Or do I have to imagine it?”

Her cheeks reddened into a furious crimson, “Baldwin,” She murmured, voice trembling ever so slightly. “This is the gift.” She said, her gloved fingers stretched towards him.

He was quiet, stunned. The tension between them was palpable.

Baldwin hesitated, looking at the hand still outstretched towards him and then to her eyes, “Luceria…” His voice roughened. “You know what they say. If I were to—”

“I am wearing gloves.” She cut him off, “And so are you.”

“Luceria…”

“Please. Don’t make me beg.”

The air grew thick. She dared not breathe.

And then he stepped closer. And slowly, he raised his hand. And their fingertips met.

Silk brushing silk. Luceria’s breath caught.

His eyes never left hers, as if seeking reassurance, permission to keep going. When she did not withdraw, his fingers trailed down her palm, tickling the edge of her wrist just above the hem of her glove. His hand rose again, tracing the sides between her fingers until hers curled instinctively, brushing his. Then he skimmed her knuckles, unhurried, taking all the time in the world, as if he wanted to savor each moment as much as she did.

She bit her lip, savoring his caress as he savored her.

At last, his fingers laced with hers, palms pressing against one another through their protective layers. She squeezed his hand ever so slightly and his grip tightened just enough to make her heart beat even faster than she thought possible.

But his touch, just knowing his touch...there were no words she could offer him for what she was feeling at that very moment.

“I have wanted to touch you for so very, very long,” He murmured with a sigh, basking in the simple delight of contact. “You do not understand what this means to me.”

She nodded then, his words threatening to undo her. His fingers were still intwined with hers, tracing over her knuckles with deliberate softness. She never wanted him to stop. Never. And he didn't. He held onto her as though she were a treasure to him, a dream about to vanish.

For Luceria, she felt like she was in a dream too. And if it were not for Baldwin’s touch grounding her, perhaps she would have already flown away to the stars.

“I too have a gift for you, Lucy,” Her murmured tenderly. “But I don’t think I can offer you anything quite as special as your touch is to me.”

Luceria smiled shyly, “Is it in Hosanna’s saddle again?”

He chuckled, “No. In Asad’s,” He corrected, gently squeezing her hand as he lead her towards their horses. “I hope that when you see it, you won’t think I’m a fool. I’ve waited all month for us to have this moment alone together…”

Using her free hand, she rummaged through Asad’s saddlebags until her fingers brushed against something soft and familiar. Confused, Luceria pulled it out, only to reveal a blue pouch with embroidered suns and stars. The same gift she had given him last Christmastide.

“Baldwin?”

“Open it.”

“It’s a little difficult to do with one hand,” She said, not wanting to pull away from his touch, torn between the feeling of him or the anticipation of the gift he wanted to give her.

He nodded politely, making the choice for her, as he reluctantly let go of her hand. The pouch’s drawstring yielded reluctantly, and her breath caught as cold glass met her fingertips.

Carefully, she withdrew a small jar meant for her favorite citrus comfits. Inside lay not the candied citrus peels she’d expected, but a ring. The moonlight caught its gold band, a turquoise gemstone adorned at the center. Her hand trembled as she opened the jar and lifted the ring from its hiding place.

“I had an entire speech prepared,” Baldwin confessed shyly, “I must have practiced it a thousand times.”

“A speech?” She asked, heart beating madly in confusion. It was almost like he was about to—

“You know me. I wanted it to be perfect. For you,” Baldwin murmured quietly, watching the emotions flicker across her face.

“What is it that you want to ask me, Baldwin?” She breathed out. Her heart was pounding, her trembling fingers still holding the ring.

“Luceria,” He began slowly, “I will not lie to you. My suit will bring many hardships upon us both. There are many things I want to give you, but I cannot. I cannot even promise you a life without challenges. And I know what I’m asking you will be hard, if not unconventional.”

Luceria nodded dumbly, still unable to speak. Still confused, but somehow understanding where he was leading her.

“If-if you are willing to share these burdens with me, and accept mine with yours, then—”

“Yes,” She whispered, before he could even voice the words. Before she could even have a moment to think. Her heart had already decided for her.

Baldwin froze, eyes widening almost comically. “Yes?” He echoed, “But I’m not finished. I haven’t even proposed yet.”

She laughed then, a sound so sweet and joyous that his lips instinctively pulled into a smile. She did not even realize that tears were already pouring from her eyes. “You don’t have to ask me,” She somehow managed, “Yes, Baldwin. Yes. A thousand times yes. I will gladly marry you.”

He blinked, and then tears began to roll down his own cheeks as well. They both giggled, and Luceria approached him with the ring and he clumsily slid it onto her finger before taking her hands in his once more.

They laughed, cried until the tears stopped altogether. Until they had both settled into comfortable silence. Their fingers remained intertwined, neither of them willing to release the other just yet.

Perhaps not for a long time. Perhaps never.

“Do you know how much you mean to me?" He murmured suddenly, “My heart is too full to contain it all. I love you, Luceria,” He continued in a gentle whisper, reaching up to wipe away his happy tears with his sleeve, still refusing to let her go, “With all my heart. With all of me.”

This moment was everything she had ever dreamed of, yet somehow a thousand times more wondrous for it was real.

Baldwin loved her. He loved her and he wanted to spend their lives together.

“I love you, Baldwin,” She replied, laughing breathlessly as the tears came in once more. Tears that could not express the full scope of the happiness bursting in her heart. “I love you,” She whispered again, and then one more time, because she could. Because she was certain she could never say it enough times in her life to make him fully understand just how much she meant it. How much she needed him.

She wanted nothing more in this life than him.

Nothing had ever felt so right as this, as them together here in this moment. This feeling of being complete.

She was his, and he was hers.

Luceria smiled, tilting her face up toward the sky, where the moon shone brightly over their heads. It was as though this moment was created by God himself, a moment with just the two of them. Like the world had shrunk into a place where only they existed.

“Nothing feels impossible tonight. Like we could reach up and touch the heavens,” She said, eyes still staring at the brightness that hung above them, “Like this moment could last forever.”

Baldwin smiled at her wonderstruck reverie, “Perhaps someday we shall.”

But until then, Luceria was content with filling their lives with dreams and starlight.

And there was nothing more beautiful. No greater joy she had ever felt in her life than holding his hand, staring out into the endless cosmic sea of twinkling lights, and knowing that he loved her. That he truly, despite all odds, loved her. Tonight, they would have eternity before them. Infinite moments under this vast, endless sky.

All I dream is to feel your touch

To take your hands to hold

To caress you with my fingertips

As you turn me into gold

“I still can’t believe you agreed to marry me. You know you cannot take it back now.”

“Baldwin, you must still ask my father.”

“Hmmm…He already said yes.”

“Ha. Of course he did.”

- End of Arc One -

Chapter Text

Acre, 14 May 1178

They had been riding for what must have been hours; though in truth Luceria lost all sense of time the moment they left the fortress gates. Baldwin was ahead of her, Asad kicking up dust behind him as he dashed across the dry terrain.

The months of spring had come to an end. The lupines were no longer in bloom, and the summer heat was incredibly scorching. The wind whipped her veil into disarray, but Luceria didn’t care. The feeling of freedom that came with riding beside Baldwin was too intoxicating to focus on anything else.

He was everything to her, after all.

“We can rest here,” He said after they had ridden for what must have been miles. He had not slowed Asad down once, not even to allow Luceria to catch up. It was one of the many games they played together. Hosanna was fast, some days even faster than Asad, but catching up to the Arabian and his master was not easy. And Baldwin was not the type of man to slow down and let her win.

Luceria tugged at Hosanna’s reins, and the mare slowed her gait. They came to stop by a cliffside overlooking the sea. The waves were high, and the water dark. Some fishing boats had stopped at the docks, and Luceria could see men working, hauling in their catch for the day. Baldwin had already dismounted, and he reached out to her. His hands were gloved, as they usually were, to protect his sensitive skin. She took them and allowed him to pull her off Hosanna.

He lead her near the edge of the cliff. They sat down beside each other, and she tucked her dress beneath her. Their fingers were interlocked as they stared out at the sea. Ever since Christmas, where she first offered him her hand, he had been reluctant to let go of her. Always reaching for her, brushing his fingers against hers in corridors when he figured no one was looking. It was subtle and discreet, and it sent chills down her back every time.

They were going to be happy together. She just knew it.

It had been nearly six months since the victory at Montgisard. Since then, Baldwin had thrown himself into rebuilding his kingdom. Ramlah, Mirabel, Ibelin all needed his attention. And he gave it willingly. With the treasury tight and the army depleted, he had had to find creative ways of raising money. Saladin had offered him a hundred thousand pieces of gold to stop the construction of a castle by Jacob's Ford, but Baldwin had declined the deal.

And so, their wedding had been delayed.

Again.

But she understood, of course. It was his kingdom that he was fighting to save, his people, and his legacy. He couldn't afford to neglect his duties to them.

Still, the wait was killing her.

But at least their days since the proposal had been pleasant and peaceful, and that was all Luceria could have asked for. Baldwin had been...well, not cured of his disease, but he had no bouts of illness in the past months. His face and limbs were still wrapped in bandages, but now he had taken to riding and training with the knights again. It wasn't like before; but he was getting better.

“We could do it right now, you know,” Baldwin whispered. Her eyes turned to him, and she found him already staring at her.

“What?” She asked breathlessly.

“We could get married. Here. Right now.” He said with the ghost of his smile. “I could declare my intentions to God right now, and you could do the same. And just like that, we'd be wed.”

She blinked, her mouth parting slightly in shock. “Surely, it is not as easy as that.” Luceria said. Her betrothed laughed, his fingers tightening against hers. “Baldwin you are joking!”

“Perhaps,” He smiled, closing his eyes. “But if I weren’t, would you do it?”

“Our parents would have us beheaded.”

“Probably,” He chuckled, “But that’s not an answer.” He opened his eyes then. His smile was sheepish, almost like he was afraid of her response. He looked at her expectantly, “It is my birthday, Lucy. That means you have to do whatever I want.”

“You’re a scoundrel, you know that? I don’t recall agreeing to this.” Luceria rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to smile back. Today, he had turned seventeen years old, and he had requested for nothing but her presence. They had broken their fast together and spent the rest of their day in each other’s company. “Is this a serious request?”

“Yes. So answer.” He said, cocking his head to the side. “If you could, would you marry me? Right here, where it is only us and God?”

“…Anywhere,” She finally answered, her voice low. “I would marry you anywhere.”

It was tempting. Oh, was it tempting. But she knew that it wouldn’t do, not really. There were certain things expected of them, and as much as she wanted to, she could not give in. Not even to Baldwin. It had to happen the proper way.

She was still a princess. And he was still a King.

“I know it would be wrong. To marry you without the consent of the Haute Cour. Without the blessing of the Patriarch. Without...without rings. Or witnesses.” Baldwin mused. “But I want to.”

Luceria shifted towards him, “I want to as well.”

“Then why wait?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave. He was teasing her. She knew he was, and she cursed herself for enjoying it.

“Because...” she said, her eyes dropping down to his lips, “You have to get better first. And then, we shall have the ceremony that we’ve been planning for all these months.”

“And if I never will?” He asked. His question made her freeze, her breath catching inside her lungs. “If I never get better, will you still have me? Even without the ceremony? Even without...even without being able to give you all of myself?”

“Yes. Of course.” She stammered, her hands moving to clutch his, “But you will get better. I have faith.”

He had to.

Acre, 17 June 1178

“I’m not getting better,” Baldwin said flatly as soon as Abu Sulayman Dawud left his quarters. Anselm looked up from where he had just put the medical tray away and frowned.

It was midday, but the king had not gotten out of bed that morning. His bandages were fresh against his skin and his sheets were newly washed. His jaw was contorted in pain, the sores on his face having reopened themselves during the night.

“Most of the sores are healing,” Anselm insisted, looking at the scabs on the King’s chest and back. “They will dry and flake off. It will take time.”

“But the scarring,” Baldwin remarked bitterly, “It won't go away. Look at my face!” He exclaimed, his hand touching his cheek. The bandages there were soft against the still-healing wounds. Anselm winced, remembering how gruesome his liege’s face had been the night before. “God, look at them! They are bleeding again!”

“Bleeding—” Anselm said tentatively, “—Means that they are still healing. They may still fade.”

“The new ones keep coming, just as the old ones heal. It's never-ending,” Baldwin complained. “I'll be covered in these scars until the day I die.”

Anselm stayed silent. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He had been trying to remain optimistic, but he had not foreseen the wounds would remain so open so quickly, even after the sores had crusted over.

The battle in Montgisard had caused the young king so much stress. The leprosy, it seemed, fed off his anxiety. It didn’t help that during those days the king did not have access to his usual treatments. Once the war was over, and his body had been able to recover from the physical exertion, it had succumbed to the illness once more.

“They are just scars, my lord,” Anselm said, trying to cheer him up. “I am sure the princess will not mind.”

Baldwin sighed, his hands moving to take the mirror that was on his bedside table. He looked at his own reflection with disgust. He traced the outline of his face with his bandaged hand and stopped just at the edge of his right cheek, where the largest of his scars was.

“I don’t want to have a ceremony like this,” Baldwin murmured, “Everyone will be staring. I don’t want them to see me this way.” Anselm sighed, taking the mirror from the King’s hands.

The squire held his tongue. Though the King had always been strong, he didn't blame him for the insecurity that had arisen from his disease. Not many had suffered through leprosy as the young king had and survived. It was easy to forget that Baldwin was only seventeen years old. Not too long ago did the boy ever think he’d experience love that was reciprocated, and now that he had found it, Anselm knew the King did not want to lose it.

“My Lord,” he said, placing the mirror back on the table, “I think you are being too hard on yourself.”

Baldwin’s head turned to him, his eyes squinting in confusion, “Too hard? Have you seen me?” His hands frustratedly tugged at the linen around his neck. Anselm bit his tongue, trying to stop himself from reaching out and stilling his master’s hands. “I am rotting.”

“You are healing,” Anselm reminded him, “Most of the sores that had formed on your face are gone, they have scabbed over. Soon those scabs will disappear. Your body is doing what it must to heal, and we must not interfere with its process. You know this, my lord.”

Baldwin's eyes closed. The young boy was tired. It showed in his face. “I want to look better before the wedding. It's all I ask,” He whispered.

“I understand, my lord,” Anselm said. In truth, he did not believe the King's scars would ever truly heal, but it was the last thing Baldwin wanted to hear.

Porta Auera, Jerusalem, 15 July 1178

Outside Jerusalem’s walls, the tombs of fallen crusaders lay bare beneath God’s eye, unmarked save for rusted swords driven into the earth. Patriarch Leontios II raised his cross high as he chanted the mass of the Feast of the Liberation. The attendees knelt, their voices joining his, filling the field with solemn prayers.

“Dóminus vobíscum,” The patriarch bellowed.

“Et cum spíritu tuo.” The crowd chanted back.

Baldwin watched Luceria as she bent to light three candles in memory of the men who had fallen for the Holy City. Her hands brought her rosary to her lips; a whisper of prayer for the dead, a sigh for the living. She looked completely at peace next to her stepmother, stepbrother, and father.

Lord Raynald had been corresponding with Prince Bohemond and Empress Mary over the release of Luceria’s dowry these past months. But Baldwin would have married her without it. Without any of the pomp and circumstance, if he had his way.

Still, everyone insisted on things to follow the standard procedure. He understood why, even if circumstances were anything but standard.

He waited for the princess to meet his gaze. She did not.

The Haute Cour flanked him in silence; his mother was kneeling at his right, eyes fixed on the Patriarch’s cross. Her brows were creased with calculations left unsaid. Baldwin tried to keep himself focused. He felt sweat beneath his bandages, the linen chafing his leprous flesh. He dug his nails into his arm as he scratched himself in relief. These hot summer hays had been the worst for him, and he wished nothing more than to be away from the stuffy crowd.

But he had promises to keep. So many promises.

He had appointed Manuel’s choice of patriarch, though the man scarce knew Antioch from Acre. He had pledged gold, Meleke, and Mizzi to rebuild villages razed by Saladin’s troops. He had even swallowed curses when all the Dukes and Barons demanded more bezants and more men.

More, more, more. He was growing tired of the demands.

“In paradisum deducant te angeli…”

Luceria turned, her eyes crinkling at the corners of her face as she smiled at him. His breath caught. Yes. He was tired, but his work had only just begun. For her, he thought. For this…This flicker of grace. He would endure a thousand councils. A thousand fevers.

And when it was done, she would be waiting for him. And then he could rest, and then he could hold her. That is how it would be.

He felt a twitch in his left hand. He curled it into his palm.

All he needed to do was recover, and then he could marry her.

It could not be that difficult, could it?

“…In tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem.”

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 15 August 1178

“Fine craftsmanship,” Raynald remarked as he touched the turquoise pendant around her neck. Baldwin had presented her with it on her seventeenth nameday. Something to match the ring, he had told her. She wore them both always, even when she slept.

“The King has been very generous, father,” Luceria agreed, looking up from her book of poems. She had spent the better part of the morning reading.

“As he should be. You will become Queen of this place soon,” Raynald nodded, pride in his voice. Today—like many of the recent days—he was dressed in all his finery. He sat straighter, his beard trimmed a little more precisely, his red hair brushed into a ponytail. He had even gained a little bit of weight since the Battle of Montgisard. Luceria thought he looked healthier. “I must admit, child. I always knew you would go on to do great things.”

“Thank you, father.” She blushed as she put down her book, “But I will only be his consort. Though it has not happened yet.” She had been hoping for a wedding during the springtime. That way she could have flowers at her ceremony and not the withering old weeds that grew on the hills.

But she’d wed Baldwin in the stables if he asked.

“Do not diminish your role, Luceria. Consorts have as much influence in these things as the King. I would know.” He told her, and there was no condescension in his voice this time. “One day you will hold this realm steady. It will not be easy.”

She frowned. “Baldwin will get better,” She reminded him. “The physicians are doing what they can. And he hasn’t had a terrible fever in months. I am certain he will continue to govern without my help.”

Raynald was silent for some time, and Luceria thought that perhaps she had annoyed him. But instead he was calm, “I hope he does, my child. But it will do you well to prepare yourself either way.”

She straightened. This was no idle chat. “Father...”

“Tell me, these past few weeks observing the court—what have you learned?”

Luceria hesitated. She’d noticed how Lord Balian’s eyes narrowed when the treasurer spoke about the allocation of the funds for the Chastelet. The way Lord Raymond clenched his jaw when Baldwin ordered grain stores diverted to Ascalon. Even the Hospitaller Grand Master was concerned how long this peace could last. “The lords… they are worried, I think. The choices Baldwin has made weigh on some.”

“For God’s sake, girl, spit it out.” Raynald leaned in disapprovingly, “Balian’s lands near Nablus starve for funds while Baldwin fortifies Jacob’s Ford. And Raymond’s merchants now pay Jerusalem’s whoreson tariffs just to dock at Acre. That bloody cousin of yours counts every single bezant spent on Baldwin’s garrisons as theft from his own vaults.” He jabbed. “They tolerate your King’s taxes only so long as the Infidels are at our door.”

“But the peace holds, father.”

“For now.” Raynald grunted. “Why do you think the Grand Master grinds his teeth at council? Baldwin pissed away the treasury to buy this peace, and he may bleed the North to refill it.” He glanced at the pendant around Luceria’s neck. “He knows the value of keeping his allies happy.”

“I understand.” She lowered her gaze.

“Do you?” Raynald asked. He leaned forward. “They won’t wait for the king to piss in a cup and call it holy water when Saladin comes knocking again. When Baldwin falters, you’ll be the one they corner. And if you’ve got your head up your arse reading poetry instead of memorizing which Emirs take bribes and which nobles skim their taxes, then I can’t help you, can I?” He tossed her a map retrieved from the Scriptorium.

She caught it, remembering the long hours Baldwin had spent pouring over tax records and account books. Numbers bored her, but what if his eyes weakened? All the things her father was saying were not out of malice but of genuine concern for her interests. And he was right, she would have to learn these things if she was to marry the king.

But it was still hard to accept.

“Why tell me this now?” she asked.

“Study the toll roads first.” Raynald began, ignoring her question. “Learn every keep from Elim to Antioch, every ford and pass. Tomorrow, Konrad will school you in numbers. You’ll parse a supply ledger faster than any seneschal before you’re even wed. When the King falters, no lord in this land will dare to question his Queen.”

The Princess of Antioch took to her chambers later that night. She was exhausted; her father had been merciless in his lessons. She had never felt so much like an ignorant child than in those hours she’d spent listening to Raynald speak of the court and taxes. It had been an endless barrage of information, and she had been overwhelmed. What made it worse was that she knew her father was not even half done with his instruction, and that he would eventually find her someone more exhausting to teach her all these things.

Her bed called to her. Miriam had already slipped her into her sleeping shift, and she had let her hair loose. It fell around her shoulders like strands of spun gold. Her thoughts were far away, lost in the feeling of Baldwin’s fingers intertwined with hers. She touched the cool stone at her neck.

A knock startled her. She turned, frowning. At this hour?

“It’s just me,” Came Philippa’s voice. Luceria sighed in relief and went to open the door. Since she had begun spending most of her days in Jerusalem, her sister had taken to spending more time with her. Philippa’s husband was the constable after all, and their presence at court was necessary.

Luceria welcomed the kinship. Though her brother Bohemond still withheld his blessing, she hoped that they would soon reunite. Perhaps when I am queen, she thought, He will respect my desires.

“Why come so late?” Luceria asked. Her older sister was standing in the doorway, wearing only her sleeping shift. But one more intricately made than her own.

“I have brought great news—negotiations for your dowry have officially begun!” Philippa declared, marching into Luceria’s room and sitting herself upon her bed. “And so I have taken it upon myself to help you with wedding preparations. You have been waiting for far too long, and I know how much you loathe waiting.”

“Did Bohemond write to you? How is he?” Luceria asked, more concerned about her brother than the dowry. Had he forgiven her for leaving things the way that she had?

“Your father’s guilt-tripping did not go unanswered,” Philippa chuckled, pleased with herself. But Luceria’s heart dropped. It was her father that had convinced Bohemond? Not her letters, not her gifts, and certainly not her affection? “Our brother knows the value of this union for Antioch and Jerusalem.”

His political connections mattered, of course, but somehow Luceria had thought that the reason for his delay was more emotional. He had been her closest brother once. Now it seemed as though Bohemond had only released her dowry to appease Raynald and the State. The message was clear: His support of the union would only go as far as the political benefits would allow.

“Luceria this is good news,” Philippa chided her. “We should be celebrating, not moping about our sad-sack of an older brother.” Luceria tried to crack a smile, but her sister didn’t seem to believe her. Philippa’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I’ve had a long day. Father has been tutoring me.” Luceria murmured, shaking her head. Philippa stared her down. “I just wish he would write, Pippa. I’ve never demanded an apology, I just want a letter. Is that not too much to ask?” Her sister sighed and reached out to touch her face.

“Bohemond’s pride will be his undoing. But you will be queen soon,” Philippa reminded her, “You could simply command him to write you.”

Luceria scrunched up her nose, “I am not so sure I want to be queen in that manner.” She could wield power over her family; she could, and no one could tell her no. But she didn’t want her family to hate her. She didn’t want anyone to hate her. Plus commanding Bohemond felt hollow, a betrayal of the man who once taught her to ride. “What was mother like when she ruled?”

Philippa was silent for some time, her eyes glazing over with an old sadness, “She was kind, but she could also be cruel.” She swallowed, “Though that was only when she was left with no other choice. But cruelty leaves scars, Luceria.”

How could she ever know if cruelty was the last choice? How would she know that there were no more options left? She could barely make sense of the ledgers, how would she possibly know if she was doing the right thing?

“Mary followed mother’s footsteps to get to Byzantium’s throne, but even she does not have all the answers.” Philippa said gently, as though reading her mind. “Rule as yourself, Luceria. Not under the shadow of our mother.”

“But what if I—”

“You’ll stumble.” Philippa’s hands squeezed hers, “So you’ll kneel, so you’ll rise. But you are the gentlest soul in this world,” She smiled, “I have no doubt you will do right by our people, whatever the case may be. Baldwin chose well.”

Baldwin. Luceria thought, I will do right by my people, and by Baldwin.

“Now,” Philippa said, clapping her hands, “The dowry will be finalized at any time. And that will mean we have to start planning as soon as possible. Do you have any preferences?”

And though Luceria had already planned out most of her wedding with Baldwin, it was nice to have someone else to talk to about things that brought her joy. Someone who was as excited about the union as she was.

“I just want to have flowers,” Luceria said bashfully, eliciting a smile from Philippa.

“Then you will have them,” Her sister promised, “As many as you desire.”

Jerusalem, 24 August 1178

Agnes watched her grandson sleep in his bassinet, his face peaceful, his chest rising steadily. She had hummed to him earlier, sung him the same lullabies that her mother had once sung for her.

She was in her daughter’s apartments. In the corner of the room, Sibylla was reading to herself dressed in a shift the color of sunset, finally freed of her mourning gowns. All day she had been complaining about the tenderness of her breasts. The milk had been coming in frequently, and the baby was eating well.

This was all Agnes could ask for. Her daughter, healthy and happy. Her grandson, finally old enough to laugh. There was no sign of leprosy. No sign of illness. He was just as healthy as his mother.

“He sleeps at last,” Agnes whispered. She stood, her legs stiff and her back sore. The nights were long with the growing baby. And yet she could not complain. For all the suffering she had brought her daughter, she was happy to give her this.

“He cried all morning,” Sibylla complained, “As if he despises me.”

Agnes smiled, resting a hand on her daughter’s head. “You’ll mourn these cries when he’s grown.” The boy’s gums were sore—teething pains, fleeting as all trials. “He will grow up in the blink of an eye.”

Sibylla scoffed but lifted the babe to her shoulder, cradling him with the ease of practice. “Baldwin wishes to dine with you tonight,” she said abruptly. “He has matters to discuss.”

Agnes sighed, shaking her head, “It will be about that girl,” She said, trying not to sneer, “And the wedding. Again.”

She bore no hatred for the princess, but neither did she trust her. Baldwin’s heart might be full, yet a king needed more than love.

“They love each other,” Sibylla insisted, her voice softening. “This alliance strengthens the kingdom. Can you not rejoice for him?”

“They are too idealistic.” Agnes murmured, crossing her arms.

“She is beautiful and kind, and Baldwin is happy. Is that not enough for you?”

The princess was beautiful. But she was not at all impressed by the girl’s beauty, for beauty was but one of the tools a woman needed to survive court. She wondered if the girl was cunning, if the girl possessed wit and good insight.

The princess had been kind, yes, but kindness alone could not steady a crown.

“I do not want him to suffer,” Agnes whispered, trying not to lose her temper, “That is all. He has suffered so much already.”

Sibylla was silent for some time. Her eyes downcast and her grip on the babe tightening. “You are worried that she will abandon him. When he gets worse.”

Agnes looked away. She did not know how the princess truly felt about Baldwin and his illness. The young lovers had never been apart, not since the princess had come to Jerusalem. They were practically attached at the hip. And the Princess had not yet had to care for him when he was mad with pain, cursing at the sores on his skin and the rot that was taking over his body.

It was easy to love when there were no obstacles in the way.

The Princess had never seen him truly suffer through leprosy, and until then, Agnes would doubt. Love untested by fire was no love at all.

The King’s Quarters, Jerusalem, 24 August 1178

Contingencies.

His eyes scanned Prince Bohemond’s scrolls by the candlelight. It was a damn generous dowry, more gold, horses, and men than he expected from the prince. But the contingencies...Baldwin didn’t have the strength to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Bohemond wanted assurances, and he wasn’t about to take any chances on the princess’s marriage.

The demands bordered on arrogance, given Bohemond’s stalemate against As-Salih Ismail al-Malik, the Emir of Damascus. That reckless siege had nearly cost them Outremer, and the fool wanted to bargain for Luceria’s hand? To demand Jerusalem as the price for his sister’s happiness?

He shook his head. The irony was palpable. He would have laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. Jerusalem is crumbling, he thought bitterly.

Just that morning, the main curtain wall north of David’s Gate had collapsed. Summer rains had seeped into it’s already neglected state until it finally gave way. Repairs couldn’t wait—nor could rebuilding the Sulphur Tower.

The Church had already pledged funds, and lay leaders—always eager to curry favor with the royal family—had opened their coffers, but it meant yet another headache of logistics: recruiting masons, rerouting grain to feed workers, and calming nobles who grumbled about funds being misallocated.

All while Bohemond bargained on contingencies.

He’d discussed the terms privately with his council, sparing the Haute Cour the news for now. No need for the lords to lose their cuculli and start bickering over the princess’s dowry. God, he would have to deal with that eventually. But first he needed to be sure that Luceria was going to be fine. He needed to be sure that her interests would not get swallowed by the state.

He rubbed his eyes. Anselm must have answered the door. For suddenly his mother was sitting across from him.

“Sibylla says you called for me?” Agnes said, her eyes never leaving his. Baldwin sighed, pushing the scrolls to the side. He would have to think of their contents later. For now, there were other things to attend to. His mother, most importantly.

“I did.” Baldwin cleared his throat, reaching for his cup. “Negotiations for the princess’s dowry are underway. I value your counsel.” A dribble of water slipped from the edge and trailed down his chin.

Agnes raised her brow as he wiped the spill away with a cloth. “Did you?” She seemed surprised, and he couldn’t blame her. He had always consulted his mother before. But it had always been about matters of state—never personal affairs. “You’ve always been stubborn. Why hesitate now?”

“There’s no hesitation,” he clarified, setting the cup down. “The princess and I have discussed it at length. The ceremony is but a formality. Our vows before God matter more than anything else.”

Agnes smiled, though her eyes did not crinkle, “You intend to be married sooner, then.”

“Before the Feast of the Ascension. If the negotiations go well,” He said. Summer was dreadful for his rot. The cold winter air would give him time to heal, and by spring he would be ready. He was sure of it. “I’ve asked the Archbishop to bless our union. He has agreed.”

His mother was silent, studying her only son who had defied all expectations of him. Even her own.

“Is there anything else?” Agnes asked courtly.

Baldwin leaned forward, palms flat against the table. “You think I’m rushing into this. But Mother, if you would only—”

“I question neither her virtue nor your choice,” she interrupted, rising from her seat. “Nor do I dislike this arrangement. I have said so before, Baldwin. Your happiness is paramount to me. But I would be remiss not to worry about your future. When things become…difficult, will you both rule… or her kin?”

“I know,” He said, “I know, Mother.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing, “But that’s why I’ve called for you. I want you to spend time with her. Get to know her. Perhaps then you will see that there is nothing to fear.”

Baldwin watched as his mother’s lips twitched. She wanted him to be happy, and she knew that no matter how hard she fought, he wouldn’t change his mind. “You think very highly of her, don’t you?” Agnes asked.

Baldwin nodded, “She makes me happy, Mother.”

He loved Lucy. He did, but he could not say the words aloud. They were not for his mother to hear. They were only for Luceria. As long as she knew how he felt, Baldwin didn’t care about anything else.

Agnes nodded at last. “I will visit her tomorrow.”

Baldwin exhaled. At least she would try.

Chapter Text

The Gardens, Jerusalem, 25 August 1178

It was, by the very definition, a pleasant day.

The end of Summer was usually defined by either an unbearable heat, or rainstorms that destroyed all the crops. But today the sun was bright but not blaring. There was even the faintest of breezes in the air that seemed to cool Luceria’s skin as she walked towards the gardens. And though the day was most pleasant of all the recent days, she dreaded the conversation awaiting her.

Lady Agnes de Courtenay had always shown her courtesy, but she had never been motherly, nor was she ever warm. In the time that the princess had spent in Jerusalem, Agnes had kept her distance from her, speaking to her only when convention required. And then since becoming Baldwin’s betrothed, there was more attention than ever placed on the Antiochene princess.

But it was not attention Luceria had wanted. In fact, she would have been content to be in Agnes’s blind eye forever.

Agnes waited beneath a potted palm, its fronds casting shadows over her prayer book. She was draped in fine gold and burgundy silks, dark hair as coiled and perfectly set as her jewels. It was clear where Sibylla had inherited her beauty from, but the coldness in her almond-shaped eyes was something Luceria had never seen in either of her children.

“Princess,” Agnes said, glancing up. Her voice was devoid of welcome. “I’m glad to see you’re prompt.”

Luceria curtsied, her trembling fingers hidden in the folds of her skirt. “My lady,” She replied, “I am ever grateful for your summons.”

It was not entirely true, of course. Gratitude was far from her heart, only nerves that rattled her. But Baldwin’s mother demanded respect, and Luceria desperately wanted the older woman to accept her.

Agnes set her prayer book aside. “Has my son spoken to you of the proceedings?” She asked, cutting to the quick. Luceria blinked, surprised at the abruptness. Usually, conversations such as these were filled with empty pleasantries, but Agnes had no patience for them, it seemed. “I would assume you are informed of the negotiations, considering how close you are to the King.”

“He…has not, my lady,” She admitted, perhaps a little too timidly. “The king said such matters were his burden to bear. My duty is to prepare for the ceremony.”

Half-truths. Baldwin had shielded her from the quarrels of the Haute Cour and had left her in charge of their ceremony, but her father had spoken of such political things in the past few days. She dared not confess this to Agnes. Baldwin had his reasons for remaining silent, and she had not wanted to press.

Agnes’s lips pressed together in distaste. “He should have you present in these discussions. It is your future, after all.”

Luceria’s cheeks burned. Out of sheer nervousness, she fixed her eyes on the cross hanging at Agnes’s throat, the assortment of freshly baked bread, the untouched wine; anything to avoid the woman’s withering stare. “My father tutors me in statecraft these days,” she offered weakly. “The ways of Antioch are not so different from Jerusalem.”

The Countess did not seem impressed by this admission. In fact, she seemed to have expected it. “You have not been raised here,” She began, “So I do not expect you to understand the ways of our court. But you will have to learn, if you are to be Queen.”

“Yes,” Luceria said quickly. “I know.” She took another breath. “I am trying. Truly, I am.”

Agnes looked at her with narrowed eyes and Luceria did her best to keep her composure, to keep from flinching or fidgeting. Agnes de Courtenay was intimidating, powerful, and intelligent, and Luceria felt more than ever that she needed her approval. She did not need to prove to the world that she was worthy of Baldwin’s love, but she wanted to prove it to the Countess.

And that was proving to be the most difficult task of all.

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 25 August 1178

The Princess stood beneath the pergola’s arch, gazing at the courtyard herbs when a gloved hand brushed hers. She startled, nearly stumbling against the stone column. Turning, she met eyes as blue as the skies, laughter crinkled in their corners.

“Baldwin!” Luceria clutched her bliaut, the linen rough against her racing heartbeat. “You frightened me!”

The Crusader King chuckled, taking her hands in his. He was wearing a tunic of Tiraz, soft and luxurious and he smelled of the Saracenic ointments and oils that meant he had just finished with his physicians. “I did not mean to scare you. I only saw you here and thought I could surprise you. But you looked so serious, and I could not help myself.”

His ease disarmed her. She feigned offense, pulling her hand free. “You’re wicked. And you will pay for your wickedness.” She pouted. It was all in jest, and Baldwin knew it, for he only grinned wider.

He settled beside her on the bench, their sleeves brushing where his robes lay thickest. They did not touch in many ways, but under the protection of fabrics that hid the worst of his afflictions, they could be close. “I am sorry, my love, truly. How shall I make it up to you?”

“I will carry this grievance forever,” Luceria declared, “And I shall never forgive you. You will just have to live with that guilt for the rest of your days.”

Baldwin’s laugh turned wistful. He traced the stitches on her own gloved hands, “Then I am eternally damned,” He said softly, his fingers lacing with hers, “But content.”

“I could be convinced to forgive you, but it will take much effort.”

“You would have a poor leper beg at your feet?”

“Baldwin!” She swatted his arm, “Using your affliction to gain sympathy? What kind of man are you?” Her composure frayed, a giggle escaping.

“Clearly the worst one.” He grinned. “Now tell me: how fared you with my mother? Did she spare you her kindness?”

“She hates me.” Luceria said flatly, “She hates me and thinks me unworthy to be your bride.”

“Did she speak it?” Something about his expression told Luceria he would not be surprised if Agnes did. The princess shook her head.

“She did not need to!” She exclaimed, “I could see it in her eyes, Baldwin. They way they looked at me. As if I’m not fit to be married or to be queen. Not as I am now.”

“Luceria.” He cradled her hands, the silk barrier between them thinner here, where the bandages didn’t bulk. “You are. You are more than fit. My mother, she is...she is hard. And blunt. But she will come around. Trust me. She will. She just needs time to get to know you, that is all.”

She did not want the Countess to hate her. And she knew that this would not help her position as Queen when the time came. But there was nothing she could do to change that. She could only try and make it better. “I hope you’re right. I don’t know how else to win her favor.”

Baldwin fell silent, his thumb tracing circles on her hand. She watched him wrestle with solutions neither could name. “She’ll soften, Lucy.” he finally said.

If only Luceria believed that could be true.

“She invited me on an excursion with her next week,” Luceria confessed, studying the clouds as if they held answers. “What do I even say to her? I’ll perish before sunset.” She clutched his sleeve, half-laughing. “Rescue me, Baldwin. Save me from this torment.”

“From my own mother? Never.” He caught her hand, his silk-wrapped fingers warm from all the layers. “You must face her on your own.”

“Wicked and cruel, indeed. I once again declare that I shall never forgive you.” She murmured, looking away from him. But she could not stop smiling.

“Well then, I shall have to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, won’t I?”

“I don’t think there is enough time left in the world to make up for this, my king.”

“Then I’ll die a guilty man.” His grin softened. “A fair price to hear you laugh.”

She flushed. Baldwin’s eyes were so focused in that moment, as they always were whenever she was with him. As if she was the only thing he’d ever want to look at. “Dine with us tonight,” she bargained. “If only to ease your conscience.”

“Well that’s unfair,” he murmured, pulling her closer, their foreheads almost bumping. “Your father already favors me. How shall you punish me then?” He grinned. “You’ll just have to wait until the wedding. And then you will get to torment me every waking hour of your life.”

She pulled away with a laugh and stood, dusting her skirts. The sun dipped low—she needed to ready herself for supper. “You’re insufferable. Thank Heavens the wedding’s months off. I will have time to rethink this arrangement. I’m sure I could find someone much better.”

He stood, pressing his hand against his chest as he acted affronted by her words. “You’d scorn your king? No man in Outremer is better than I!”

“We’ll see,” she said, swatting his arm and moving past him. “You’ve yet to earn your place, my lord.” She glanced over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow.

He followed eagerly—one step, two—before his hand reached for his leg. He looked down at the floor, fingers on his knees as his legs trembled. Luceria was at his side in an instant. He was panting, his eyes closed tightly as he tried to regain his composure.

“Baldwin?” Her voice softened. “Shall I fetch Anselm?”

“No, no. Please don’t. I am alright.” A strained smile. “Please. Just...give me some time. We will have supper together, like you wanted.”

She said nothing, threading her fingers through his gloved hand. They sat back on the bench shoulder-to-shoulder, silence thick as he steadied his breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

When he stood, his legs still trembled. “Come, Lucy,” he said, voice tense but smiling. He squeezed her hand and limped forward. She matched his pace.

The pain lingered—she felt it in his rigid grip. But Baldwin had survived sieges and fevers. He’d endure this too. He had to—for her, if not himself.

Chapter Text

The Stables, Jerusalem, 28 August 1177

It was always a treat when new horses came to the royal stables, and today was no exception. The sun shined bright on their slender backs as the stablehand led them to their stalls. The stallions stamped eagerly, restless after their long journey from the northern pastures. Baldwin leaned on the fence, arms crossed over the wood.

He was feeling much stronger today. The previous night was a simple setback. Leprosy was like the tide after all, ebbing and flowing, good days and bad.

Beside him stood Luceria, the wind playing with her veil. She looked lovely in the sunshine; summer had warmed her cheeks to a rosy hue. She smiled as she watched the horses trot by, content just to observe. These were the days he wanted to give her. Carefree. Not filled with worry.

“I think my favorite would have to be that one,” Luceria said, pointing to the young stallion with the gold coat and white mane. The Nisean horses were as rare as relics, and the Emperor had sent three of them in various colorations along with chargers, destriers, mules, and other animals from Constantinople. An early wedding gift, the messenger had called them, a token of goodwill between Christian realms. Baldwin admired their strength—broad-chested, perfect for war—but his heart still preferred his own Arabian.

“I’ll send word to your sister and the Emperor,” Baldwin mused, “These steeds will serve the Kingdom well once they’re trained.” He turned to find Luceria coaxing the golden horse with a fig, her dainty fingers stretched over the fence as far as they could go. The beast licked it up, then snorted into her palm, causing her to laugh. He could live in that memory forever.

“What shall we name this one?” He asked.

Luceria tilted her head. “Perhaps Helios? It’s a rare color, no?”

“I think you will make the Greeks proud, my princess.” He laughed. “It suits the creature.”

Luceria turned to him and sighed, her smile fading. Baldwin recognized this look—she was thinking deeply. She’d worn it often since the betrothal terms began. “I worry that this dowry business will never be settled. Let me do something, Baldwin. Please.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Baldwin smiled. “The negotiations are going smoothly. This is the way of things, Luceria. And once it is done, everything will be fine.”

“Still, I want to help. I don’t feel as if I am doing enough.” She sighed.

He chuckled. He knew that this would be bothering her. She wanted to be more involved these days, her nose stuck reading maps and ledgers. And though he admired her efforts, there was no need for her to fret. He was more than capable of negotiating this himself. “Luceria, your role is to outshine the sun on our wedding day. Nothing else. You are not expected to take part in the negotiations. I will handle that.”

“I know,” She sighed, her eyes looking past him and towards the stallion that had taken her fig. “But I want to share the weight, not watch you bear it alone.”

“Then be here,” His voice dropped, a confession meant for her alone. “Just keep smiling like that. Because that’s what matters most to me.”

Luceria’s eyes softened, “I will try.” She promised and managed a smile, but he could tell that she was still discontent.

Baldwin sighed and took her hand in his. He gave it three light squeezes. A promise. He would move heaven and earth if it meant that she would never worry again.

The Study, Jerusalem, 28 August 1177

“It’s ambitious,” William of Tyre murmured, eyes locked on the map stretched across the table. “I’ll grant you that.”

Baldwin traced a gloved finger along the River Jordan’s path, from Galilee’s shores to the Dead Sea. The fortress would straddle the Damascus road, barring Saracen armies from Jerusalem’s gates. Control the route, he reasoned, and you control the war—trade monitored, raids thwarted, Saladin’s plans checked by tall unbreakable walls. A hundred miles north of the holy city, the Chastelet would stand as the realm’s first defense.

“Even Saladin is threatened,” Baldwin grinned, his eyes glimmering, “Can you imagine what he’s feeling right now? Knowing that we are building the greatest fortress in all of Christendom.”

William’s brows knitted together. “Your vision for defense has ever been keen,” He agreed, “But this project...it’s bold, even for you.”

“When completed, no army will breach its walls. This stronghold could tilt the balance in our favor for generations.” He knew he was being idealistic, but he couldn’t help it. This plan would change the fate of Outremer. Everlasting peace was something he had always dreamed of, and this was just the first step towards that dream.

“I cannot wait to see its completion,” William finally gave in. “It will be magnificent.”

“Construction has been slow. But once the negotiations conclude and the dowry is secured, God willing, we’ll have enough to quicken the work.” Baldwin replied. “Perhaps by next summer, part of it will be ready for us to see. I will bring you there personally, William, and we can walk its walls. Together.”

“We will have to do that, your Majesty.”

Baldwin smiled. He was confident that this would be the most important project in his reign, and he was eager to see it through. If he could achieve this, then his legacy in history was set. A man who brought peace to the Holy Land. A man who saved his Kingdom from its enemies and who ensured its safety for generations to come.

The future was bright. And he would make sure of it.

The King's Chambers, Jerusalem, 28 August 1177

Words were usually easy for him. They spilled from his mouth and onto parchment as if by magic, and in moments the page was full. But today, they were elusive, slipping from his grasp like sand. He’d written to the Emperor before—formal pleas, strategic requests—but this was different. This letter needed to breathe gratitude, resolve, and the quiet hope of a king.

The Empress’s favor mattered most of all.

Luceria would likely send her own letters, he knew, yet he refused to let protocol overshadow sincerity. This message had to be his own.

Baldwin picked up his stylus and wax tablet and began to draft the letter.

To Their Imperial Majesties, Emperor Manuel Komnenos and Empress Mary of Antioch,

He frowned. Too plain. He wanted this letter to be perfect, even if it was just to thank the couple for their early gift. It had to convey his gratitude, but also his strength.

He scraped the wax smooth.

To the Most Wise and Noble Emperor Manuel Komnenos and Empress Mary of Antioch,

That would have to do. Though he still felt it was lacking.

I, Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem, do send you our greetings.

He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking hard about the next sentence. The weight of the past year had been heavy on his mind. With the dowry and Byzantium’s support, the Chastelet at Jacob’s Ford would be completed in no time.

I thank you for your gifts, for the fine horses, the gold, the silver, and the good wishes for our upcoming nuptials.

He paused, stylus trembling. The words needed to be flawless. Not just gratitude—proof. He was no longer the boy king, wide-eyed and pitied.

He was a man.

I will use your gifts well and will ensure that they will not go to waste.

He scratched the line out violently, wax flecking the desk. Too blunt. Too desperate. The Empress would see through it. He raised a hand to rub his temple, but his fingers refused to straighten.

He twitched.

And then he reached for the stylus again.

He trembled.

The hand was stiff.

Shaking.

His fingers were numb, wrists were sore. He could not hold the stylus. He could not write. His left hand seemed to contract, fingers clawing into his palm in agony.

He threw the tablet onto the desk and screamed.

Write.

Damned hands. Damned leprosy. Write. Write, you bastard. Write.

He slammed his hand against the desk and the wax tablet clattered to the floor. The pain was half-there, and half-not, the nerves in his hand felt dead, the bandages frayed revealing ugly chunks of leprous flesh. Oozing and sore. Blood dripped from his hand onto the desk. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was too hot in the Christ forsaken room. Too hot. Too damned hot. He yanked at his collar, then his fingers, desperately stretching the withered tendons. If he could but force life into them, bend them to his will…

Write, he commanded himself. Write.

Knuckles cracked, but still the fingers refused. Would not bend. Would not write. Baldwin stared at the useless hand, so swollen beneath the glove. Tears were in his eyes, his vision hazy. The stylus broken in half. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He screamed. He screamed until the numbness in his body was nothing compared to the numbness in his heart.

Please.

When at last the spasms ceased, his hand lay limp, fingers slackened by exhaustion. And then they moved, bending slowly to the sound of popping bone and ligament. And then, when he could scream no more, Baldwin wept alone.

Chapter Text

And at his gate was laid a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who desired to be fed with what fell from the rich man's table. Moreover, even the dogs came and licked his sores. The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham's side.

Luke 16: 19-22

Jerusalem, 30 August 1178

The streets below the Holy Sepulcher were so cramped it forced Luceria to go by donkey, its hooves clattering over uneven stones. The servants accompanying them walked on foot, carrying her things in their arms. She wore simple clothes, like the other women in Jerusalem. A muted blue cotton dress with no embroidery or ornament. Her hair was tied back in braids, and her face and necklace were hidden beneath her modest white veil.

Agnes rode in front of her, back straight, her gaze set on the road ahead. They had departed the palace early with only three maidservants—no fanfare, no guards. There was to be no ceremony, Agnes had informed her, only work. And Luceria was determined to put in as much work as needed if it meant Agnes would accept her.

As per Baldwin’s request, they spent more time together. They shared wine the day prior, broke bread, and discussed the plans for her upcoming nuptials. Though the Countess had been cold at first, Luceria thought that they had made some progress.

Now, however, it seemed that the woman had once again turned her attention away from the young princess, and was focusing instead on their destination.

They stopped in front of an old building, where people had gathered up on each side of the narrow road, their faces drawn and tired. Its limestone walls were weathered to the color of dust. Its windows arched, narrow and high. A carved eight-pointed cross marked the entrance, and a withered man knelt near its gates, murmuring prayers as her donkey passed him by.

Luceria tightened her grip on the reins.

“Have you been to the Palacium before, child?” The Countess asked as soon as her donkey was led away by a stablehand. Miriam stepped forward, offering her arm to steady Luceria as she dismounted. “The poor come here to receive alms and treatment.”

Luceria shook her head. She knew about the institution through her tutors and the court, but had never once visited. The Palacium Infirmorum was one of the few places in all of Outremer that accommodated everybody. Even those of varied faith.

But the tutors had never mentioned the stench of sickness.

She saw the Countess retrieve her basket, placing it on her arm. Luceria turned to Miriam, who immediately reached for her own. The people around them were dressed in rags. They had dirt on their skin and holes in their clothes. Some of them looked so frail that they seemed to barely be able to stand. But the worst of the lot was inside.

They walked into the main hall, the stone floors cool under her slippered feet. A woman was lying in one of the corners, her body pale and covered in sweat. A physician was bent over her, trying to get her fever to break, but it didn’t seem to work. There was an elderly man in the bed next to them, his face as gray as the sheets beneath him. All who were well enough to sit wore the hospice’s provided garb: coarse canvas boots for the latrines, cloaks of sheepskin, and woolen caps pulled low. Luceria gripped her basket tighter.

She could see the Countess moving from cot to cot, handing out the alms to each of the men. Some thanked her with tears in their eyes, while others just stared at her with hollow expressions. Steadying herself, Luceria approached a patient propped upright on his pallet. His cheeks were sunken, the rest of his body more bone than flesh.

The Princess stopped, pulling out wrapped linen from her basket. “May Saint John intercede your healing,” she said, trying to smile, the words practiced from years of court piety.

The man’s thin fingers trembled as he took it. “Christ’s mercy upon you, noble lady.” His voice was a dry rasp, yet he managed a crooked smile before unwrapping the gift and biting into the loaf.

Luceria felt as though her stomach dropped. But she didn’t let it show. Instead, she moved to the next man. And the next one after him.

And by the time she had made her way around the room, handing out her alms and receiving the blessings of gratitude from those around her, her legs were shaking. She felt like crying. She gripped the wicker rim until her knuckles whitened, willing the tears back. To weep here would shame them all—Agnes, whose dignity she was determined to earn, and the dying, who had no luxury for pity.

“It isn’t easy to witness the suffering of others,” Agnes said from behind her. Luceria turned, her head tilting to look at the Countess, “I have been giving alms here since I was a girl. We had close to nothing then, but my mother would still give away half of it.”

Luceria did not know what to say. “There are so many people in need,” She whispered. The hall was filled, and yet she could see the lines outside.

“There are always more and more,” The Countess agreed. “This place can tend to a thousand people at once. But the people of Jerusalem are much more than that. Not everyone receives help. Even now, only four physicians come daily.”

A commotion drew Luceria’s eye—the physician stepped back from the fevered woman’s cot, shaking his head. A servant drew a rough shroud over the corpse, muttering a prayer as two others lifted the pallet. The woman’s bare foot, gray and blistered, slipped free of the cloth before vanishing into the shadows.

“This is the kingdom you wed. Not feasts or gold, but this.” Agnes said. She was standing next to the princess, watching the scene unfold. Luceria didn’t understand. She gestured to the hall, where a nun pressed a cup of water to a child’s chapped lips. “To rule Jerusalem is to hold its brokenness as your own. Are you prepared?”

Her question made the Princess’ blood run cold. She didn’t know.

“I will learn,” she promised, her eyes meeting the Countess’. “For their sake.”

Agnes nodded. “Pray to God your marriage brings more than treaties. Pray harder it brings grain, physicians, peace. And if it does not, let us hope that you are ready for the consequences.”

The Palacium Infirmorum, Jerusalem, 30 August 1178

Agnes watched the princess as she moved between the rows of sickbeds, her dust-covered gown trailing across the floor. The girl’s eyes were swollen from holding back her tears, her once-full basket now carrying only a few more pieces of linen-wrapped bread. They had been here for nearly two hours. It was almost time for them to leave. But Agnes wanted to make sure the girl understood the lesson beneath the bandages and bitter tonics. That she understood what her marriage would bring.

Her son may love her, but would she love him the way she would need to?

The Hospitaller Knights stood by, watching the women move around with interest. The eight-pointed cross displayed proudly on their chests; they were all dressed in long black cloaks with no hems. The physicians did not stop their work. There was never enough time for everything that needed to be done.

The sick and the dying kept coming.

They were short on beds. Short on supplies. Short on everything. But it was the best that they could do, and so everyone did their best to accommodate. The Countess had made sure to always help in any way that she could, even if her visits were few.

She knew Jerusalem needed more than she could offer.

And so she prayed. And so she worked.

Luceria knelt beside an old man trembling on his cot, pressing a bread crust into his wrinkled hands. His tears dripped onto the loaf as he blessed her in rasping Armenian. The princess smiled—a fragile, watery thing—and Agnes recognized the dangerous glimmer in her eyes: the girl felt too deeply.

Agnes couldn’t remember a time of what it meant to be soft. Married at eight to a crusader Lord who left her a widow at ten, she’d learned young that tenderness would only bring her sorrow. Her father’s capture had reduced her mother to begging for favors from lesser lords. Agnes had no lands, no gold, no dowry. Only a powerful name, sharp wits, and sharper cheekbones that secured her the eye of a man who would one day become King.

But even he had annulled her.

Agnes knew, had always known, that Baldwin was different than her. He had been born to power, to riches. And his illness had made him gentle in ways no other monarch had been. Even in his youth, her son was kind. Ruled with a scholar’s mind and a saint’s virtues. Agnes had always been proud. But she was worried; worried that he was too good, and that the world would break him.

Worried that this princess, the one that he had grown to love, would betray him and leave him when he needed her most.

So she had to make sure. She had to be certain. She couldn’t let her son be alone.

“My Lady,” A hospitaller said, coming to stand next to her. His black cloak had a thin coat of Jerusalem’s ever-present sand and his mop of pale blonde hair was scruffy from the day’s work. “I see you have noticed our humble establishment’s... insufficiencies. But I can assure you, my lady, we do what we can, with the little we have available.”

Agnes kept her gaze on Luceria, “Thank you, Brother. You are doing God’s work here, of that I have no doubt.”

He followed her stare. “Your son’s betrothed?” A note of approval warmed his voice. “She is kind. Gentle. The people will come to adore her.”

“May they have cause to,” Agnes said. Luceria straightened now, her white veil damp with sweat as she approached. The girl’s curtsy to the Hospitaller was flawlessly practiced.

“Is there anything more we can do to help?” She asked. She bowed her head towards the monk, who returned her gesture. “Anything at all. I would be glad to give it.”

The hospitaller shook his head. “Prayer is all that is left to give, Your Highness.” He said, “I am afraid that at this moment there is nothing more that we can do.”

Luceria’s jaw tightened, but she inclined her head. “Then I shall keep them all in my prayers. But come to me when you need more alms. It would be my honor to provide it.”

Agnes almost smiled. She had to admire her conviction, but there was one more thing to test.

Jerusalem, 30 August 1178

They descended the uneven steps west of Saint Stephen’s Gate, the moat’s stagnant air rising to meet her. Flies hummed over litter clotting the streets, where Eastern Christian burgesses now occupied the abandoned Juiverie. It was agonizingly hot, and her cotton dress clung to her spine, damp and itching as they moved passed the merchants hawking goods and pilgrims shuffling south towards the Armenian quarter.

This was not the Jerusalem she was used to. Outside its walls, even the air felt diseased.

The old church stood ahead, its walls worn but strong, the wooden door left open to let in the warm breeze. A monk emerged, carrying a skeletal man upon his shoulders like a sack of grain. Luceria froze as the monk lowered the man onto a chair. His face was a ruin; his skin crumpled like old leather, milky-blue eyes staring blankly ahead of him. He was missing most of his teeth and his hair was thin and falling out, but still he smiled at the monk who knelt at his feet.

“God bless you, Brother Alberic,” the man wept as the monk began to wash him.

There were others around them, shuffling in their black and white robes adorned with a large green cross that ran down the middle of the chest. A figure passed her, nose collapsed into a hollow, his fingers reduced to mere stubs. There were many more like him, skinny and deformed. The princess’ stomach churned at the sight.

Lepers.

So many of them.

Her eyes snagged on a figure she could see from the chapel windows—a leper knight wearing the same robes of the order, but his face obscured by a battered mask of silver. Sunlight bounced off the dented surface as he moved, the drumming of the wooden noisemaker in his hand reminding her of an eerie rattle. Others followed behind him, some with masks scored with crosses, some clutching clappers or bells.

“The Leprosaria of the Order of Saint Lazarus,” the Countess said, gesturing to the courtyard as she noticed Luceria’s frozen stare. “These men had other lives once, but now they serve a different battle.” Her voice hardened, “In war, they remove their masks when they are ready to face death.”

The princess pressed a hand to her throat. One of the Lazar knights paused, his mask tilting towards her. Through the crude slits, she glimpsed eyes—one brown, the other the color of curdled milk. She thought of Baldwin. Would his eyes, those blue eyes that she loved so much, become like this? Her betrothed, who even now hid his lesions beneath linen wrappings, might someday stare at her sightless behind a face of metal.

The burdens of her beloved. She had to be strong enough to hold them. She could not imagine how he had learned to carry them all this time.

“Why bring me here?” Luceria whispered. Her eyes were welling up again, but she did not let herself cry. Not in front of the lepers. Not in front of the Countess.

Agnes stepped closer, “Because you must understand: Baldwin’s body will betray him. But his heart, and his mind? They are yours to nurture.” She gestured to the knight, now vanishing into the hospice. “These men are not pitied here. They are feared elsewhere. You will not weaken, will you? Not for him, not for Jerusalem?”

Luceria trembled. She had never considered her future with Baldwin to be like this. She remembered his weeks of fever, the numbness in his legs when he pushed her away. But not once had she thought of what the end would look like. Now, however, her future was staring her right in the face.

Did she love him enough to bear that burden?

“You think me cruel,” Agnes sighed. “But I would have you love him clearly. Leprosy will take so much from him. It need not take you.” The Countess stepped back. “But I will not force you to wed my son, princess. If you choose not to, I am sure your family will provide for you. But if you wish to continue with this arrangement, I must warn you, Baldwin’s life will not be easy, and it will only get worse from here.”

The sound of the noisemaker faded into the chapel. The air still reeked of wounds that would never close. Luceria swallowed her own vomit. This was her betrothal gift: the truth, bare and terrible, of the man she was to marry. She would be with someone already half-phantom, his future carved in sheets of silver and scars.

And still, the answer was yes.

She loved him more than enough to bear it.

Chapter Text

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 31 August 1178

“You had no right.” It took every bit of his restraint to keep himself from screaming at her. His mother, however, simply stared him down with an expression that dared him to further press the matter. They stood in the privacy of his solar, away from prying eyes and ears, yet Baldwin knew that gossip had an inevitable way of slithering down these halls.

But, by the Holy Virgin, how could he hide his anger when his won mother had seen fit to escort Luceria there?

To that wretched place, the place that housed the lepers of the kingdom. A den of suffering that had been haunting his dreams since boyhood. He had visited once at thirteen when he was newly crowned, and the stench of decay and sightless eyes of the afflicted had clung to him for weeks. The thought of Luceria seeing that…Seeing those men and he might yet become made his stomach turn.

He could end it all now, if only to spare her the truth festering beneath his bandages.

“I had no right?” Her voice was infuriatingly composed. “To show the future Queen of Jerusalem the true face of the city she is to rule? The girl needed to know what she is binding herself to.”

“There was no need to take her there,” He argued, trying to keep his voice steady though his fist trembled at his side, “She will see enough of this disease in me.”

“You coddle her.” Agnes shook her head. “She loves you and even I can see that. But she needs to learn to love you for all of you. Not just the parts you show her.”

Her words hit him hard and he found himself unable to respond. In the quiet chambers of his conscience, he knew his mother was right. That Luceria deserved to understand the extent of his condition. But how could he tell her? He could not suppress the instinct to shield her and the sanctuary of their love. It was the one thing that kept him going, that made his suffering feel like it was worth something.

And now his mother was threatening to take that away from him.

“She knows what matters.” He said coldly.

“No. No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know the reality of living with this disease. How can she stand beside you if she doesn’t understand the battle you fight everyday?”

“Must she drown in it?!” He did not mean to raise his voice. He clenched his jaw. “There are other ways to prepare her!”

“I disagree.” Agnes replied firmly. “You will not be ruling alone. The Kingdom will soon depend on her too. Do not make the mistake of sheltering her.”

“I can handle it myself.” He insisted, his anger rising. Had he not been the Hero of Montgisard? Had God not preserved him for this very purpose? “Do you doubt me, mother?”

“I never said that.” Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Your pride blinds you. You see yourself as the sole savior of Jerusalem, and so you think that you can bear the burden alone. But you cannot. You need aid. She must see what awaits. What you will become. And she must prove whether she can endure it.”

And if she can’t? What then?

But he couldn’t say those words aloud, so instead he looked away. His nails pressed into his bandaged palms. Feeling. He could still feel. If he could feel the pain, then he wasn’t lost yet. Luceria wasn’t lost to him. Not yet. The disease advanced, yes, but there was time. There had to be time. He would steal it from the heavens if he must.

“Do not do that again,” He finally said. He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “This is my court. My life. I decide what is best for us. Not you.” His words sounded petulant, childish. Agnes looked away, her face drawn and tired.

“As you wish, my son.” She said. And he hated the defeat in her voice almost as much as he hated knowing she was right.

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 3 September 1178

“I’m afraid this isn’t a good time, Princess.” Anselm was fidgeting with his sword belt as he stood in the doorway, blocking Luceria’s path. “His Majesty is indesposed today.”

Indeed, King Baldwin had refused all visitors since the Countess’s departure. A circumstance proving to be most troubling. He had scarcely uttered a word to his attendants, nor permitted even the most trusted among them to enter his private chambers. Anselm did not know what transpired that day, but he knew it couldn’t have been any good. It had been three days now. And still, the King remained closed up in his chambers when his daily duties were done.

“I am aware,” Luceria looked and sounded nervous. “That is not the reason I came.”

He tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Then what do I owe the honor, My Lady?”

“I wished to speak with you.” She confessed. “I…I understand you served in the Order of Lazarus before entering His Majesty’s service.”

Anselm’s brows rose in surprise. Few ever sought his counsel, and fewer still inquired after his days among the Leper Brothers. Yet here stood the Princess of Antioch, future Queen of all people, seeking his wisdom. The thought made him happy in a way he couldn’t explain, and his face broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Indeed, My Lady,” He said eagerly. “I am at your disposal.”

They thus withdrew to the courtyard, putting distance between themselves and potential gossips. He matched the princess’s unhurried steps, not caring where they went.

“What manner of life did you lead among the leper knights?” The princess asked. The sun was high above their heads. Anselm could feel the sweat on his neck. He wanted to remove his cap but knew that would be improper. So he kept it on, and ignored the heat.

“I was born and raised in Beit Gubrin,” He began, his gaze drifting towards the King’s balcony, where the heavy curtains remained drawn against the world. “My father was a blacksmith, my brother and I the only family he had as my mother was taken from us when I was a child. My father had saved what coin he could to secure me an education. Back then, there were many things I wanted to become.” He did not elaborate on what those ambitions had been; they seemed now like the fancies of another man entirely.

“But then my brother showed the marks.”

Luceria’s fingers whitened against her skirts.

“He was twelve when the numbness came. First his fingers, then his feet. By fourteen, he joined the Order. I could not let him go alone.” His eyes grew distant. Remembering. “I carried his bowl when he could no longer grip it. Stayed till his last breath.” He shrugged—a man’s shrug, dismissing pain. “And now, here I am.”

There was silence. “I’m sorry,” The princess said. “That must have been difficult for you.”

“I wouldn’t have changed a thing.” Anselm said as he tilted his face to the white-hot sky. “We sang together even as his lips cracked with sores. The Brothers taught me that afflictions matter less than souls. I would have stayed my whole life if Master Bartholomew hadn’t told me that the leper King was in need of a squire.” A dry chuckle. His nose, crooked from Montgisard, still hurt sometimes when he smiled. “It’s funny really, how quickly life changes.”

She looked at him gently. “What was your brother’s name?”

“Thomas.” The name softened his weathered features. “Kind, stubborn Thomas, they called him. Always thoughtful, and always eager to please. The first to help our neighbors and the last to eat, lest another go wanting.” He remembered how his brother would smile. How he would always try to make the best of things. Even when they were living in the worst conditions imaginable. “He is the reason I am the person I am today.”

“God granted you a rare grace.”

Anselm nodded, his eyes finding the windows again. “More than most, My Lady.”

They sat down on the fountain. The princess was quiet, lost in thought. And Anselm, ever mindful of her station and the thoughts that consumed her, did not presume to disturb her. He merely sat beside her, letting the silence stretch between them.

Finally, Luceria spoke up again. “You lived among the lepers for years without falling ill. Does God grant such mercy often?”

Anselm nodded. “The sickness is not so easily caught as most men fear.” He said, “Some are more susceptible than others. Some, sicken after years of tending to the afflicted. While others, by the grace of God, never seem to catch it at all.” He met her gaze, “But caution is always wise.”

“And women?” Luceria’s question came too quick, “Can it…?”

“Yes, princess. Did you think otherwise?”

“It’s just… I did not see any women there.” She looked down, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment.

“Ah.” Anselm softened his tone. He did not want to fluster her further. “Perhaps they were in the dormitories, Your Highness. Or perhaps even in Bethany. The convent there tends to many souls. Mostly widows. Or children already marked with numbed limbs.”

“I truly don’t know much about leprosy, Anselm.” She confessed, “And I want to be prepared. Baldwin, he’s so…so good. We’ve had truly good days recently, and he hasn’t had a fever in months. And I have hoped…”

Anselm nodded. “It’s not an easy disease to live with, Your Highness. Most of those who have it don’t live to see thirty.” He took in her horrified expression and sighed. “I served in the order for two decades, Princess. And I saw the suffering the men endured. The pain. The humiliation. It’s…It’s not an easy thing to witness, and even less to live with.” He thought back to the brothers who had passed away in his care and the ones who had lost their fingers, toes, their very wits before the end.

“But Baldwin is different!” She protested with desperation. “He is the King. He has the finest physicians, the rarest medicines. Surely he will not suffer as they do.”

“Perhaps not,” Anselm admitted. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t suffer at all, princess. Leprosy is still leprosy. Even the best physicians can’t change that. It’s an ugly disease. Ugly.”

Luceria looked down at her hands, her delicate fingers intertwining in front of her. “How long do we have until…?”

“God alone carries the answer, My Lady. But the disease is certainly progressing. We will have to be prepared.”

“Oh.” Her pale lashes fluttered downward. “Surely there must be something. Some remedy to slow its course?”

He dragged a calloused hand through his tawny hair. “Most lepers just keep living as best as they can. The brothers take care of the sick and dying, tend to them, give them comfort. Those who can still fight, do. These lepers…they live in the world but not exactly of it. And they live every day praying that one day they could be cured, or at least find an end to their suffering.”

Seeing her stricken expression, he sighed. He didn’t want to frighten her, but there was no other reality. “There is no cure, Princess. We treat what symptoms we can, but in due time…”

A single tear traced its way down Luceria’s cheek. “Then tell me how to bear this.” She implored. “How do I help him?”

Anselm looked at her, and for the first time in decades, he felt true pity. “Do as I have done these many years, My Lady. Stand beside him, make him feel cared for. You can show him that he’s still the same man he was before the disease gets worse. Let him feel his independence for as long as you can. That’s what you can do.”

But Luceria shook her head. “No. That is not enough. I need you to teach me everything you can. The ways of your Order, the nature of this disease, and all you have learned through your service.”

Anselm sighed.

She has your stubbornness, Thomas.

The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 5 September 1178

Baldwin sat in his bedchamber, his gaze fixed on the curtains as they billowed in the afternoon breeze. Five days of stewing in the knowledge that his princess, his beloved, had seen the worst of what his illness could bring. The image of the Leper knights lingered in the back of his mind like an omen from God. Their masked faces, their ruined skin… It was enough to make him vomit.

Luceria had sent him messages and gifts, each one more thoughtful than the last. And yet, each one made him feel worse, made him realize he did not deserve her. She was too good for him, too pure. But still, he couldn’t help but love her.

The kind thing would be to let her go before it gets worse.

He stared at his palm, flexing his fingers slowly as though testing the limits of his flesh.

He was brooding and he knew it. He wasn’t even ill right now. No fever, just the ache of his lesions that refused to leave him. And no stiffness either, just the throbbing of a hand that still managed to work somehow. And still, she came to see him everyday, no matter how much he protested. No matter how much the guards turned her away.

The door clicked open. He knew her steps—light, deliberate on the carpet. Curtains rustled open, and there she stood, the afternoon sunlight haloing her veil.

“You should not be here.” Baldwin murmured. Anselm must have let her in despite his orders. He was starting to suspect the squire listened to the Princess’s wishes more than his demands. It was not something he was happy to discover. But he couldn’t fault the man. Luceria was almost as persistent as this damned disease.

“Why must you always do this when you are distressed, Baldwin”

He turned his head. He did not expect this question and it took him aback. He had braced for her usual comforts—a treat, a jest, something to distract him—not this piercing honesty.

“Why do you push me away?”

“I do not.”

Lies. But were they not kinder than the truth?

“Yes, you do. Every time things get difficult you withdraw into yourself. You shut me out. It hurts me, Baldwin.”

“Well, then you never should have gone there,” He retorted, knowing full well he was being unjust. He wanted to apologize. To tell her he was sorry and that he didn’t mean to be cruel. But as usual his pride choked him. Miserable, miserable pride.

But he couldn’t help it. He was angry, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps he felt his mother’s betrayal too deeply, or fear that Luceria might now recoil from him knowing what she had seen. The hideous beast he would eventually become. “What my mother did was inappropriate. She had no right to take you to that place.”

“I’m glad she did.”

“Why?” He snapped. How could she say that? How could she be glad she had seen the horrors that awaited him?

“I needed to know, Baldwin.”

“Know what?” He scoffed. “You’ve seen me as I am now. What more do you need to know? You could never understand what it is to live with this damned disease so why must you act like some… some martyr?” The words spilled out bitter and he despised himself for saying them. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone, Luceria? We are happy.”

“Not if you keep shutting me out!” She pleaded, already exasperated with him. “I love you.” She stepped closer. The words stung to hear. “All of you. Not just the parts you think are worthy of my love. I want to help, Baldwin, but I can’t if you won’t let me.”

Her hand reached out and sought his yet again.

He flinched and pulled away, trying to control the anger that was rising in him. “You cannot fix me, Luceria!” He had never raised his voice at her like this before. The cruelty of his words shamed him, but shame had long since made its home in his heart.

“I do not seek to fix you!” She cried, sinking to her knees in front of him. Her fingers brushed his hands, those damned fucking useless hands that may no longer work in a year or two. He turned his face away, not wanting to see the tears forming in her eyes. Seeing her cry would undo him.

“I only wish to understand,” She whispered. “So when the time comes, I might bear it with you.”

“I don’t want your help!” He cried out. “I don’t want your care! This is not your burden to bear!” He wanted to push her away, to hurt her as much as he was hurting.

He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean any of it.

But he was afraid. Afraid of losing her. Afraid of her leaving him when she realized what he truly was. It was better this way. Better to drive her off now with his own hands than to watch her leave him later in revulsion.

“Baldwin—”

“No,” he cut her off coldly. “Get out.” It was an order, one she must obey. She had to leave. Now. Before he lost control. Before she said something else that would break him entirely.

Luceria’s face twisted and her nose scrunched up as she tried not to cry. “I love you.” She whispered. Raw and aching. “You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

He turned his head. If he looked at her, he would not be strong enough to send her away. “Get. Out.” He repeated. “Now. Please.”

“No.” The defiance burned through her grief. “No. I won’t let you do this. Not again. I won’t let you shut me out like this!”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR PITY!” He screamed, his anger finally breaking through. She flinched away from him. He was panting. The anger spilling over and over as he could no longer contain it. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. JUST LEAVE LUCERIA.”

“NO!” Her scream matched his. Her patience finally broken. The frustration in her face was plain to see. She was furious, hurt, and scared. “You don’t have to bear this alone. I’m here. I’m right here!”

He was trembling. His whole body was trembling. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. “Luceria…” His words were please now. Begging her to leave. To have mercy. But she reached up, cradling his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze.

Kneeling before him, her touch was achingly gentle. Her eyes softened, so full of love he did not deserve.

“P-please.” He choked. “Go.”

But she did not. Instead, her silk-covered fingers held him together as he fell apart. “I love you.” She murmured despite the tears staining her cheeks. “Nothing will ever change that. Nothing. But you must let me in. You cannot keep pushing me away every time you think you’re going to hurt me. That is not fair.”

“Forgive me,” He whispered, seeing her tears fall. “Forgive me. I never meant to…” He had hurt her. He had hurt the only woman who had ever cared for him unabashed. Said words he could never take back. The shame burned in him. It was too much to bear. “Forgive me.” His voice cracked.

She said nothing. No empty assurances, no honeyed lies. He expected her to go, to walk out of his chamber, out of his life. He would not fault her for it. It would be a mercy, he thought, for both of them to let each other go.

Yet she did not stir. Instead, she settled beside him, and laced her fingers through his once more.

They sat thus, together in this shared silence, until something within him broke and tears hot and salty carved paths through his stubborn pride. And she, his beloved, held him as he cried, and wept, and mourned the man leprosy would claim.

Chapter Text

The Council of the High Court, Jerusalem, October 1178

The hall was cold even in the glow of torchlight. Baldwin sat rigid upon his throne; and for the first time, his beloved joined him at his side, draped in brocade much too stiff for the weather but perfect for the occasion. Her hands, clasped tight, betrayed no tremor as they faced the Haute Cour for the very first time together. So many higher nobles all gathered in one place. She would not let any of them see their unit falter.

Baldwin had inquired, with that not-so-quiet concern of his, whether she was prepared for this moment. It was not often that a woman had any place in the negotiations of her own dowry, after all. But her presence would show them that she was no mere bargaining chip to the King or her brother. That she had agency in these matters. And that, was enough. At least, that was what she hoped it would be.

She kept her eyes on her brother’s emissary as she tried not to fidget. She recognized him; Sir Gunter of Tarson, a man whose loyalty to Bohemond was as well-known as his sharp, assessing glances. He was kneeling, and though he did not look it from where she stood, she knew well that his eyes missed nothing. There was something about him that had always unsettled her. And it was not merely his role as the bearer of her brother’s will that made the hair on her arms stand.

“Arise, Sir Gunter,” Baldwin declared. The knight rose to his feet, his expression carefully blank. “Your Prince has entrusted you to speak in his stead.”

A nod, and Sir Gunter stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone floor as Baldwin the King assessed him.

“Please read Antioch’s terms on his behalf.”

It was, of course, a formality. Jerusalem already knew what her brother demanded and was prepared to counter. The clauses had been dissected in these halls for weeks. Even the youngest page knew them by rote. But the ceremony of court could never be rushed, so they would have to go through this charade.

“His Highness, Prince Bohemond III of Antioch,” declared Sir Gunter, “Has consented to the union of his sister, Princess Luceria of Antioch, with His Majesty, King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem. Yet such an alliance is not without its stipulations, which must be met before the marriage may proceed.”

He unfurled his scroll, “Now I will read to the Haute Cour the terms: A dowry of seventy thousand bezants of gold. Lands within Hama, yielding no less than one thousand bezants per annum. Shared custom rights at the port of St. Simeon.”

The list unfurled further. Jewels passed down from Norman nobility; silks, furs, dyes of the richest hues. Relics of the Saints. And should Jerusalem call, two hundred mounted knights and ten ships at the ready.

A murmur swept the room. The amount was more than generous. Comparable only to the dowry offered to Emperor Manuel Komnenos and King Béla III. Even the flickering saints in the stained glass seemed to lean closer.

Then came the final clause.

“Any child born of this union,” Sir Gunter continued, “shall hold full rights of succession to both the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the Principality of Antioch. And should God call His Majesty to His side,” His lips twitched, curving into the barest hint of contempt. “The crown shall pass to Her Highness, and to her heirs, in perpetuity.”

Luceria had memorized every section of Antioch’s demands, yet hearing them proclaimed aloud still struck her. She glanced at Baldwin, eyes sharp and calculating. She glanced at the nobles, angry whispers already filling the hall. Judgmental stares, faces turning red, outrage…she felt her stomach turn. She did her best not to shrink.

“Jerusalem is prepared to respond,” Baldwin announced. He was calm and composed, his gaze focused on the emissary alone. The room hushed, breath held by every nobleman who had been ready to hear this decision for weeks. Baldwin turned to meet her eyes, just for one second, a moment of solidarity. Then he turned to the archbishop, “Lord Chancellor, if you please.”

William of Tyre—archbishop and acting chancellor of Jerusalem—unrolled the parchment, the wax seal already cracked. He cleared his throat, “Jerusalem will accept lands yielding five hundred bezants per annum and one hundred knights pledged in service, and we shall forfeit the ships.” He continued, “Trading rights at St. Simeon’s port may be shared, with tariffs applying. As for the dowry—fifty thousand bezants, not seventy, adjusted to reflect the dinars Prince Bohemond has already received from the Emir of Damascus.”

Then, the counteroffer:

“In exchange for the much lowered dowry,” William cleared his throat, “Should death or infirmity claim His Majesty, Jerusalem would grant Her Highness a regency of two years to steward the kingdom while the court selects its candidates.”

She looked at Sir Gunther, his face as still as stone. Then Baldwin, his gaze still fixed on the emissary, trying to assess him. And finally, at her father, who sat among the Frankish nobles, awaiting Antioch’s response. She knew better than to assume that her brother’s emissary would be sent unprepared. Her father had schooled her too well for that.

Sir Gunther inclined his head. “Jerusalem is wise in its terms,” he said in his thick Armenian accent. “However, Prince Bohemond cannot accept them as they stand.” This was not surprising. Such negotiations were never easy, after all.

“And what,” William asked, “would Antioch propose instead?”

The old knight’s answer came without hesitation. “Sixty thousand bezants. Lands yielding eight hundred annually. Two hundred and fifty knights with additional funds for the construction of five galleys. Trading rights at St. Simeon’s, with tariffs reduced significantly—but Antioch reserves the right to inspect all merchant caravans crossing to her territories.”

Strange. Luceria’s eyes narrowed. She was here to observe, her father had made sure to tell her as much. She was not to speak unless directly asked, was not to voice opinions, was not to so much as clear her throat.

But something felt…amiss.

Her father, for a flicker of a second, smiled. A small, satisfied smile that vanished before she could confirm if it had even been there. There was an understanding between the two, something she couldn’t place. Or perhaps, something she wasn’t meant to understand.

“And,” Sir Gunther continued, “Her Highness shall hold regency for ten years following the King’s passing. Only then may Jerusalem’s Haute Cour elect a successor; yet no such choice shall be binding without the Queen’s approval.”

The council quietly began to deliberate amongst each other as William bent his head to the King, words exchanged in tones too hushed to decipher. Luceria remained still as she looked around. Her father’s pleased expression told her all she needed to know. Antioch had played its hand well.

Balian of Ibelin studied Luceria, as if measuring her worth, his older brother Baudouin at his side like a shadow. Agnes’ lips pressed tight, staring not at a girl but a queen-in-waiting. Luceria saw the way the Countess nodded at her, and tried to match her cold composure. But instead, she felt like the child she was. Standing in a hall of giants, about to wed one whose name could topple kingdoms.

Baldwin’s health meant this union would bear no heirs. If they didn’t take Luceria as Baldwin’s wife, then Sibylla or Isabella would be forced to marry someone else to strengthen Jerusalem’s hold. A man from France or England, who would come and rule as king but have no loyalty to Jerusalem at all. Or someone from Outremer who knew the Holy Land, but lacked the gold to protect it.

A viscount scoffed, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Are we to just hand her Jerusalem?”

Luceria cringed inwardly.

As if they wouldn’t have gladly handed it to Baldwin’s sisters.

Isabella was still a child; Sibylla, raised in seclusion. But both had the potential to marry and birth the kingdom more heirs. Both could be manipulated. Neither would be allowed to rule on her own.

And she... Well… Her father was ambitious. That was enough to condemn her already. They would rather Baldwin remain unwed if it meant securing the kingdom for themselves.

Yet the gold, the prestige, the promise of knights and ships—

Luceria saw the scales in their eyes, how greed outweighed prejudice. She saw the men who had been too blind to see beyond her skirts, and she saw their faces harden at the prospect of losing what they’d never given up. Power. Security.

The unspoken privilege of ruling through a Queen they could try to bend to their will.

Luceria noticed how the older barons frowned, but the younger men had that familiar glimmer of opportunity. Hope. Or perhaps ambition. The chance to secure their own legacies through marriage, even if they had to wait.

The archbishop retreated from the King’s ear, and Baldwin straightened with a sigh. The silence that came after did not come from obedience, but the quiet of noble men bracing for a verdict that might undo them. Luceria could see the calculations in her husband-to-be’s eyes, weighing whether to indulge his baron’s pride or remind them of their empty coffers.

Then, Lord Raymond of Tripoli stepped forward, unexpected as grace.

“My Lords,” He began. And some of the barons turned just enough to present their shoulders to the Count. “Do we imagine Antioch’s terms unreasonable? The principality asks only what any sovereign state would. Assurance that its princess’s legacy will endure beyond mere childbearing.”

Aimery de Lusignan muttered a retort, “We’d have no need to compromise if the North had just come when called.”

Raymond’s jaw tightened. But he did not, could not deny the accusation. Instead, he held his head high. “She brings gold and men,” He emphasized, “Kinship with Byzantium and Hungary, and a claim that strengthen’s Jerusalem’s northern defenses.” He looked at the King, then the rest of the court, “And I have every confidence she will govern with wise counsel, as befits her station.”

Baldwin’s surprise softened into gratitude. Luceria knew that look. The look of someone who had expected hostility, and instead, was met with unexpected support.

Raymond was an anomaly among the nobility of Outremer, after all. A man from an old, established Frankish family, yet one who spoke Arabic fluently, and traded with Saracens as readily as he did his own kin. Many distrusted his pragmatism; even more so after Montgisard. And yet, despite what her father had claimed, his words still carried weight.

It was no surprise, then, that that his supporters would follow his lead. Even now, the men around him were already nodding along.

The barons were not pleased. But they were listening. They had been reminded of the reality in which they lived, the tenuousness of the current peace. The fact that the future was uncertain, and that their options were few. No one spoke. Not yet, not until the King had uttered his final decision.

“Five years.” Baldwin declared, voice carrying through the hall. His hands tightened on the arms of his throne, “Jerusalem will grant Her Highness five years’ regency following her husband's passing.”

“We accept,” Sir Gunther replied, with the swiftness of one whose hand had been long decided. He bowed his head, “Antioch shall make arrangements for the dowry at once. Princess Luceria of Antioch shall take her place among the Consorts of Outremer.”

And just like that Baldwin had written her place beside him in the stars.

—

As the nobles dispersed, Luceria caught Raymond’s scarred eye. The old count offered a grudging nod—not quite respect, but recognition.

The King’s Study, Jerusalem, October 1178

Luceria threw herself onto the divan opposite her beloved. The council had been tedious, and the weight of it all seemed to press upon her like the crown she had not yet been granted the privilege (or misfortune?) to wear.

“You did well,” Baldwin remarked, the tunic on his shoulders wrinkling as he reclined.

Luceria let out an almost unladylike groan. “Did I?” She lamented, allowing her head to fall back against the carved wood. Her veil slipped precariously, requiring a swift adjustment. “It felt like they were ready to skin me alive.” Her eyes closed. “This is not at all how I envisioned ruling.”

The King laughed and Luceria felt her lips twitch into an involuntary smile. “Consider this a gentle initiation,” He grinned, “They squabble like this all the time. I was surprised they did not argue more.”

“It could get worse than this?” She asked, opening her eyes. She hadn’t even been part of the discussion yet. But both her father and Baldwin had told her that listening was the first step to learning to navigate the high court.

“Oh, far worse,” Baldwin’s smile was wicked, “Just wait till you hear the arguments about taxes. You’ll wish they’d gone back to discussing the dowry and succession instead.”

She snorted, turning her head to look at him, “I dread the day.”

“Some days, to pass the time,” He confided, “I like to predict their disputes before they arise. It is a diverting little game.”

She laughed, “You’re joking. What would the Archbishop say?”

“That I am a man who understands loyalty and a well-timed wager,” he grinned, “You can join me the next time if you’d like. We could place bets. See who is the better observer.”

“Surely that is beneath the King of Jerusalem, to engage in childish betting games?” She teased.

“I thought you knew me better than that, my dear.” The mischief in his eyes never left. There was that crooked, boyish grin she had first fallen in love with. “Come on. We might stake a chest of bezants… or a favor.”

“Favors, now?” Her cheeks warmed at his implications. “What if I wagered you must duel your barons should they offend me?”

“Only if they insult your embroidery, my lady. I am selectively chivalrous.”

“You’re terrible.” She accused, but couldn’t help herself from smiling.

“I am entirely aware,” Baldwin said, resting his face on one hand. He was shamelessly content with himself. “And still you love me all the same.”

“That I do,” she admitted, and his grin widened. She leaned towards the tray Anselm had discreetly laid out for her. For weeks now, she had claimed this small, intimate ritual of giving Bladwin his tunics when they were alone. It was nothing compared to the work the squire did for the king daily, but she wanted to help where she could. And though Baldwin had initially resisted (he was too proud for his own good), he had, at last, yielded to her insistence.

She poured the dark concoction into his goblet and offered it to him. His nose scrunched up as the bitter liquid passed his lips. She could sympathize, remembering the ones she had to drink to cure her melancholy.

“They need to find new ways to make these less revolting,” he grumbled.

Luceria’s lips quirked. “I’ll put in another request for you to the physician.”

He laughed, finishing the broth in one begrudging gulp before setting it down with a hollow clink. “Lucy,” He began, the familiar glint of mischief returning, “Not even my peerless wit—” (She rolled her eyes.) “—Could have anticipated Count Raymond’s little performance today.”

Luceria traced the rim of her own untouched chalice. “My brother’s influence, perhaps? They hunt together. Plot together.” Bleed together, she did not add.

“Perhaps. But it doesn’t feel like a favor. It felt more… It felt... deliberate. Strategic.”

She sighed, “It may be that he recognizes the value of our union, and the consequences if we do not wed.”

“He is an old soldier, and an even older politician, Luceria,” He grunted, “He does nothing without purpose. My first instincts were that he was trying to get back in the good graces of the court. Now...I think it was more than that. It was an investment. In you. And God knows why.”

His brow furrowed as he pressed on, “He’s one of the few people who still believes this peace will Saladin can last.” His hands clenched into fists atop the table. “And yet…” He sighed, forcing them to relax. “I don’t want to overthink it. We’ve come so far…perhaps, for once, we can simply rest.”

Luceria bit her lip. She didn't know how to bring up how strange she thought her father’s silence was during the proceedings. How his restraint in matters of such consequence was so unlike him. “It is rare indeed to find him and my father in agreement on something. Let alone something so... important to the Kingdom.” She muttered instead.

Baldwin nodded, “I don’t want to doubt Lord Raynald. He has done much to secure our future together.” His fingers brushed against hers, “He has always been...self-serving, but I’d beg to argue that most of us are. But he is also...loyal to those who have earned it. He’s proven as much. He’s given you to me, hasn’t he? My greatest treasure.”

“That is the gold talking.” She replied, but couldn’t stop her smile. “My brother’s generosity is not to be understated. But it does come with expectations.”

His lips quirked. “Every man in the court thinks himself master of the Holy Land,” he said dryly.

“Why did you agree to the regency, then?” She asked. They both knew she did not want that.

Years of ruling alone would only make her more vulnerable, more of an obstacle for the next true King or Queen. She knew what the nobles were thinking. That her marriage to Baldwin would be naught but an interlude, an indulgence that would end once he died. That she would be nothing more than another regent, to rule until the true heirs of Jerusalem were ready to ascend.

“Because I will not risk this kingdom being torn apart from the inside.” His expression darkened, “After Montgisard, the court is fractured enough. I cannot afford to lose what loyalty remains while Saladin still waits beyond our borders.” He reached for his chalice again, but it stood empty. “I do not know what Raymond was thinking, but if his backing buys us stability, then so be it.” His gaze met hers, “I know what the barons think. That they will use you when I am gone.”

She frowned. “I fear I may bend to their will.”

“You?” Baldwin’s sudden grin made her brows crease, “You are the most stubborn creature God ever placed upon this earth. I, who have never once yielded to any man, only learned the meaning of surrender when I met you.”

“Baldwin.”

He laughed. “Do you see what you do to me? You make me…” His voice softened, and for a moment he looked away with reddened cheeks. “I never dreamed I could know such happiness. And now,” His hands found hers. “Now nothing stands between us. Nothing.”

“Nothing but the vows.”

“I would speak them now.” He murmured quietly.

She grinned, “No. I've waited far too long for you, Baldwin. A wedding befitting us shall be held. As befits our stations.”

“Do you see what I mean by stubborn?”

“And yet, here you are.”

“As if you could bear to part from me.”

“Never.”

And nothing, she thought, could part them now.

Chapter Text

The Royal Apartments, Jerusalem, 1 November 1178

“That’s it… Come to mère,” Sibylla’s arms were open wide, beckoning the babe. The chubby-cheeked child toddled forward with clumsy feet before collapsing into her skirts and wriggling as she scooped him up. His hands clung to her when she lifted him, his mouth breaking into an impish grin that revealed two new teeth. She spun him in her arms, lifting him above her head.

“My sweet boy, aren’t you clever! You took your first steps, didn’t you? Oh, my smart, brave little boy…” She kissed his forehead. The toddler babbled and reached for the carnelian pin in her hair. She gently pulled his hands away. “No. Not the jewels. Maman will get angry.”

Baldwin V would be an energetic child, she knew, and she wondered if his father’s smile would match his own. He had the shape of his face, that was certain, and Sibylla hoped he would inherit William’s character as well. Their child was the one thing that made her loneliness bearable.

She spun him aloft and the boy giggled once more as they settled onto the old divan. Jerusalem, for all its comforts, could not soothe the ache in her heart. More than a year had passed since William of Montferatt’s death and their home still felt so strangely empty. She hadn’t even known the man long. It wasn’t enough time to be accustomed to the way he held her, kissed her, and spoke to her.

Yet Sibylla often found herself wandering through Ascalon’s corridors, fingers dragging along the stone walls where her hand used to fit perfectly in the crook of his elbow. It was strange. To feel such longing for someone who had only been with her for ten months. But she would carry his absence for an eternity.

She had tried to find solace in her faith, her son, and her needlework. But nothing had managed to fill the void.

At least she was no longer wearing the black.

The creak of the chamber door intruded, as ever, upon their sacred space. A maidservant dipped into a curtsy, “My Lady, it is almost time for the feast. I’ve come to fetch you so you may dress. I shall watch the little Lord while you prepare.”

“Oh, of course.” She rose, setting the boy down on the blanket. “Baldwin, will you be alright while maman is away?” The boy babbled and held up one of the carved wooden toys she had bought him last week. Sibylla kissed his head, before following the servant to get ready for Tous les Saints—a day to honor those who had slipped through God’s fingers and into his grace.

The Citadel, Jerusalem, 1 November 1178

Tonight they would celebrate, tomorrow they would mourn. Sibylla was already done with the festivities, and the night was yet young. Her dress was heavy on her frame, the fabric too thick and the jewels too many. She observed herself through the reflection in her goblet and saw the woman the maidservant had made her: blue eyes kohled, cheeks dusted in rouge, and dark hair braided with gold coils.

Once, the sight had pleased her. Now it only made her weary.

She stared at her meal: a partridge cooked in pomegranate juice and wine, the sauce a little too sticky and tart for her liking. The rest of the guests were gorging on the feast, spilling gravy on their surcoats and laughing much too loudly. Sibylla tried to laugh too, but it came out forced and awkward. She took another sip of her cup, the spiced wine a distraction from her unease.

“Does the food not tempt you, My Lady?”

She glanced to her left, where Baudouin of Ibelin sat with kind eyes. The man had always had an avuncular air about him. A friend to most of the court, and a respected ally to her brother.

“It is delicious, My Lord. But I am not very hungry tonight,” she replied. They had grown closer since her husband’s death. And Lord Baudouin’s wife, Lady Elizabeth Gothman, had passed shortly after the victory at Montgisard. They were both widowed too soon. Both in perpetual mourning. She had confided in him often in the past, finding solace in his counsel.

“Would you like a moment of repose perhaps? We could take a walk.” He offered.

She shook her head, “No, My Lord. I would like to stay.The music is lovely.” She looked around, the hall was full of dancers, musicians and other entertainers. It was almost too much, but it was better than being alone. Her eyes wandered, finding her son content in the arms of his nurse.

“Your son is strong. He will be well. Do not trouble yourself, Countess. You must enjoy the evening.” Lord Baudouin assured her. “I can see that even the King himself has other joys on his mind tonight.”

Sibylla didn’t reply. Instead, she glanced at her brother who sat next to his betrothed, his face flushed beneath his bandages from too much wine. Luceria was laughing along with him, batting her lashes coyly at something he must have said. Baldwin, believing no one was watching, reached for her hand, and for a brief moment they shared an intimate glance before he clumsily drew away.

Sibylla wondered if she and William had been as obvious.

She was happy for them now that their business was all settled; but to say she wasn’t jealous would be an outright lie. She missed the days when her world had been full of laughter, when the only thing she ever worried about was what to say to make William smile, or what she would wear so that he’d think her lovely.

“You are radiant tonight.” Lord Baudouin murmured softly.

“You are too kind, my Lord.” It was as kind as it was meaningless, and the words felt hollow in her chest. Even at his age, Lord Baudouin of Ibelin was still handsome, with brooding dark eyes and silvering hair. He was tall and had the broad shoulders of a seasoned knight. His demeanor was friendly, but never too forward, never at all inappropriate. And he flirted with her sometimes, and Sibylla let him because she was lonely and bored and it was something to do.

But that was all. It would always be just that. She knew of his desire to court her, she could see it plainly in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. But the truth was that Lord Baudouin could never be William. He was certainly kind and charming, but he outright bored her. There was no spark. No excitement that left her giggling and bragging to the other highborn ladies. She could not imagine giving herself to him, no matter how many times he smiled at her. No matter how many compliments he paid her. Or how often the others suggested he was the best option for her future.

She sighed again, her head was spinning and she felt tired. Tired and old, even though she wasn’t yet twenty. She just wanted to take her son and leave. Run away, start anew somewhere where she didn’t know anybody. Where her brother and his betrothed couldn’t parade their happiness and make her feel guilty for being envious.

“Would you—”

“Do excuse me for a moment, Lord Ibelin.” She cut him off before he could suggest anything else. “My son is probably restless, and I should go check on him.”

The Citadel, Jerusalem, 1 November 1178

The chill of winter crept in from the east, and Sibylla drew her shawl close over herself and her son. The boy—her boy, Baldwin V, named for her brother and the kings before him—stared wide-eyed at the golden spill of light from the hall behind them. He had grown so much in a single year and soon enough he would begin to speak real sentences and walk on his own. Once that happened, she would have to lose him to the court.

But not tonight. Not yet. For now, he was still hers to guard against the cold.

“Maman loves you,” she whispered. He still smelled the way babies often do, like milk and sleep and innocence. “More than anything in the world.”

She stood on the edge of the terrace; her breath fogged the air and she watched it dissipate. This time, the boy grasped at the jewels at her neck, and she pulled them away. “No, chéri, no. Not these ones. These are very expensive.”

A muffled giggle and hurried steps made her turn, and there stood her brother’s beloved. Sibylla met her gaze and the woman’s doe-like eyes widened. She had been caught. But for what, the Countess could not be sure.

“My Lady.” Luceria murmured, curtsying so deeply it bordered on parody. “I did not mean to intrude. I merely came out for some fresh air.”

Sibylla raised an eyebrow. Liar, she thought. The girl had the wide, restless eyes of a gazelle scenting hunters. “Of course, princess. There is no intrusion. You are always welcome.” She did not mean it. Not now, not yet, but perhaps in time.

The young princess nodded, and the two stood in awkward silence. They had never spoken alone before, and Sibylla was not sure what she was supposed to say or ask. What do you discuss with the woman who is going to marry your little brother?

“He is beautiful.” Luceria offered, bridging the silence.

Sibylla looked down at her son and smiled. “Yes, he is. And he’s very clever, too.”

Luceria smiled back, admiring the way the boy fixated on his mother’s jewels. “He seems to like the pretty things.”

Sibylla laughed, “I’m afraid it runs in the family. My brother is the same though he tries to hide it. You would not think as much from a boy who only enjoys wearing three colors. You shall have to mend that, Princess.”

Luceria’s fingers twisted the lining of her sleeves. “I… I would not presume to dictate a king’s attire.”

“No,” Sibylla said coyly, “but you will learn to presume much else.”

She was surprised to hear the younger woman laugh, and the awkwardness melted away. The few interactions they had previously were stilted and formal, but now, here in the dark, with only her son and the stars as witnesses, they were equals. And there was nothing to fear from her. So why not?

“Would you care to hold him?”

“Are you sure?” The younger girl hesitated.

“You will be doing my back a favor, Princess. If he starts to fuss, just give him to me.” Sibylla placed her son in Luceria’s arms and watched as her expression changed from apprehension to excitement, then quickly to awe. The child cooed and grasped at her blonde locks, and the princess laughed and gently pulled her curls away from him.

“It is a bad habit of his,” Sibylla apologized. “He seems to have an obsession with things he shouldn’t play with.”

The princess shook her head, “It is fine, My Lady. I’ve enough hair to spare.”

“I was worried he would be fussy tonight, with so much noise and commotion. But instead he’s been an angel.” She looked at the little fist clasping golden locks. “For the most part.”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did fuss. I had to excuse myself as well,” Luceria confessed, bouncing the toddler up with her strength.

“I understand. It is hard to be the center of attention. Especially when the attention is so loud and inebriated.” Baldwin the younger released the captive strands and began to reach for his mother with eager babbles. Sibylla scooped him up as the princess handed him over.

“They mean well, and they are kind. I just… sometimes it feels like they forget that I am there.” Luceria shook her head, “Not that I blame them, I am not exactly an exciting person to be around.”

Sibylla snorted, “We aren’t warriors, Princess. That is enough to bore most of our menfolk.” She chuckled, “Besides, you will soon be the Queen of the Holy Land. A title I’m sure many here wish they possessed. You will be interesting to everyone very soon.”

“I will have to come up with new ways to escape their notice then, My Lady.”

“You can always find me, if you need. I know all the best places to hide.” She winked, “But don’t tell my mother that.”

Luceria smiled, seemingly grateful for their shared need to seek silence. She was only seventeen, after all. The same age Sibylla was when she first wed. Old enough to bleed, young enough to believe in happy endings. But perhaps the princess was more aware than she presumed.

“You should get back inside. My brother must be looking for you.” Sibylla pointed out, and the princess’s gaze dropped, her cheeks reddening again. It was not the flush of the cold.

Sibylla saw this, and a grin crept on her face. “You two sly devils. You were sneaking around.”

Luceria gasped. “No—No! It is not like that. I swear.”

Sibylla laughed. “Oh, really? You think I wouldn’t know my brother as well as you do?” She shook her head, “Do not fret. I won’t tell anyone. What happens in the stables, stays in the stables, yes?”

Luceria’s mouth hung open, but she was utterly speechless. Sibylla chuckled again, and patted the younger woman on the shoulder. “I am glad you two are enjoying yourselves,” She confessed, “Baldwin has not been this happy in some time. You’ve… loosened him.”

The princess managed a curtsy that verged on collapse. “You’re most kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” Sibylla adjusted her son’s weight, the boy’s drowsy head lolling against her collarbone. “Now go. Before someone else takes notice.”

For now, she would try to be happy for them. She would not think about the future or the past. She would only savor the present moment, the quiet, and her son’s sweet face.

The Citadel, Jerusalem, 1 November 1178

When she returned back to the feast, the people were still dancing and laughing the night away. She settled herself at her place and picked up the spiced wine, taking another sip of the sweet liquor. Lord Baudouin was nowhere to be found, which Sibylla considered an answered prayer. The other nobles were too preoccupied with their own merriment to notice her, and her brother was elsewhere enthralled with his bride-to-be.

“A fruitless search, I fear,” said a voice she recognized. Sibylla looked up to find Lord Aimery de Lusignan sitting across from her. “My father-by-law has fled the party, leaving you to lesser company.”

“Has he? That’s rather unfortunate.” Sibylla said trying to shake the sarcasm from her tone. Lord Aimery chuckled, moving to the seat next to her and pouring himself more wine. He was younger than most of these lords—only being a little more than ten summers older than she—but he had an easy smile and confidence that made him feel much wiser than he looked. Tonight, like many of the guests, he was dressed in his finest velvet tunic and three gold chains that layered at his breast. His black hair was cropped short, his eyes a dashing shade of brown. Sibylla did not know him well, but he always seemed to have something clever to say in court.

“He is getting old. He needs rest, you know.”

“Ah, yes. The burden of age. A malady we will be most fortunate to bear.” Sibylla smiled, “How fairs your wife?”

Aimery’s face softened. “She is well, thank you. Eschiva sends her regrets, but the baby kept her awake last night. She needed the rest as well.”

“I understand. Children can be such little demons.” Sibylla took another sip of wine, watching Aimery over her cup. “I take it little Bourgogne is fairing much better than she is?”

“Growing every day, My Lady,” Lord Aimery grinned, “She’s got her mother’s eyes and my regrettable nose.” He chuckled, “Not the prettiest combination, but we love her.”

Sibylla laughed. “You mustn’t say that. I’m sure she’ll be lovely someday.”

“I know she will be. Just like her mother.” He raised his cup to Sibylla, “To beautiful wives,” he toasted, “And the little monsters they endure.”

They drank and refilled their goblets until they were giddy and laughing at the silliest of things. Lord Aimery de Lusignan was good company and Sibylla, for once, was enjoying herself. It was nice not to think about William or her brother or her child. Sibylla was glad she had stayed.

“Well, My Lady,” Aimery grinned, “My father-in-law’s retreat at least spares me another lecture on the virtues of patience. A trait the men of Ibelin possess in abundance, unlike my own kind.”

Sibylla arched a brow. Aimery had a good standing with the court. His great-grandfather had participated in the second battle of Ramla, and he himself had fought bravely at Montgisard. There was no shortage of heroism, and Lord Aimery’s name was more than respected. “I thought you French men prized audacity above all else.”

“Recklessness, perhaps,” His laugh was warm, “My younger brother for instance charges through life like a boar in heat. Though…” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “…The ladies of Poitou do admire a man who mistakes recklessness for valor.”

A faint smirk tugged at Sibylla’s lips. She set her wine down, “That seems like a dangerous trait, my lord.”

“Just so,” Aimery agreed, though his tone softened, as if recalling a private jest. “Yet Guy has a way of surviving his own mishaps. Let us pray he remains in France, Countess. Jerusalem has enough restless souls as it is. God favors fools and second sons, it seems.”

Her gaze lingered on him for several moments. “And what does God favor firstborns with? Wisdom?”

Aimery laughed, “Perhaps, in time. I’m still waiting for my revelation.” He picked up the bottle and refilled their cups once more, then lifted his in salute. “Here’s to us, then, Countess. Firstborns, full of wisdom we have yet to receive and many, many good intentions.”

Sibylla raised her cup in turn, “And to bold second sons, may their recklessness forever keep heaven entertained.”

Chapter Text

A cluster of cypress, my lover to me, in the vineyards of Ein Gedi.

— Song of Solomon 1:14

The State Apartments, Jerusalem, 2 April 1179

The harpist’s song drifted from the large chambers where the sisters of Antioch attended to their youngest. Philippa drew the prized ivory comb through Luceria’s tresses; those famed locks of wheat-gold that marked nearly every daughter of the late Princess Constance, save one. Alice, ever the artisan, arranged a bouquet of lilies and lupines with such care that the latter’s petals appeared like veins of crystals, so vibrant they looked nearly eternal.

Mary, the eldest and most resembling of their mother in appearance and authority, poured oils into the wooden bath that had been assembled just for the event. And though she was wed to an emperor too aged for travel, and was a mother to a young heir bound to Constantinople, she had still sailed with the imperial fleet, baring more gifts than the sisters could tally.

“Sweet sister,” Mary smiled, “You are positively radiant. I might wager that the King will forget his vows entirely once he gets a glimpse of you.”

“You said much the same at my wedding,” Anna remarked. The third eldest daughter, now Queen of Hungary, was fanning herself in the heat. She had not been to Jerusalem since her pilgrimage with her husband, King Béla III. Now here she was lying on silk cushions, dressed in a loose green kaftan with her wavy blonde tresses held in place by her scarf. The warmth of the day had forced her to open the neck of her robe. And despite the warmer weather, she still looked cool and composed, sipping from her goblet of chilled wine.

Luceria, submerged in scented waters, could not help but smile. It had been so long since they all had gathered. The last time they had all come together was for Bohemond’s wedding in Antioch. And though he still had yet to say a word to her since he arrived, her eldest brother was still there in the city, and that was something Luceria had not expected.

Perhaps it was a sign that he finally forgave her.

“Don’t just lay there, girl, scrub yourself before you shrivel up,” Philippa scolded from behind, pulling at Luceria’s hair. Though her temper could match her beauty, Luceria loved her sister dearly, and was more than grateful to her, for it was Philippa who had helped her with all the preparations. From the flowers to the tailors and jewelers, her second eldest sister had taken care of everything without Luceria needing to ask.

Alice, whose own wedding had been delayed, showed no signs of worry or jealousy, and rather seemed to revel in the festivities more than any other. She appeared to be the only one who had no complaints about the weather either; her wild red hair simply pinned back to reveal her beautiful face, her skin nearly as pale as the lilies she had arranged.

“Well?” she trilled, holding aloft the bouquet, “It’s heavy, but not too much. We could use some silk ribbons, or perhaps...” She looked to Philippa, “What do you think, sister?”

Philippa did not bother looking up. “Ribbons, definitely.” She tugged at Luceria’s hair again. “And you. Scrub. Now!”

Luceria giggled and sat up in the tub. “Yes, yes.”

Anna shook her head, placing her goblet down. She stood and reached for the damp cloth, ignoring her sister’s protest as she started to scrub Luceria’s back. “You have to be at your best,” She told her, washing between her shoulder blades, “You do not want to reek of horse shite, after all.”

The rare crassness earned a glare from Mary, but Alice only grinned, “From what I’ve heard of the King, the stench of horses might just entice him.”

“Especially with all their sneaking about!” Philippa snickered.

Luceria retaliated with a sweep of her arm, sending bathwater splashing over her sisters. Alice shrieked, while Philippa swore in a manner she must have inherited from her husband. Mary rolled her eyes as she elegantly moved the bouquet out of harm’s way. But Luceria could see that even the Empress was smiling at their banter.

Everything was finally going as it should. And tomorrow, on a beautiful Tuesday after Easter, she would finally wed King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem.

The State Apartments, Jerusalem, 2 April 1179

A king in possession of a crown must yet be in want of tranquility. But tonight, in his chambers, unbeknownst to his beloved bride, the young monarch found himself unable to obtain it.

He had already consumed three cups of anise broth, and still no solace came. Not even when he tried to tally the Damascene sheep in his mind. That expedition would soon be ready, but now, as arithmetic failed him, all he could think of was Luceria.

His fingers restlessly turned the half-coin of gold over and over again, the edges milled where his blade had split it. Its twin had been give to his beloved when the last of the banns had been proclaimed. He had been overjoyed; their betrothal had been announced officially, and there were no longer any concerns that they could not wed.

If rumors were to be believed, it was entirely his fault for sneaking Luceria into the stables and letting her steal away so that they might ride together and speak freely, but he could not bring himself to ever regret falling for her in such earnest. Love, as even the sternest cleric might concede, is rarely prudent. He was no longer as handsome as she was beautiful; he was not whole in the way that she would always be. And still, she gave her heart to him without reserve.

And while he would have preferred to marry her in the quiet (with only a select few to witness his ever evolving ugliness), his honor twice forbade it. She deserved more than these stolen hours. A queen required processions and feasts, the weight of tradition as their due. Thus the contracts were signed, the banners were hung, bundles of flowers all plucked and arranged. Tomorrow all would be set. They would take their vows, and she would forever be his.

But for now, she was still her father’s, and his duty to the church demanded that he not see her till the procession began. Tomorrow could not come swiftly enough.

The King’s Solar, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

“You did not get much sleep, did you.” Sibylla remarked, not bothering to pose her statement as though it were a question. Baldwin had to resist the urge to rub his eyes.

He sat down on the bench, allowing Anselm to dress him as he tried not to yawn. The shadows beneath his eyes were as dark as his silks were fair. “I was too restless,” He admitted. “My mind did not want to cease its wanderings.”

“Then perhaps you will rest better tonight,” Sibylla’s quip drew a muffled chuckle from Anselm. His mother clicked her tongue, causing his sister and squire to turn away to hide their laughter. Baldwin shook his head.

“Leave us,” Agnes ordered, ushering her son’s squire away the moment the King’s bejeweled baldric had been clasped. Anselm bowed and took his leave. When the chamber doors had closed behind him and the three were alone, Agnes moved towards Baldwin, gently fussing over his clothes and smoothing out his long fitted ivory tunic. She helped steady him as he slipped on his boots and then adjusted his crown.

“You wear your father’s likeness,” She murmured, “He would be so proud.”

It was the first time his mother had ever mentioned his late father in a gentle manner. Though the man had been gone since he was thirteen, and her praises had come long after her love, it still felt…good to hear those words.

“I hope so,” He admitted. They were standing in front of the mirror and his mother brushed his hair free from his high-necked undertunic.

“He had his faults, as did I,” Agnes spoke, mustering a smile, “But you...you’re better than both of us. I hope you will be happier than we were.”

Baldwin met his mother’s gaze. Tears, rarer than miracles in his experience, had gathered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back and smiled at her son, draping his golden mantle over his shoulders, “Today, you marry the woman you love. Savor this moment. I know that your bride will, for she has you.” She squeezed his shoulder lightly not giving him a chance to respond, before turning back to her daughter. “Is everything in order?”

“The procession will begin soon,” Sibylla smiled, her own gown of Jerusalem blue complimenting their mother’s. “Are you ready?”

He had been waiting his entire life for such happiness, and only now, on this day, was it finally in his reach. He rose from his seat and slipped on the final touch—Luceria’s gifted gloves.

“I am more than ready,” He answered. “I am eager.”

And eager he was. For though the mirrors showed a man of disfiguring decay, today, Baldwin would finally be whole.

Chapter Text

Behold, brethren, we have come hither in the sight of God, the angels, and all his saints in the presence of the church, to join together two bodies, of this man and of this woman, so that henceforth they may be one in flesh and two spirits in faith and in the law of God. Therefore, I warn you all that if any of you know anything to speak, why these two persons cannot be lawfully joined together, he is to confess it now.

The Procession, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

The heavens had granted a day of such loveliness that all the skeptics of the world believed in Providence. The sun had shown itself both merciful and modest, shining only as brightly as it needed to. Luceria smiled. She basked in its warmth as she settled herself upon her palfrey. Miriam was at their side, trying her best not to fret over every last detail of her Lady’s appearance.

The princess’s bridal attire, in its pale shade of gold was made from brocade preserved since her grandmother’s girlhood. Its bodice was embroidered in threads of silver and had taken a handful of diligent needlewomen weeks to secure. The veil gave itself the appearance of weightlessness, yet the Eastern freshwater pearls stitched along the hem weighed much more than she expected. Her circlet was simple. But the necklace around her throat (a gift from the Hungarian court), was far from it. Dangling from her wrist was the half-coin, the edges milled where her beloved’s sword had left it cleft. And on her fingers were her gloves, meant to hold what was once believed to be untouchable.

Hosanna began to move and Luceria tightened her grip on the leather reins. A small grumble came from her gut. Fasting, she reflected, was a curious thing: one denied the body to elevate the soul, only to have the body retaliate with insistence. But her abstinence at the table this morning did not come from her nerves (though these were plentiful), but to the gravity of the sacrament awaiting her. She was about to see Baldwin. He was about to claim her hand before God and His Holy City.

As they marched through the Citadel’s gates, the crowds that gathered since the break of dawn cheered their approval at the first glimpse of the blushing bride. It was a scene put together with such precision that the most shrewd of their union’s critics might scarce find fault with the event. The tireless efforts of at least two dozen stewards, all commanded by Philippa, had transformed the usually solemn city into something that seemed to belong more in the realm of dreams.

The jongleurs played. Well-wishers stood on one tiptoe over the other in hopes to catch the eyes of the Princess—soon Queen—and Luceria obliged them with all the graciousness expected of her. From their archways hung garlands, red and blue ribbons draping from beaded curtains and windows, while the banners of Antioch and Jerusalem were hung from every wall.

She had gotten her wishes (Philippa had made sure of it) as the streets were blooming for miles with the gifts of spring. From the Syrian monastery, the road to the Holy Sepulchre was a straight line, and petals strewn by the city children’s eager hands had colored their path. Luceria’s heart was fluttering so loudly, her body so alive with excitement that she thought she might just combust. It was only when they had passed under the final decorated arches and arrived in the church courtyard did she begin to catch her breath. The heralds announced her arrival, the doves scattered from the eaves, and like a sea of silk and jewels, the procession parted.

The King was still mounted on Asad, flanked by his brigade of knights, and wearing his father’s crown. The mantle draped over his shoulders matched her dress, his surcoat shimmering in the sunlight. From his wrist hung the matching half-coin to her own, and his eyes, those eyes the color of calm and happiness and everything that was good in the world, were looking right at her.

He did not move until her guards helped her dismount. And then he swung his good leg over his saddle and slipped free from the stallion’s back. It was the moment she had been waiting for, and it was so close within reach that Luceria could have wept right there.

But she did not. And though her own eyes were glittering with tears, she forced herself to be calm, to keep her face composed as the procession stilled and her father, the Lord of the Oultrejourdain, took her arm and lead her towards her beloved.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

In a full display of innocence, her hair was unbraided and spilled over her shoulders like liquid gold. Baldwin’s breath was taken away as she glanced up at him. How capricious was it that a King’s knees proved no stronger than that of a common man’s when presented with a maiden’s mere smile. Yet there Baldwin stood, as nervous as any boy of seventeen did when given such loveliness; the embodiment of all the hopes he could ever dare to dream of standing right before him. But this was not any dream. This was reality, and his bride had come for him.

And so he trembled. He was not made of stone, after all, and Luceria’s love was not something to be withstood. It was what made his heart whole.

Her father, Raynald de Chatillon, was not typically known for his restraint, but today did he show his daughter adoration. In a tender gesture, the Lord of Oultrejordain kissed his youngest’s forehead, then lowered her veil. The King waited until Lord Raynald was standing back among the congregation, then bowed before the Princess, his mantle brushing against the floor.

Now they stood before the arched entrance of the Holy Sepulchre. Surrounding them, the assembled host of Jerusalem held their collective breath. Archbishop William of Tyre emerged from the shaded portico, carrying the book of scriptures in his hands that contained the Holy Words that would write their souls into each other. The stationed knight-guards were ready to begin the ceremony once the crowds were settled and the nobles had entered the church.

And though he tried to keep his eyes on the doors, he could not help himself but stare at Luceria. How lucky he was that God had deemed it so. That his beloved, his betrothed, should look at him as if he were still the boy she had met two summers past, and not the man of this crumbling body.

“You look beautiful,” He murmured, doing his utmost best not to reach for her and pull her into his embrace. Instead, he offered his arm, “I beg you to show me some form of cruelty, else I will not survive this evening’s feast.”

Luceria’s giggle was the sound of all things pure. “I will do what I can, Your Grace, but I am afraid you are not as strong against temptation as you believe.” She linked her arm with his, and Baldwin knew then he was eternally damned, and that no heaven could ever compare to this.

His grin matched hers. “Perhaps you may tempt me later,” He teased in a whisper, “The entire realm watches us now. You do not want to give your brother another reason to detest me, do you?”

“Very tempting,” Luceria smiled, and then her lashes lowered as if to shield him from the radiance of her joy. She took a deep breath. “I just love you, Baldwin.” She sighed, “I don’t know what I did to ever deserve you.”

The simple sentiment struck him. He wanted to say something in response; something just as lovely and raw. Something that would make her heart sing. But instead he stared at her, wide-eyed and lovestruck, and could not even utter one of the countless verses of romantic poetry he’d memorized in hopes to impress her on their wedding day.

So they simply stood, smiling at each other in complete silence like utter fools, until Anselm cleared his throat to remind them that they had an entire court of guests waiting to see them marry.

Baldwin chuckled, “Come. Let us be wed, Luceria. I have waited long enough.”

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

In the nave, the archbishop stood waiting. William of Tyre wore an expression of kind paternalism; not quite the indulgent grin of her father, but close. His emerald robes were adorned in gold thread for the Tempus per Annum, matching the large cross that hung from his neck. He smiled at the young pair of lovers and signaled them to come forward. Baldwin looked down at Luceria with a comforting glance as she clutched him tighter in her sudden nervousness.

As they walked towards the altar, the guests rose, turning to face the couple who were to become one. Luceria stole glances at the congregation and marked the presence of her sisters, Bohemond, young Humphrey, and—most importantly—her father, whose customary bluster had yielded, for this singular occasion, to an uncharacteristic joy. Her stepmother, Stephanie de Milly, sat beside him, the two of them, as always, inseparable.

They took their place before the altar, where William stood waiting. Baldwin stood to her right, and they both knelt to begin the ceremony. The cleric raised the scriptures up in his hands, reciting the holy lines in Latin, “Ecce conuenimus huc fratres coram Deo...”

Yet for Luceria, the rest of it dissolved into a murmur. For all her nerves, her whispered recitals, had ill-prepared her for the simplicity of this moment. She glanced at her King, and he, in turn, looked back at her, the two sharing the secret language of lovers. When Baldwin clutched her hand, she met his blue eyes, and in their depths found the strength to answer the Archbishop, to recite every line, to promise herself wholly to her King. These vows would bind them not merely to one another but to the very fate of the Kingdom itself.

The archbishop then presented Baldwin with a small circlet of gold and silver, blessed by Holy Water. It is a delicate matter, the giving and receiving of rings, and to their shared relief, the band slipped over her right thumb without protest. “B’shim’id Baba,” Baldwin murmured in that ancient tongue which once graced the lips of Christ himself in the very church where He was buried only to rise again.

To her forefinger the ring then traveled, “w’Bro’na,” then to her middle, “w’Rou’ha d’Qoudh’sha,” until at last it rested upon her fourth finger, that digit said by the Egyptians to house the vein winding directly to the heart, “Amen.”

“Creator and Preserver of mankind: send Thou, O Lord, Thy Spirit the Paraclete upon this ring, that she who wears it may be armed in the strength of a heavenly defense, and may it profit her unto eternal salvation.” The archbishop proclaimed as Baldwin and Luceria stood before one another.

Their eyes met, their hands placed one over the other as silk cords were tied around their wrists, binding them to each other. Then a white cloth with a red cord was draped over their heads, and they were suddenly the only two people left in the world.

“Shlama,” They murmured. Peace. Their smiles widened despite every effort to preserve decorum. But what tyranny is more joyous than the failure to conceal delight?

But the Archbishop pressed forward with the ritual, bringing forth a goblet of consecrated wine. The benediction pronounced, the cup was offered first to Luceria, then to Baldwin, before being returned to the altar.

And just like that, the ceremony was done, and the archbishop gave them his blessing, “What God has joined together, let no man cast asunder.”

They rose to their feet, the ropes unwinding from their hands, and the bells rung out above their heads. In Baldwin’s eyes, Luceria perceived a future as bright and boundless as the sunlit horizon; in hers, he glimpsed infinity. To the world, they were now King and Consort, Lord and Lady. Yet in that silent exchange, as the bells faded, they knew themselves simply as two hearts irrevocably entwined. Man and wife.

Now and forever.

Chapter Text

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss within the cup

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But, might I of love’s nectar sip,

I would not change for thine.

— Ben Jonson

The Citadel, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

A hundred cressets bathed the banquet hall in warm yellow revealing guests who looked as giddy as she felt. Baldwin held her hand beneath the table, their fingers intertwined as he whispered sweet words into her ear. “I can scarcely believe that you are mine.” He had said it often that evening. So often that her cheeks had truly begun to ache.

There was no shortage of diversions to command a new bride’s attentions; her goblet stood in want of filling, the anticipated dish of thin flatbreads layered with lentils and lamb had yet to be served, and their wedding loaf was in desperate need of slicing. The music and dancing had long since begun, performers taking turns one after the other on the dais. Guests were coming up to her table to offer their congratulations as acrobats leapt over their heads and troubadours sang their high praises. Amidst the celebrations, Philippa (after a whispered word to the Constable) was obliged to retreat from the hall, her sudden indisposition requiring the support of her husband’s arm as they departed with quiet dignity.

Luceria’s thoughts lingered on her sister’s sudden withdrawal. She wanted to follow, truly she did. But duty and devotion kept her at her beloved’s side. She could not retreat, not until the feast was over and all their guests had returned to their chambers. It would be unseemly for the new Queen Consort of Jerusalem to abandon her own wedding celebrations, after all. And so she would have to speak to her sister tomorrow, but for now, the Kingdom (and her King) required her presence.

And truth be told, she desired no other place to be than by his side.

And so, when she turned to Baldwin somewhere between the third and fourth round of dishes, she found his carefully arranged blonde hair slipping boyishly over his brow. Without hesitation, she reached to smooth it back, her fingers lingering with a quiet affection. “Is it to your liking?”

Baldwin leaned into her touch, his forehead brushing over the silk of her gloves. “The feast, or our marriage?” He murmured, “I confess, the latter far surpasses even my most hopeful expectations.”

She could not suppress a delighted laugh. “I meant the food, my love. But I thank you for clarifying your satisfaction on the other matter, although it has only been but a few hours.”

“My sentiment still stands.”

A foreign entertainer wearing a structured headdress stepped onto the platform, looking straight to the crowd with a face whitened with cerussa. She drew her old polished rebab and slowly began to strum. Hers was a voice bred for tradition; deep and birdlike, meant to sing the songs of old, to enchant restless knights and hopeful hearts.

The dancers slowed their movements to allow the woman her moment:

Across the desert, across the sea

A thousand leagues to count,

And here I find you, fairer still

Than all the stars amount…

The King smiled as he listened close, and then surveyed the scene; the feasting, the dancing, the dozens of employed actors and entertainers who had come from far and wide just to perform for them. “This has been the most wonderful of days. I daresay the Kingdom shall speak of little else for months to come.”

“If the fountains of wine do not run dry first,” Luceria agreed.

He looked at her with an almost wicked grin. “We have done our duty most admirably. Now, aren’t you glad that we did not elope, now that you’ve seen the festivities?”

Luceria very nearly choked on her wine. “It was your suggestion, if I recall.” She scrunched up her nose. “For all your begging, husband, you must have known perfectly well I would have never gone along with it.”

“Husband,” He repeated in a pleased whisper, ignoring the rest of her words, “I find myself liking the sound of it. What do you think, wife?”

“I suppose if I must endure it,” She smiled sheepishly as his fingers gently stroked her knuckles from under the table, ruining any attempt at false exasperation. “I think I rather like it too.”

The young monarch laughed then. Luceria’s heart fluttered at the sound of it. She would do anything to hear that sound for the rest of her days. She would die without ever tasting bitterness, she was sure of it.

They kept their eyes on each other as lovers often did. She might have lingered in that blissful realm forever had not a throat pointedly been cleared in front of them.

Reality descended at once like his shadow. They looked up, Luceria with a start, to find Bohemond towering over them with an expression she could not read, the lines on his forehead deepening with the slightest movement of emotion.

Her breath faltered. He had not sought her company since his arrival, nor offered so much as a word in greeting. Now he stood before her, and her mouth went dry, and the words were caught in her throat. “Brother—”

“If I may claim a dance with my sister.” Bohemond interjected before Luceria could finish, leaving the wedded pair at an uncomfortable impasse.

Baldwin’s grip tightened protectively over her hand. Luceria squeezed it back, trying to reassure him that everything would be fine.

“Of course,” The king allowed, though his smile did not reach his eyes. “If my wife wishes it, I would not be opposed.”

Luceria nodded to him. She stood and allowed Bohemond to escort her away from the table. He was silent as he guided her towards the circle of other dancers. She swallowed, feeling the tension between them like a spectral wall.

They had not spoken in over a year. But the memory of their last conversation was still fresh in both their minds. How they screamed at each other, the cruel words that they’d exchanged. And the seasons of silence that came after.

They began to circle each other, their steps slow and cautious, like fighters in the colosseum sizing one another up. Once again, the music swelled.

“I have not heard from you in some time,” Luceria began quietly. Cautiously. “I thought you might stay in Antioch.”

“I considered it.” He admitted as he moved elegantly towards and away from her in this dance. “But I thought I owed it to our mother to see you married. She wouldn’t have wanted such a pivotal moment to pass without my counsel.”

“It’s hard to take counsel without correspondence.” She muttered. “My letters…Did you even receive them?”

“I did.”

“You did not write back.”

His eyes softened. “I did not know what to say.”

She felt her chest tighten. Her pride did not matter as much as their relationship did. He was her brother. Her beloved older brother who raised her since she was a girl. If she did not try to mend their relationship now, she did not think there would be any chance to do so again.

“Bohemond,” She whispered slowly as they twirled together, “Please. Let us not part ways again with anger between us. I am sorry, truly I am. For everything.”

He sighed, never missing a step. “I know. I forgive you.” His voice was barely audible above the music. But she caught the words desperately.

She bit her lip, searching his face. “Then, you are happy for me?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Of course. You deserve every bit of joy this marriage brings.”

“Truly?” She nearly stumbled. She hadn’t expected this freely-given grace.

“Truly.” Bohemond confirmed. This time with a smile. “And once you are officially crowned, we will discuss how best to secure Outremer’s future. Together.”

She did not know what to make of it. But she clung to that sliver of hope.

“Thank you,” She tried not to tear up. This was her wedding feast. It would not do her well to ruin the face Miriam had painted. “You do not know what it means to me. To have you here, with our sisters, after all this time. It means so much to me that you came.”

Bohemond nodded, his gaze flickered past her, towards Baldwin whose eyes were still locked on them.

“Your husband, he loves you dearly.” He noted, giving her hand the smallest squeeze as he moved closer in their dance. “I can see it in his face. It pleases me that he cherishes you so.”

Her heart fluttered. “He does.” She admitted, she turned to glance at her husband for a split second. “I love him so much, brother. More than I ever thought possible. It makes me so happy to finally have your blessing.”

For the briefest moment, his smile cracked. “I know,” He murmured, just as the music was coming to an end. “It is…unmistakable.”

She did not have time to ask what he meant before her hand was claimed by another, the crowd parting as she was guided back to Baldwin’s side. A storyteller began to recite some old Greek tales, and the guests gathered close to listen.

Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth of wine and candlelight and the reassuring press of her husband’s fingers against hers, something felt amiss.

Bohemond’s clemency now, so contrary to his bitterness in the year past, simply felt too…easy. Yet to voice such suspicions aloud would be an act of cruelty against her own brother, whom she wished to forgive as he forgave her.

But still she could not help but wonder…

For though the angels may smile upon reconciliation, human sentiments were seldom so neatly resolved.

The Citadel, Jerusalem, 3 April 1179

“To bed! To bed!” The drunkards cried like witless fools as their chairs were lifted from the ground. It was an old custom, one that he had tried to forego, but the will of the crowd was unassailable, and he had long since learned that kings must sometimes submit to the whims of their subjects. He clung to the arms of his seat and Luceria gripped her own, the two of them staring at each other in mortification as they were carried out of the hall.

Baldwin allowed the raucous escort—playing his part as the besotted king—even as he tracked Bohemond’s presence at the edge of the crowd who was content to sit back and watch the procession without participating. Instead, the Prince raised his cup to Baldwin, and the gesture, though outwardly benign, carried implications far beyond the King’s comprehension. What might pass for mere civility in the others’ eyes, struck him with an uneasy weight.

Baldwin decided he would deal with him tomorrow. Tonight, his bride demanded his attentions, and he was nothing if not eager and willing to oblige her.

The group arrived at the chambers appointed for their nuptial obligations and the doors parted. He was not about to release his grip on the seat until they had been properly placed at the foot of their shared curtained bed (the gesture was done quite unceremoniously but he did not complain). The crowd was hooting and jeering, and one particular vulgar remark had Luceria flushing prettily. Baldwin bit his lip, his own face growing red. He had not expected such an event.

The archbishop hastily shuffled to the center of the room. Luceria covered her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter as William began to pray and spray them both—as well as the bed—with Holy Water. The words of blessings for the ‘consummation’ all sounded like gibberish to the King. Yet though Baldwin was undoubtedly drunk, he was not nearly as intoxicated enough as he wished he was to survive the impending humiliation.

Sibylla and Alice (who he had only met during the feast), stepped forward to check their bed for any curses, and his own squire was made to ensure that the bedposts and the floorboards beneath were free from charms. And once some bundle of herbs had been tucked away under the mattress and blessed, the two of them were left blissfully alone.

“Do you think we could bar the doors and refuse to leave until winter,” Baldwin surmised as he listened to the receding laughter and footsteps from the other side of the door, “Or do you think they will burst inside and make sure we fulfill our marital duties?” He was likely slurring the words, but Luceria was giggling and that was all that really mattered.

“I’m tempted to suggest it,” she admitted, “But I wouldn’t want to risk them watching us all night.”

He turned to look at his wife (he still couldn’t believe she was his wife, and that thought was so intoxicating that it sent him almost falling on his back into the furs like a boy who had tasted wine for the very first time). It was only Luceria’s steadier arms that stopped him from toppling over like an idiot as she helped him seat himself upright on the bed.

He studied her as she sat next to him. Her honeyed hair tumbled in a slight disarray against her shoulders. Nimble hands began removing the jewels that weighed upon her wine-flushed neck. But it was her eyes that caught him: blue-green and heavy-lidded, the way the sea looked at Tyre the dawn before a storm. Amused. Knowing.

There was a simplicity to this moment.

No veil. No intricacies. Just Luceria, looking at him like he was the only thing left in the world worth seeing.

“You are quite flushed, Baldwin,” She remarked shyly with that same pretty blush, “Are you sure you’re well?”

“Quite.” The king slurred as he removed his own crown, stretching over as he clumsily placed it on the table. He was grateful to have her to himself, even more so to have her in the privacy of their own chambers, but even in his drunken state, Baldwin was not fool enough to think himself prepared to take his rights. “You are too beautiful, too pure. I do not wish to...to sully you.”

“Sully me?”

“I did not mean it like that.” Baldwin sighed, trying to regain some of his composure. “I just meant, surely you know, what is meant to happen tonight? Between us, I mean. And why we cannot...”

Oh, Lord. He wanted to. If it weren’t for this disease, he would have claimed her the moment the doors were shut. But his honor and his love for her kept him rooted in place, and his body was burning with an all-too-familiar ache.

She bit her lip, the red of her cheeks now matching his. “Oh. That.” Her voice faltered. “I, well, I know that it is expected of us to do our duty.” She swallowed, then a shy, hurried addition, “But we needn’t, if we’d rather not. That is—if you would rather not. We could simply sit and talk. Until sleep takes us, if you like.”

She was being merciful. How he loved her.

“Well, it isn’t as though I don’t—” He slumped, and in his frustration he loosened the clasp of his mantle and dropped the cumbersome fabric to the floor. “It’s not like I have a lack of desire to—”

“I know.” She needed no further explanation. Of course she understood. “It’s all right.”

He kicked off his boots, those stiff, graceless things that had been suffocating his feet all night. And he watched in turn how Luceria followed him, daintily removing her own slippers and carefully setting them aside. He watched her, his mouth dry, as he glanced at her ankles, bare and small and dainty and perfect. How her gown slid over her legs, showing only the slightest hints of skin as she tucked her feet under her in their shared bed.

The sight sent warmth pooling low in his belly.

“If you’re tired,” He managed, forcing his eyes away, “I can find another place to rest tonight.”

“How much have you had to drink? You are making no sense.” She teased. She did not seem bothered by their closeness, but he supposed she would not, given all the times they had snuck away together in the past. “This is our marital bed. Where else would you be but with me?”

“I just don’t know if I’d be able to keep myself off of you,” He admitted, earning another blush. He was so stupidly in love, and now that he had married her, he could barely contain himself. Even with the leprosy, even knowing the risk, how could he not be drawn to her? Was it not natural, for any man who had his beautiful wife beside him, to be so captivated by her?

And God help him, the wine had made restraint a feeble thing indeed.

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. She turned away, using her golden hair like a curtain to shield her from her embarrassment. “If we were…If we were able to...and if you wanted to—um—if you could, you know,” She ventured sheepishly, “What would you want to do?”

He exhaled sharply.

“What—” His pulse roared like the sea in his ears.

Saints above. Oh Christ. Oh sweet Virgin.

She was asking.

Sweet, untouched Luceria, with her wide eyes and innocent words, was coaxing him towards hellbound waters. And he knew he was not about to stop her.

The list of things he did not want to do to her was much shorter.

He was still a man, and in his boyhood had been regaled of tales of conquests that weren’t exactly fit for young virtuous maidens to hear. And even he could admit that perhaps he had listened to the knights’ ribald stories with far too much enthusiasm.

(But now, facing her in the privacy of their chambers, all those stories seemed pitifully inadequate)

“I would…” His voice roughened, trying to think of what to say as he tried to ignore the burning sensation in his abdomen. “I-I would kiss you, I suppose.”

It was a laughably modest answer for the carnality of his thoughts.

Her lashes lifted, blue-green eyes meeting his without a hint of recoil. “I would not be opposed to that.” She murmured. “I would like to be kissed by you.”

Every coherent thought in his mind dissolved.

God, please. She was killing him.

“Are you sure you would be able to withstand such an act?” Baldwin murmured in response. He wasn’t sure if the question was meant for her or himself, now that he said it aloud.

“I cannot be certain…I have never been kissed before.” She mumbled quietly, her fingers playing with the gold and silver band circling her fourth finger on her right hand, as though it might give her strength. “But I think…I imagine it would not wound me…As long as it was done gently.”

“I would be gentle,” he promised, and he knew that despite the ache in his body, and the disease in his bones, he would keep that promise if he was given even a single chance. “I would kiss you very, very gently. If that is what you want.”

His hands itched to gather her close, to feel her warmth and her softness and taste her and touch her. To worship her in all the ways that would leave no doubt of his devotion and hunger.

“You would?” She murmured.

“I would never want to hurt you, Luceria.” He breathed.

Her lashes lowered. “I know.” Her voice was barely above an audible whisper, her eyes betraying the same want and hunger and desire that Baldwin was trying his best to hide. “I trust you.”

The admission undid him. He fell back against the mattress, rolling over to bury his face and shame in the pillows. He was not able to look at her and still maintain his sanity. His heart was about to burst from his chest. “You don’t know what you do to me,” He groaned, half in agony, half in delight. When he dared look at her again, she had turned towards him, propped on one elbow so close he could count each pale lash framing her sea-glass eyes. “What your words do to me. You know nothing of the power you hold over men.”

She blushed, hugging her own pillow close. “Well…I would kiss you as well, you know. With all the tenderness you desire.”

He groaned, burying his head again.

“What if I would not want you to be tender?” He murmured, peeking at her recklessly. Their faces were mere breaths away. “What if I would want you to kiss me so fiercely that it might just split through my skin?”

Her lips parted. Those untouched lips stained with fading rouge. He wondered for half of a second what they might taste like, but he could only think of the spiced wine they had drunk that night.

“Would that not hurt?” She whispered.

“I cannot say,” Baldwin confessed. “But the desire I have for you is far from painless.” He reached out to brush her cheek with his covered finger, wanting to truly touch her bare, to feel her warmth on his dying nerves. His digit so desperately longed to stray to the full swell of her lower lip, as if that was enough substitute for a true kiss. “I am consumed by you, and yet I still burn with the hunger to have you in ways that would cause me to be damned.”

Drunk with wine and with love, Baldwin was not himself, but he found he did not care. With his wife beside him, he had no reason to pretend otherwise, no reason to hide his feelings. The alcohol had loosened his tongue and his inhibitions, yes, but it was nothing less than the truth.

Luceria’s hand came up to cover his, pressing it tighter against her skin. She closed her eyes, leaning recklessly into his touch, her lips parted as she breathed. “Tell me.”

He gave in. He let his thumb trace her plump bottom lip. It was soft. Oh, so immeasurably soft and warm. He found himself ensnared by the thought of how those lips would feel on his tattered skin, whispering sinful things into his ear. She shivered then, and the faint movement sent another wave of heat down his spine.

By the saints, he wanted to taste her so badly. To claim her as his, and his alone.

“I want you,” he said, the words spilling from him without thought, without shame, “more than anything, more than anyone else ever has before or will again after.” His voice shook. “You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful. And kind, and smart, and you smell so…delightful...”

His traitorous hand drifted toward the hem of her gown. Though Baldwin was not so bold as to seek the forbidden flesh of her thigh, neither could he resist the nearness of its temptation.

“I want to kiss you. Everywhere. All over.” His fingers clenched the fabric, betraying more of her than he ever meant to witness.

It was growing harder to resist.

“And if you were to kiss me, I would be undone, Luceria.” He swallowed hard. He could not bring himself to stop. “If you were to touch me the way that you do in my dreams, I would never survive it. It would kill me. I would die of happiness.”

She whimpered, a sound so soft that it wrecked him; her chest was rising and falling in short, quick breaths. His eyes followed the movement, the modesty of her neckline doing little to conceal what would make him fall to his knees in prayer, in supplication, in worship.

He wanted to pull her close and take her then and there. To make her his in every way that mattered, consequences be damned.

But with a ragged breath, Baldwin withdrew his hand away from her, not able to look at her, his body aflame with such desire and shame that he thought he might weep.

He could not do it. He knew he could not. And he would not. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much she might desire it too. “But we can’t,” he breathed out, his voice breaking on the last word, “because of this.” He gestured to his arm, wrapped in linen, hiding the mottled flesh beneath. “I can’t do this. I won’ hurt you, I won’t risk your life, not for anything. Not even for my own pitiful desires.”

She swallowed thickly, carelessly drawing nearer to him once more. Near enough that the barest dip of his head would bring their lips to meet. “I understand,” she whispered, “And I would never demand what you cannot give.”

His eyes shuttered closed. “Then what now?” His heart pounded, the room suddenly feeling far too warm. “What happens next?”

“I do not know,” she admitted, and with a trembling hand, smoothed another one of his wayward curls away. “But we have our whole lives ahead of us. There will be other nights, and other days. We have time.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I would give anything to make you happy,” he murmured, opening his eyes to find hers drifting closed.

“To have you beside me is happiness enough.” Luceria murmured sleepily.

—

When the morning came they were still in bed, sheltered beneath the covers pulled high to stave off the morning chill. Face to face they lay, pillowed in quietude, fingers still interlaced from their drunken confessions and soft-spoken secrets. A stolen peace neither wanted to forsake. Not even when the sun climbed high and the world beyond demanded their return.

Chapter Text

Jerusalem, 4 April 1179

“I forbid you from leaving.” The whine that left the King’s mouth was nothing short of petulant, but Luceria could hardly bring herself to mind. Baldwin’s fingers had wound themselves into her hair, stroking the golden locks as if they might somehow persuade her to remain in their room just one hour longer. In just one night, he had grown quite accustomed to the privacy they shared, and she would be lying if she claimed to harbor no such sentiments of her own.

“Is that an order from my King, or from the man I married?” She teased, her fingers drawing patterns over the linen-covered sleeve draped across her waist. Baldwin had been so sure last night about his sensibilities, and even now he remained determined to not touch her bare skin in fear of passing along the disease. Yet, Luceria still felt the heat of his body through the cloth and the firm hold of his embrace around her, and that was enough to sate her for now.

Baldwin sighed. “Can it not be both?” He wondered aloud as his hold tightened slightly around her. She knew better than to answer. He would need no encouragement in this battle of wills. And though her heart longed to remain at his side, they had duties to attend to. Responsibilities to uphold.

She laughed. “I only mean to visit my sisters. I am not fleeing across the sea, Baldwin.” She promised, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. Her palm came to rest over the place where she knew his heart was pounding. “If it pleases you, I will return by noon.”

“It does not please me.” He grumbled, but his grip on her slackened, and his fingers resumed their gentle caress. “But I will not keep you from those who care for you.” A pause. “You will come back?”

There was no denying the hint of apprehension in his voice. As if in her absence he might be forgotten. The very idea was unbearable.

“Without fail.” She swore. “You know that I love you, do you not?”

“I know. And I love you.”

“I know.” Her answer mirrored his, drawing from him a quiet laugh. There was no place she would rather be. No one she would rather spend her life with. But responsibilities were calling. And despite his protests, Luceria had to rise and dress. She had to leave him, if only temporarily.

After all, she was Queen of Jerusalem now. And queens, however dearly loved, could not linger forever in the sanctuary of their chambers.

(Even if she desperately wanted to.)

Jerusalem, 4 April 1179

The royal apartments were in a state of disarray, though perhaps, that was entirely predictable where her sisters were concerned. Philippa sat propped up against her pillows surrounded by the very worst sort of attendants (Mary, Anna, Alice), who had effectively exiled poor Constable Humphrey to stand in the corner. Despite Philippa’s wan appearance, to Luceria’s relief, the older woman appeared more annoyed than anything.

“There she is.” Philippa greeted, “Our new Queen of Jerusalem.” She waved a hand dismissively as Luceria walked towards the group. “Oh do not look so stricken. I’m still well enough to tease you.”

Luceria flushed (though she had hoped, vainly, to outgrow the habit now that she was of a higher rank) and settled at her sister’s side. “What happened?”

Philippa shrugged away the concern. “Nothing so serious. Just the excitement from last night, I think. I am not one to enjoy such commotions, and the wine was perhaps more than I ought to have partaken in.”

“You overwork yourself always.” Mary scolded, “It was no wonder that you were overcome. We told you to rest but you never listen.”

“Never fear, she has me to care for her now.” The ever-patient Lord Humphrey spoke from across the room. “It will be better, once we return to Tibnīn. I’ll see to it personally that she stops overtaxing herself.”

Luceria smiled as she watched her sister roll her eyes, “Of course. You two will be departing soon, yes?”

“As soon as I’m deemed sufficiently recovered,” Philippa agreed. “Though if I’m still indisposed when the expedition begins, I shall be forced to remain in Jerusalem. If that happens, sister, you’ll have to accommodate us both.”

Luceria laughed, “That won’t be difficult, I assure you.”

They fell back into the comfortable rhythm of sisterhood. Alice weaving Luceria’s hair into braids, Mary and Anna trading stories of their children; of Mary’s sweet little boy Alexios, and Anna’s rowdy bunch Emeric, Margaret, and Andrew. As they spoke, all ears turned when Anna revealed that she was pregnant with her fourth.

“If it is a boy, we are thinking of calling him Salomon, and if it is a girl, Constance. After mother.” Anna smiled, her hand coming to rest over the modest swell of her belly. “If all goes well, you will see him— or her— come November.”

They were all thrilled, of course. Children were the great preoccupation of every noblewoman, and any announcement of new members to be welcomed into their family was celebrated. Even Philippa, often so careful to present indifference about these particular matters, was eager to hold her new niece or nephew.

Luceria found herself wondering if she would ever bear children. But that line of thinking inevitably led to the question of if she could even have children. The marriage had not been consummated, and Baldwin had no plans to do so in the near future, and yet there was still something in her that stirred when she thought of bearing him heirs. As if that would complete the union in some way that the rings and the vows had not. It was a silly thought, of course. Baldwin was her husband, and he would not forsake her even if they were not able to produce an heir.

And she knew very well the reason for his abstinence. To think of his suffering was too much to bear. And to consider what he might do in his place, if they were both healthy, was to open herself up to dreams best left alone. The most she dared hope for was to have his warm presence in their bed, and perhaps, to be kissed by him someday.

But she would not dwell on such things here.

And yet, she could not help but feel the tiniest bit envious of her sister. Perhaps it was the wine, or the warmth in the air. But something was stirring in her, and she could not say what it was. So she smiled, and she listened as Anna told them stories about her life in Szatmár. And answered questions when they pressed her about her new title and marriage. And even though her thoughts were wandering, she did her best not to let it show.

Jerusalem, 4 April 1179

The Prince of Antioch’s expression was not a promising one. Not that Baldwin had expected open arms or even a civil handshake from Bohemond, so the chill in the air came as no great surprise. The tensions between himself and the Prince of Antioch had been building for quite some time now ever since Philip of Flanders had made his arrival. They were not the best of allies, but nor were they the worst of enemies. He supposed their strained relations would have to suffice for now.

“I trust you enjoyed your wedding celebrations?” Bohemond ventured after several minutes of silence. “I’ve seen many weddings in my lifetime, but few as elaborate as yours.”

Baldwin’s mouth twitched. He should have brought his wine to this meeting. His nerves were frayed enough as it was and these talks would test his diplomacy and patience. “I did, thank you,” He answered politely, smooth as ever. “And yourself, My Lord?”

“I found it tolerable enough.” Bohemond shrugged, “Though next time, I shall leave the dancing to those with more enthusiasm for it.”

A slight already. How charming.

Baldwin forced his lips into what he hoped resembled an easy smile, “Well, I’m glad you were there to witness the festivities. I’m sure your sister appreciated your presence.”

“Indeed. And how is Luceria faring?”

“Very well, I believe. She keeps company with your sisters at present.”

A flicker of something crossed Bohemond’s face before vanishing. “I was pleased to see her so content. Truly, I am glad the two of you have found solace in one another.”

It was a lie of civility and they both knew it. No sane man would want his kin to be married to a leper, king or not. Baldwin himself would frown upon such a match if Sybilla or Isabella were to marry in such unfavorable circumstances. But that was the reality of their union now. The King and his bride, bound together for the rest of their lives, whether or not the world approved. And love would have to sustain them when nothing else would.

“I’m grateful to have her by my side.” The King confessed, “And I am glad you consented to our marriage. I know how much Luceria values your approval.”

Bohemond hummed noncommittally. “I would have hoped to discuss our plans for the future before she was crowned. Antioch and Tripoli are sworn to your service, and I should like to have your assurance that you will treat our territories with the respect they are due.”

Baldwin nodded in agreement. “You have my word. Your principality’s concerns will always weigh in my decisions. In fact, we’d value your counsel on the upcoming expedition to Banias. Your forces’ experience would be invaluable.”

“An honor. But impossible. I return to Antioch within the week.”

It was all pleasant enough for an excuse, but Bohemond’s eyes were sharp with dissatisfaction. And Baldwin himself had yet to truly forgive the man for the events that lead up to the victory at Montgisard. Had Bohemond’s troops been there as intended, Saladin would never have dared launch such an invasion.

But he could not voice those thoughts aloud. The relationship was already fragile, and Luceria would not thank him for antagonizing her brother further. “Then I shall wish you a safe journey,” He said instead. “And I hope this marks the beginning of many fruitful years between us.”

Bohemond’s lips thinned as he stood. “Before I depart, may I offer some advice, as brothers in faith.” He began, his arms crossed in front of him, “My sister will always love me. You may be her husband now, but I am the one who has raised her since she was nothing more than an infant. I will never abandon her, and I would not hesitate to take up arms against any who would harm her. Do you take my meaning, Sire?”

Baldwin blinked in shock, the Prince’s capricious behavior dawning on him like the onset of winter. He did not know whether to laugh or rage. He did not understand what he did to provoke the Prince’s sudden ire. His grip on his seat tightened as he considered his words carefully, knowing that if he chose poorly, he would lose all chance of reconciliation with Bohemond, and with him, his sister.

“You can rest assured that I will keep that in mind,” He said slowly. “And that it will not deter me from doing what is best for Jerusalem, or for Luceria.”

“For my sister’s sake,” Bohemond sneered as he left the room, “Let us hope we do not come into conflict.”

Jerusalem, 4 April 1179

Noontime came, and Baldwin was already abed when she returned to their chambers. He was not asleep, not truly, but his eyes were shut and his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His boots were still on, his feet dangling to the edge of the bed. The only evidence of his having tried to rest was the fact that he’d removed his crown, which lay haphazardly upon his bedside table as though he’d tossed it there in frustration. He was scowling too, and Luceria heart ached to look at him.

She could guess who had upset her husband. Bohemond had swept through Philippa’s chambers earlier with the air of a man who’d won something, which meant Baldwin had decidedly not. Men, Luceria had learned, could be marvelously petty when they wished.

She set aside her outerwear and sat on the bed. With care, she began to remove Baldwin’s boots, pulling off the supple leather one deliberate tug at a time. He didn’t stir, but she knew he was awake; he always noticed her touches, even the smallest ones. “You mustn’t keep these when you rest. It will become a filthy habit.” She chided playfully.

Baldwin exhaled through his nose, lashes fluttering open. For half of the second his lips upturned into an easy smile. Yet, his displeasure lingered. “Luceria.” He murmured quietly, “Have I kept you waiting long? I was delayed by your brother’s visit.”

“I had only just returned.” Luceria replied. “Did Bohemond have anything interesting to relay?”

“Your brother has always been full of interesting things to say.” The attempt at civility was not lost upon the Queen. She set the boots on the floor and curled against him. Baldwin was quick to take her hand, “It was nothing of note. I think he is still sore about losing you as his charge.”

Luceria laughed. “You may speak plainly, Baldwin. I know my brother has...a temper. And I know what his true feelings are for you.”

Baldwin sighed. “There is no need to worry. He does not like me, but that does not mean I do not respect him. As he is your family, I will not forsake him. But by the Saints, he is an odious man and I am sure he would murder me if given the chance.”

The Queen’s lips curved, “Bohemond has always been quick to anger. But his loyalty...” She hesitated, “Well, he loves me, of that I’m certain. Yet I would be a fool to say he would never cause a stir against us if provoked. He is my brother, but he has also broken family bonds for far less than wounded pride.”

“For your sake, I will keep the peace with him as long as I am able.”

“I do not doubt that you would try. But there is no need to trouble yourself over him.” Luceria murmured, “If it is not you he despises, then it will be someone else. It is his nature to be disagreeable.”

The King sighed. “I suppose I must take what small comforts I can.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “Enough of my suffering, how were your sisters? Is Lady Philippa well again?”

“Philippa is well, or at least well enough to complain about being confined to bed rest. Anna is with child again.” Luceria revealed. “If all goes well, perhaps we can see them in Hungary when the babe will be born.”

“That is excellent news. How fortunate King Béla will be, to have such strong heirs.” Baldwin mused. “He is very blessed. God must favor him.”

She wondered briefly if there was something more behind his words, some hint of envy. But no, she could not detect anything in his voice or expression to suggest it. Just simple curiosity, and perhaps admiration.

Then his thumb brushed her wrist, lingering. “Our first day as man and wife,” he sighed, “and I’ve squandered half of it without you.”

“It is barely noon—”

“We must find a way to rectify this.” He interjected, his fingers tracing her knuckles. “I cannot go another hour without you at my side. Tell me, what can be done?”

Luceria laughed, “How about we stay in bed for the rest of the day? If anyone needs us, they can come find us here.”

Baldwin blinked, his lips quirking up in an amused grin. “Is that truly what you wish? I was thinking we might ride out and spend the day together. But if you would rather remain in our room….”

She flushed. “Oh, well, riding would also be pleasant.”

“No. No. The bed it is. Come here, I was quite comfortable before you interrupted me. We could sleep the afternoon away.”

Luceria scoffed. “Oh yes, of course. Let us sleep. I’ll even let you keep your boots on if that’s what you want. How gracious of me.”

He was still laughing when she pressed herself into his arms. And as he held her there, she found her mind drifting back to his whispered words from last night.

Of all the things he wanted to do with her.

Things that she would gladly let him do.

Chapter Text

He remembered the night he first beheld her. Resplendent in royal blue, golden hair unbound as though challenging convention itself. She had been radiant, yes. But also defiant and wanting nothing to do with him. And why would she? He was thirty-two years her senior, a man already once wed, his best years behind him. She, at twenty-one, had been made for grander things that a quiet lordship in Toron.

But fate was a most capricious matchmaker. She had suffered a scandal, and he needed a wife. And in that respect, they were both desperate.

He offered to make her queen. Not of anything important like lands or titles. Just of his heart. She laughed at that, told him that she had no desire to be Queen of anything.

But she married him anyway.

—

Growing up she had always dreamed of adventure, of seeing faraway places and of meeting interesting, exotic, handsome strangers. She had been brave then, and curious. In another life, she might have had it. But this life had given her Andronikos instead, and Mary’s endless disapproval, and the slow suffocating weight of disgrace.

Mary had always been the perfect daughter. Always so proper and well-behaved and had never once stepped out of line. But unlike Mary, she had always been the wild child, and like most wild children, her curiosity got the best of her. When Andronikos abandoned her, it nearly killed her. She was cast aside and left broken, but not broken enough that she wasn’t without her own wits.

So when the betrothal to the Lord of Toron was proposed, she was quick to agree. The sooner the better for her reputation.

Her new husband was no dashing rogue. His hair was more silver than brown and his face had the lines of a life well-lived. But he was kind. Gentle. And after all she endured, she could use some kindness and gentleness in her life.

He would do nicely.

—

They had an arrangement. A list of requirements if you will.

She didn’t have to consummate the marriage if she didn’t wish to. That was her first requirement. He would not push her into something she didn’t want. She had been taken advantage of before, and she would not have it again. If there was to be anything between them, it would be on her terms and by her own wishes.

He had readily agreed. She was the second daughter of Constance of Antioch and Raymond of Poitiers, well-cared for and never wanting for anything. Even if she was no virgin bride. (That she should care so fiercely for her virtue now, after everything, was curious. But he would not pry. Some wounds were not for him to examine.)

Her body was her own. The rest, time would decide.

—

The first gift that he gave her was not to her liking. It was a necklace far too simple, not fit for a daughter of a Princess. Her mother had given her far more grand jewels than this, and in her eyes it was not fit to grace her neck. But he gave it to her earnestly, and for that she could not hate it, even if it was too simple for her tastes. He asked to place it around her neck, and reluctantly she agreed, even if it would not match the dress she had chosen. She wore it constantly, and eventually grew fond of its simplicity. She never did choose another necklace to wear. It was always that one.

She learned that in her husband’s youth he had been handsome enough to draw the attentions of the beautiful daughter of the Lord of Banias. His children were all handsome, and his grandchild was as sweet as she could ever imagine. Her siblings respected him at least, and her mother had approved of the match before her death.

He was not Andronikos, he did not whisk her away through hidden passages in the walls and have her on the floor of an abandoned chapel. But he never yelled at her, never threatened to send her back to Antioch in shame. And soon, the necklace did not feel so simple.

—

He soon discovered that his wife was not one to temper her tongue. She spoke her mind freely. Often too freely, often at his expense (but her words were filled with such mischief that he could not begrudge her). Her temper could flare at the smallest slight, yet he was never afraid of her anger; it was as short lived as it was passionate, and her smiles always returned quickly.

She had been born in the purple, and was quick to flaunt that at those who would challenge her. He thought it strange that she was so prideful, but it was endearing in its own right. She was not malicious, not intentionally cruel. She was blunt, honest. Perhaps too honest at times.

—

The first kiss had not been expected. It had not been planned, nor had it been considered. There had been some argument that morning, some trite thing to annoy the other. And it was her temper that led to her storming into his office and demanding the last word. As usual.

He did not rise to her challenge. He never did. Instead, he invited her to sit with infuriating calm, his voice so measured it forced her to match it. Until they were both whispering to one another, and the distance between them was not as far as she had once thought. And then his lips brushed against hers in the most chaste of kisses. And when he pulled away, she followed. And they kissed again.

This time it wasn’t so chaste.

And that is where the consummation happened. And after that, she had little to argue about. Not for that day anyway.

—

He thought that perhaps she was a woman worth more than his battered soul. He found himself looking for her in the keep, seeking out her company. He had never been much of an outgoing person, and he was getting old. She was young, vibrant, and full of energy. And she wanted to be around him. He found himself growing to expect that, and to enjoy her company in kind.

He learned to cherish the moments of silence between them as well as the arguments that brought the fire from her eyes. Her kisses were sweet, her lips soft, and her body fit well with his. He had never truly taken pleasure in the act before, but she made him want to please her, make her gasp, and in return he learned to take the same from her.

She was not shy in her passions. Nor did she ever seem ashamed to have him in her bed. Or in his. Or in his study. She was not picky with where her pleasures were to be found, and neither was he. He learned every curve, every soft spot, and every freckle on her body. And he did so gladly. He had never loved his first wife this way, had never wanted to be so close, so intimate. But with her it was different. And he liked the difference. And the way she made his life feel whole again.

He thought that perhaps in her arms he could find the peace that had been denied to him in all his life. And it was there, waiting. But she had to give it freely. And for the longest time, he did not think that she would.

—

When she did not bleed that month, she was not sure of the signs. She was not sure of many things, her courses having been irregular since they had begun. She was young when they had started, and her mother had told her it was natural for them to be irregular in the beginning. Andronikos had not left her with any bastards (Thank the Lord), and so she was not sure of the symptoms. But she waited. Until the second month passed without blood.

And then the sickness came, and her suspicions were confirmed. And for the first time in her life, she was excited at the prospect of motherhood. She had wanted children with Andronikos, had planned to run away, marry, and have many children with him. But that was not to be. With her husband, she knew she would have those things. Even if it was later in his years. They could have children together.

She wanted to have his children.

And that thought warmed her heart in the strangest of ways. For the first time in her life, she was happy at the prospect of motherhood. She didn’t dread it.

—

When his wife told him she was with child, he was elated. He had not expected to have any more children, let alone with his new wife. She was young, still in her twenties. He was an older man, nearly past his prime. But this would be their first. Their first son. Or their first daughter.

The child would not come to term, and his wife would nearly bleed out. Had it not been for the physician’s knowledge and quick work, she would have been dead. And it was that incident that led the physicians to tell her that she would likely not be able to carry any more children to term. And for the Lord of Toron, that was hard to bear. But harder still was telling her that she would not have children of her own. How she cried, how he cried. How they mourned for the little babe that was not to be. And how he held her while she grieved. And how she held him in return.

—

It was a hard thing to accept, that there would be no children in her life. They tried again, many times. But the physician’s warnings were not idle. The child never made it past the sixth month, and they were forced to mourn again. This time she did not bleed so much, but the child did not survive. And neither would any others. The third was the last, and the hardest to accept. She was bedridden for three weeks after, and her husband stayed by her side.

But it was the reality that had to be faced, and so it was. Her husband was ever-doting, always bringing her gifts to cheer her up. Gifts that were too small to compensate for the babies that were never to be. As if bangles could replace her womb.

But he was trying, so desperately. And for that she could pretend to smile and pretend to be grateful. And eventually the sorrow would pass, and the smiles would be genuine and the gratefulness would be real. But not until time had healed her wounds and she was able to move on.

—

When news that Raynald de Chatillon was finally freed from his imprisonment in Aleppo reached them, he was not sure how to react. He and the former Prince of Antioch had never seen eye to eye. And that was mostly because he had always been a dreamer while Chatillon was more of the pragmatic type. But Raynald was bringing his youngest daughter home, and the Lord of Toron knew that his wife would be glad to see her littlest sister once more. Even if the Lord of Kerak brought his own brand of trouble with him.

But his wife was happy, and that was all that mattered. She was happy, and smiling again. And that was worth any amount of annoyance Raynald de Chatillon could bring.

—

To be an older sister meant to have certain responsibilities. Luceria had the same sort of practicality that their mother had, and she could tell that the youngest was afraid of letting her heart rule her head. The Lady of Toron would not think that unwise, yet seeing the younger girl so afraid made her ache. No doubt that the servants and maids had used her tale with Andronikos to scare her. That was not well done, in her mind at least. It was not well done at all.

And so, she sought to comfort her sister, to assure her that it was not always such an unhappy story. Sometimes there was love. And though the scandal had caused her many hardships and sorrows, it lead her to where she was now. Happily married to the Lord of Toron. If only the young girl could see that, perhaps her fears could be soothed.

Most times they were. But she was ever the timid mouse, ever hiding in her own shadow. Her eyes would light up when the King of Jerusalem was near, and there were rumors that he was fond of her too. And though he was ill, and not likely to live to have children of his own, he could give her happiness. In the short time that they were together, she might find joy. So, she urged her sister to see him, to seek his company, and to find comfort in his words.

He was kind, she said, and he was noble and good. And even if it was short lived, it would not be sorrowful.

And so, her sister listened, and the Lady of Toron was glad for it.

—

When his wife devoted attention to her projects, she was able to pour her soul into the work. She was excellent at commanding those under her, and he felt that she could have rebuilt Chateau Neuf and negotiated the truce between the Hospitallers and Templars with ease. She had been trained to be queen once, and he thought that perhaps she would have made an excellent one at that if the circumstances had been different.

So he watched from the shadows as she organized her sister’s wedding. He did not expect that the King of Jerusalem would ever marry, being sick and not long for this world. And Luceria was young, too young to be widowed. But the Princess was happy, and his wife was happy, and he would not argue against either of their happiness.

So he watched his wife spill hours of her life into the preparations and organization. Even when she was tired and weary. He knew her body as well as he knew his own, and he knew when to urge her to rest. But she would never be able to plan a wedding for a daughter of her own, and this was as close as she would get. So he let her stay up late, let her work to her heart’s content. And he watched from afar and smiled at her happiness.

—

To see her sister smile radiantly was reward enough. Their family had come down for the wedding. Even Bohemond though he did not bring his wife. She had expected that. Expected even the snide remarks from their older brother and his condescending attitude. But to have them all there, together again, in celebration of Luceria’s wedding to the Leper King of Jerusalem was beyond what she could have ever hoped. Marriages made in love were rare; marriages ending in tragedy were less so.

The reception was extravagant, but sometime between the courses she felt herself grow faint. Her husband’s hand on her elbow steadied her, and before she could protest, he was guiding her to their quarters. She did not remember the walk, only the soft feathered mattress under her. She must have slept for some time, for when she opened her eyes again, the sun was streaming in the windows and there was sweat coating her brow, causing her nightgown to stick to her skin. His hand on her forehead was warm, but rough, calloused from years of fighting and working with his hands. She found comfort in that.

She could not keep anything down, the fever would not break, and the headaches did not abate. But he did not leave her bedside, nor did she ask him to. He would carry her to the privies when she could not make it on her own. He held the pot for her to vomit in, held her hair back and wipe the bile from her chin. And when her family came to visit, he preserved her dignity and left her to pretend that all was well.

—

He was never good at lying, never had been. His father had always told him that honorable men had no need to lie, and he believed that still. But his wife was ill, terribly so. Tibnīn castle was a day’s ride, and she was in no condition to travel. She never wanted others to worry, not her sisters or her brother. She wanted them to think that everything was okay, that this was just another spell that would pass as the last had. And so he lied. He lied, and he held her when she cried for the sickness to end.

Duty was most persistent, even after all these years of service. He had ranked high and esteemed, but at his age he simply wanted to rest. And yet life in the Levant was ever tumultuous. He was needed, and he had to serve even if he did not wish to. His wife was not well enough for him to leave, and yet he could not refuse the King when he called.

She insisted she would be fine, and he was not one to doubt his wife’s resolve. This expedition would be short; nothing much too difficult, just collecting sheep as they did often. The men under him were experienced, they were veterans of the Crusades, hardened men. And after this campaign, he would cease to be in command.

He watched her sleep, not wanting to leave her. But he must. And so he slipped on his boots, took up his sword, and dressed himself for the expedition. When his squire came, his armor was applied, his horse packed, and his sword strapped to his waist. A kiss to her forehead, and her eyes fluttered open. She gave him the smallest of smiles, her hand coming to rest against his cheek. He didn’t want to go, not when she was like this. But she did not protest, and instead urged him to leave before the sun rose. There would be more kisses and sweet words to welcome him home.

It would be an easy expedition, that was what he had told her. Easy and short, and when he came home, everything would certainly be back to the way it was.

—

She was not getting better. But Luceria visited often after their other siblings had departed. It was nice having her as company, even when she was busy with her duties as Queen. They spoke about many things, mostly their worries. Their husbands were both in campainging, and though it was meant to be a short one the worst could happen. She knew her husband had seen many years of battle, and that he would be okay. Yet she still worried. She knew that Luceria felt the same for Baldwin, but she also had her duties as Queen.

The topic of children had come up. And how they were unlikely to ever have any of their own. And how Luceria knew the terms that came with her marriage. The Lady of Toron did not know how to respond at first; for she had spent a lifetime grieving her own womb. But she could see that Luceria needed to hear the truth, not what was comforting.

And so she spoke at length of her miscarriages and of her grief. And how she still felt pain, but that her husband was worth it all. And how she loved him and would not trade him for all the world and all the babies. That he was enough for her. And though she knew Luceria would not have the time that she had to live with her husband, that even if he were to die tomorrow that she would never regret the love she gave him. Because that is what life was about.

—

The sheep were to be collected, and he counted the miles between here and where his wife lay ill. But his King needed him, and he would serve. Even if his heart was far from this place. But once this day was done, he would retire, and they would go home. And then they would grow old together, and live the peaceful life they had dreamed of. He would take her back to the place where his parents had raised him, the place he had been so desperate to escape.

But any place would be peaceful with her.

The sound of hooves was the only sound on the road, and then all at once it was not. His heart was pounding, and his sword was drawn.

And then the King was cornered, and then he had to fight, and then he had to fight and the King had to live.

There were screams. But the King had to live.

Keep breathing. Keep fighting. There. The king.

And the King lived.

And then, it was quiet again.

—

Sleep never came easy for her, but now she struggled to remain awake at all. She could not tell what time of the day it was, for her eyes remained closed for long periods of time. Luceria’s hand in hers was warm, but she found herself looking for her husband’s instead. It was not there. Her head was too heavy, and her body felt weighted, but she tried to open her mouth to speak, to ask, to beg. Luceria shushed her, her fingers brushing over her hair in soothing strokes, and the Lady of Toron found that comforting for now. She was too tired to ask anymore.

Sleep would come eventually.

Sleep would take her.

Somewhere in The Levant, April 1179

They found Philippa at dawn, her forehead cool and lips blue. Luceria wept and the maids kept their distance until their grieving queen left. Humphrey had died of his injuries at Hunin shortly after they evacuated him. In his dying breath, he asked for his beloved wife. He never knew that she was long gone. Perhaps that was for the best. That both believed the other would live on.

Bohemond argued to bury his sister properly. In Antioch, the place of her birth. Luceria was too deep in her grief to fight, but the King did so in her stead. Humphrey had given his life to protect him, and he would honor the man's last wish. His wife would be buried with him.

In the end, Bohemond gave in.

Chapter Text

The Citadel, Jerusalem, May 1179

It should have been considered a day of significance. It was his eighteenth nameday, after all; yet merriment had deemed itself a most improper guest in these halls. Luceria had risen before he did, and he knew that he would find her in the chapel as he usually had these last few mornings. The past few weeks had been difficult. The kingdom had lost Constable Humphrey of Toron. Luceria had lost her sister. And Baldwin? He had nearly lost his life. But survival was not without its own peculiar torment.

The ambush was still fresh in his mind. The Saracens had been anticipating them, lying in wait in the narrow valley as they rode towards Banias. He had been at the head of the column of riders, and his eyes had gone wide when the Ayyubids sprung out of the trees. Asad reared, and Baldwin struggled to remain in the saddle as the first Saracens reached him. Had the Constable not intervened, he would have surely fallen. Instead, he managed to get away, his guardsmen rallying to him to cover his retreat.

He took a deep breath and flexed his limbs. The numbness came and went more often these days. But he took his independence when he was able. He dressed himself, wincing as his tunic brushed against the still-tender sores on his back. His injuries from the battle appeared to be healing, and as long as he kept them clean, Abū Sulaymān Dāwūd had assured him that they would not fester. He quickly laced his boots and adjusted the fall of his tunic over his bandages. And a few minutes later, he was on his way to the palace’s chapel.

His wife was the only occupant. She knelt before the statue of the Virgin and child, the silk of her fingertips thumbing over the wooden beads of her rosary in a soothing habit. She had been sobbing then, he knew it immediately from the jagged rise and fall of her shoulders.

He watched her silently. She had been so faraway from him the last week, but at night she held him tighter, and he had spent many hours stroking her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder, uncaring of his injuries and even more careless of his illness.

But he could not push her away. Sickness seemed so far from the battlefield, where death came not from wounds or disease but from the edge of an enemy’s sword, where it wore the face of Saladin.

He would take her weeping over the symptoms of his leprosy any day. But this…

He walked towards her, and she turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Good morning, Luceria.”

“Good morning.” She sniffled, taking the hand he offered and rising gracefully to her feet. Her eyes were still red. “Happy nameday, Baldwin,” she said softly. “I apologize for leaving you this morning. I thought I would be finished by the time you woke.”

“It’s all right.” Baldwin squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling?” It was a stupid question. He knew better than to ask it.

Luceria looked down. “The same,” she replied. “And you?”

Baldwin shrugged. “The same.”

They stared at each other for another second, then Luceria broke his gaze and stepped away. She crossed herself in front of the statue of Mary, and Baldwin followed her out, helpless to do anything but watch as she folded into herself again.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Shall we break our fast?”

“Not terribly so.”

He frowned, but did not press the point. She skipped meals sometimes when she was feeling upset, instead burying herself in tutors and ledgers and the endless duties of a queen consort who had not yet learned how to mourn for the public. It had not escaped his notice. Her father had warned him of it as well, her melancholia, and he had been watching for signs of it. The kingdom was watching her more closely now too. As if the death of Humphrey of Toron was not enough to grieve over, his wife would take scrutiny from those who believed she was not fit to be his consort. Every missed meal, every reddened gaze, would be noted. Judged.

Perhaps it would be best to distract her. “I must ride out today. Will you come with me?”

“Philippa still needs flowers, the ones I brought are already wilting.” She murmured. This summer was significantly warmer than the last few had been. And he feared that a drought might soon be approaching. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about. “But you go, I’ll wait for you.”

“Come to the stables, at least. We can pick the flowers for your sister together.” He did not want to think of her in the catacombs alone, weeping over Philippa’s body in the dim light. He took her hand again.

She smiled weakly. “It would be better if you ate first,” she protested.

“If it would please you.” He desperately wanted her to eat too. “Perhaps we can have the servants bring our meals to the study. I don’t think I could handle the noise of the hall right now.”

“Of course.” Her answer was so quiet, he barely heard her.

The King’s Study, Jerusalem, 14 May 1179

They broke their fast in silence. She hated that they were so distant, that she was unable to console her husband, or even to talk to him properly. But to be in the presence of any other, even him, felt too much to bear. And so she sat in silence and drank the bland pottage in front of her. All she truly wanted was to be left alone, to weep over her sister’s body until she had no more tears to give, and perhaps to die. How selfish she was to feel this way. She should be happy that Baldwin was safe, that he had survived the battle. (And beyond the guilt, she was relieved that he had come home in one piece.)

But she should have noticed. Noticed that Philippa had overworked herself, that she was exhausted, that her sister was fading away with each day. But she had been so consumed in her own happiness that she couldn’t even tell that something was wrong.

So stupid. So terribly, terribly stupid. And now, because of her failure, Philippa lay in the catacombs under the Holy Sepulchre. Perhaps if she had not been so greedily happy, then God would not have taken her sister away.

Luceria could feel the tears well up her eyes and she wiped them away angrily.

Her husband had already finished his meal, and she had only nibbled at hers. The clang of her spoon against the bowl made her wince. Philippa always hated that sound. She set her bowl aside. Baldwin watched her, and she knew that he was waiting for her to finish as well. “Are you full?”

“Yes,” she said. She did not need to eat any more. He did not protest, even when he stood and saw that her bowl wasn’t even a quarter empty.

“We do not have to go anywhere today,” he said, leaning against his desk. “If it is too much.”

She shook her head. “It is your nameday, and you deserve to celebrate.”

“There’s nothing to celebrate.” There was no bitterness in his voice and she knew that he believed those words. It made her feel even worse, especially when he looked at her with pity. In her selfish mourning, she had forgotten: Baldwin grieved too. She had lost a sister; he had lost a friend, a protector, the man who had died in his place. She had no claim to grief.

“Forgive me,” she said, as she rose from her chair and crossed the room to him. He took her in her arms, and she laid her head against his chest. His arms around her waist felt like the only thing holding her down. “I wish I were not in this state.”

“It is understandable,” he answered. “But there is nothing to forgive, Luceria.”

“Do not be too gracious.” She mumbled into his chest.

He sighed and rubbed her back. “There is enough guilt to be had without any from you.”

“I just…I just think that if the Lord Constable had not saved you, I would not be holding you right now. I should be thankful for that.”

His hand stilled on her back. “That is the part I struggle with the most.”

She bit her lip, holding back tears. “It is hard for me to think of the price that it cost. But I cannot help but be grateful that you came back to me.”

“Luceria.” The raw emotion in his voice made the tears she was holding back spill over. He was quiet as she wept into his chest, and she wondered how long they had left together. It was a cruel thought, but one that would not leave her. How many more namedays would they share? How many more embraces before time or war or sickness stole him from her?

How could she be happy when all of the world was ending?

“I’m sorry,” she managed to sob out, and Baldwin pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He whispered, his voice muffled by her hair. She wondered if he was crying too. It did not matter. They were together still, and she had no desire to let go. “I’m still here. I’m still here.”

It was such an uncertain hope, and yet it was all they had.

Jerusalem, 14 May 1179

He watched her in the distance as he rode out. In truth, he did not wish to be away from her today, but she insisted that he should celebrate his nameday. She had promised him that they would ride out in the evening, and he supposed that was good enough. But he had no desire to be without her now. Her melancholies worried him, and he did not want to leave her alone for any longer than necessary. But he knew it would soothe her if he continued on as normal. Her guilt would be made worse if he did not ‘celebrate’.

His squire was riding behind him, quiet. He appreciated Anselm’s silence, especially today, when the world seemed so full of noise. Asad was eager under his hands, ready to fly into the desert, but Baldwin reined him in. He was in no hurry to be anywhere, and he’d rather be able to return to his wife as soon as possible.

“How are you feeling, your Majesty?” Anselm asked.

Baldwin shrugged, and the ache in his back made him wince. “I am alive, and that is all that matters.”

“You know…that is not what I mean. You almost lost your life on the battlefield, your Majesty.”

“But I didn’t,” the king snapped, “I will be more careful in the future, Anselm. You need not worry for me.”

“You sound quite certain,” his squire cautiously.

“Should I not be?”

Anselm hesitated. “You lost much too, your Majesty.”

Baldwin’s heart lurched. He did not want to talk about this. He was not ready to confront it either. “I will do better, Anselm.” He said. “When we leave Jerusalem, I cannot fail again.”

The Catacombs, Jerusalem, 14 May 1179

She was surprised to discovered her father and Lady Stephanie had already paid their respects today, her wilted bouquets already replaced. She had not thought them still in Jerusalem, imagining them long returned to Kerak. Lady Stephanie had been close to the Constable, her father much less so. But he had been fond of Philippa. And young Humphrey had lost his grandfather.

With a quiet sigh, Luceria laid the vibrant purple mountain lilies beside their wreathes before bowing her head in prayer. It was more comfort than it was supplication at this point. The chanting made her thoughts empty and her mind still. She found that she often needed to escape the chaos that was in her own head.

Then came the soft fall of footsteps behind her, and she knew at once that Baldwin was there watching her pray. He had finished his afternoon ride much sooner than she had expected. Her prayer was not nearly over and though he was not interrupting, it felt strange to sit in front of her sister’s tomb with her husband waiting. So near. So patient. As though she were performing her sorrow for him.

“I thought you were meant to be away longer, love.” She said at last.

Baldwin smiled thinly. “Forgive me. I can leave, if you would prefer to be alone.”

She did. His presence made her cry when he looked at her with those pity-filled eyes. But he was trying his best to console her. And she could not let him go on, knowing that he blamed himself for the Constable’s sacrifice too. “Come here.” She gestured to the space beside her.

He obeyed, settling close enough that their sleeves were brushing. She leaned against his arm, seeking solace in the familiar weight of him. “How was your ride?”

“Hot.” He admitted. “I was glad to return to you.” He squeezed her hand and she saw his gaze drift to the flowers before the tombs. “Did your father stop by?”

“Yes. But I did not get the chance to speak to him.” Luceria confessed. “I was so sure that they had already gone home.”

“Your father rides north with my men to Tiberias next week,” Baldwin explained. “It would be a wasted journey to depart and return so soon.”

Luceria’s brow furrowed. “You travel north? What for?”

Baldwin hesitated, his fingers tightening around hers. “We hope it’s nothing. But there have been reports of activity near Sidon. The Saracens are growing bolder, my love. My men wish to be certain, and with the Constable gone—” He stopped abruptly before gathering his words. “Your father has the most experience with Saladin’s men. I thought him best suited to lead.”

She could already hear the guilt in his voice.

Luceria stiffened. “Are you telling me you intend to ride north with them?” The question was more of an accusation than anything else. Her nails dug into the fabric of his tunic.

“I must. You know I must.” He replied. “Luceria, please understand.”

She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “Saladin offered a truce once. Why can’t he offer another? Please, don’t go.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Saladin seeks to undo all we have built. He’s scared, Luceria. That's why he made his offer. We only failed because he caught us by surprise, but this time we’ll be prepared. In fact, your father has already spoken with Master Odo. The Templars ride to meet us at Tiberias as we speak.”

Was this meant to comfort her?

A campaign. Again. And she would remain in Jerusalem waiting while he marched into danger. He had survived the last battle, yes, but as she learned in the past few weeks survival was never promised.

“No.” She yanked her arm towards herself, but he held her wrists and she had no strength to pull away.

“Stop it. I know you’re scared but you need to trust me.” He looked her dead in the eye. “I’m coming back to you. You know I have to do this. You knew when you married me. Please. Don’t be upset.” His voice broke as he held her.

Her anger abated slightly. “Do not go, Baldwin! Do not send my father! If you would only propose a truce—”

“You speak as though you have no faith in me. In your father, in the lords, in the Templars! We have faced worse and prevailed, Luceria. Don’t you remember? How I won at Montgisard?” His jaw tightened. But she remembered how she had prayed for days, terrified that he would not come back to her. “I know your heart is heavy with sorrow. But I beg you, do not ask this of me.”

Tears blurred her vision. “How can you say that?”

“I need to do this, Lucy. For as long as I can ride into battle, I will. I cannot be convinced otherwise.”

She turned her face away from him and pulled her wrist from his grasp. He released her, and she ran away, her feet carrying her up and out of the catacombs.

Chapter Text

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 30 May 1179

Luceria was still most decidedly upset with her husband. But no matter the sharpness of her temper, no amount of resentment could alter the course of events: Baldwin would still ride north to battle. And so, rather than languish in Jerusalem, biting her nails over news that would take weeks to arrive, she had insisted on accompanying him and her father as far as Tiberias.

Konrad, her tutor, had accompanied them as well. He was a slight thing, limping with a bit of a stutter, but he was more knowledgeable in the art of ledgers and land than many of the lords in the court. She would need him in the time spent in the city while Baldwin was away. And it was much easier to not be upset with her husband when her mind was preoccupied by other things.

“Y-y-your Grace,” He was hesitant as always, but was truly unable to let the error pass unchecked. He cleared his throat. “F-forgive me, but…This figure appears….erm. Doubled. Have you p-perhaps added it twice by accident?”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“I-I would never imply incompetence, Your Highness, only…” He traced the line with a careful finger. “This sum…Should it not… be halved?”

Her cheeks flushed with shame. “Yes, you are quite correct, Konrad.” She scratched the wax tablet, trying to fix her mistake and nearly dropped the stylus. “Thank you for catching the error.”

“It is n-nothing, Your Highness.” He shifted uncomfortably on the thin cushion she had placed on the wooden stool for him. Standing for long hours was quite hard for a man with a limp. “If…If I may, Your Highness, is-is there something on your m-mind? You have m-made two errors in this ledger alone.”

“Well…” He was right. Luceria bit her lip. There were few people she could be candid with, and Konrad was as trustworthy as they came. “My father rides to battle. As does my husband. I just…I just believe that this is all avoidable. And they’re pushing the truce out of their minds because it isn’t convenient for them. How can you be so calm, Konrad? Are you not afraid?”

“F-forgive me, Your H-Highness,” He hesitated, “But I f-fear you are mistaken. Saladin is not a c-cruel enemy, b-but he is still an enemy. E-even if terms were o-offered, peace would be…pre-precarious. What His Highness…What His Highness does now, it is not for n-now but for g-generations.”

Luceria sighed, tapping her stylus against the tablet. “It’s still such a gamble. I can’t help but wonder if we could have just spent the resources elsewhere.”

“B-but if it s-succeeds, it would have all been worth the r-risk, Your Highness.” He countered slowly, and she would not interrupt him. She never did. “But the King…The King can-cannot retreat now. If Saladin continues like th-this, so many more vi-villages will be bled dry by the raids…and w-with this drought. There will be n-nothing left to f-fight over.”

“I suppose.” She murmured, her shoulders slumping. She wanted to discuss her problems, not be reasoned with. She’s had enough of that from everyone else. “Let us continue counting. I want to finish the ledgers for the day. It is nearly supper, and we should be down soon before they send someone up.”

“Yes, Y-Your Highness.” Konrad replied.

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 2 June 1179

The War Council had at last concluded, and Baldwin was ready to retreat to his chambers. Matters had unfolded rather gratifyingly in accordance with his plans, and Lord Aimery (newly installed as Constable upon Lord Raynald’s recommendation) appeared to be settling into his duties quite nicely. To say that his appointment was well-received was an overstatement, but there was none who were vehemently opposed to him either.

Baldwin wanted nothing more than to sleep. He declined when Hugh of Saint Omer and the other men gleefully invited him to share a drink. But he missed his wife’s company desperately and so he sought to retire early. He had nearly escaped to the sanctuary of his chambers when Lord Raynald called, stopping him in the corridors.

“You allowed her to come with you. That was your first mistake.”

“Pardon?” Baldwin blinked, confused.

“My daughter,” the Lord of Kerak exhaled, as though trying to find the right things to say, not to his King but to the man who married his daughter. “I am hardly surprised she convinced you to let her travel here. But grief has no place in a war camp. I saw you today; your mind was elsewhere. She is distracting you.”

This, Baldwin couldn’t deny (at least, not entirely). Luceria, though still very much unhappy with him, had not barred him from her bed. They even made small conversation whenever they were together. It was awkward to be sure, and she still did not quite meet his eyes just yet, but by the end of the day, he still slept better than ever.

The tension was wearing on him though. She grieved; he could not fix it. She was angry at her helplessness, and he, in turn, felt helpless to comfort her.

“Do not misunderstand me. I know my daughter is…difficult. But she needs to be returned to Jerusalem. And her husband must focus on the matters at hand.” Raynald de Chatillon continued. “You, of all people, cannot afford to get distracted. She will never stop crying if you give her more things to be worried about.”

His face heated. “I apologize if you believe that to be so. But your daughter is not an inconvenience to me.”

“Pah.” Raynald snorted. “I know her temperament, better than you do, I daresay. She is as headstrong as her mother, and twice as prone to tears than any of her sisters. But, here she is now, and so, regrettably is her husband. Her husband who is also the King and must attend to the matters at hand.” He rubbed his auburn beard. “Unless, of course, there is another reason you’ve performed so poorly in training these past weeks?”

Baldwin stiffened. “I don’t understand what you mean, Lord Raynald.”

“You cannot afford to be distracted, boy.” Raynald scolded, “Not now of all times. Return her to Jerusalem, and in the name of prudence, consider whether you want to return with her. Outremer needs its rulers. Alive and functioning.”

Baldwin gritted his teeth. “Luceria is not the cause of whatever failings you perceive.”

“Then what is it?” Raynald pressed. “Your condition?”

The king swallowed hard. “I am still strong enough to fight, Lord Raynald. My mind is not compromised. I will not have you question my judgement and undermine my rule.”

Raynald sneered. “Undermine your rule? You speak of your rule. As if that is all this is. You are the king, and it is good that you remember this. But it does not matter. Luceria does not belong here. She is too tenderhearted for war. So if you insist upon riding out, ensure you ride back. Or do you think her grief would be improved by widowhood?”

For the span of a breath, Baldwin considered telling him the truth. That he, too, feared it. Feared the numbness in his hands and legs, the creeping fatigue he could no longer shake. That he dreaded a single misstep costing him everything. More than Lord Humphrey’s death, more than the ambush at Banias.

But he was still the King. And if he could not fight, what was he to his people besides the leper, the invalid on the throne?

Barely alive? Barely functioning?

“Thank you for your counsel,” he said, inclining his head just enough to pass for civility. “I shall take it under advisement.”

Raynald’s answering look suggested advised and heeded were two very different things.

Baldwin did not linger to argue.

—

In the dark, he found Luceria already lost to slumber when he stole silently into their chambers. He smiled sadly at the way she was curled up against his pillow, as though missing his presence in her sleep. To be parted from her now…No. He would not think of it. He undressed himself quietly, then slipped into bed beside her, careful not to disturb her rest.

“I’m sorry, my love.” He murmured quietly into the darkness, “The council passed smoothly. Everything is going according to plan, I think.”

She stirred at his words, but did not wake. Baldwin sighed and closed his eyes, pulling the covers over them.

“Your father,” He admitted, almost amused with Lord Raynald’s candidness, “Speaks the strangest things. He’s rather callous, but he loves you, even if it’s in his own peculiar, infuriating way.”

He reached for her hand, and in her sleep she laced her fingers through his. “I love you so much, Lucy. I wish I could spare you this. I want nothing more than to comfort you. To have you look at me again as you once did. And I hope that when I return, you will be proud of me.” He kissed her gloved knuckles, and she held his hand tighter.

“Good night, my love.” He murmured, before drifting off to sleep.

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 7 June 1179

Luceria had barely taken two steps towards her meeting with Konrad when she turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with Count Raymond of Tripoli’s scarred eye. Out of nervous habit, she dropped her head quickly as she saw him and stepped to the side. “Count Raymond.”

“Please, My Queen.” He nodded in acknowledgement, bowing deeply before her. It was odd to say the least, to be bowed to by someone who knew Bohemond better than she did, someone that had shared more of his life, and of his childhood, his wars. Someone who knew him in the years where she did not. “How are you finding Galilee?”

“Very pleasant,” She admitted. “Though I admit, I’ve seen little of it beyond these walls. And the heat…is rather oppressive. Especially at midday.”

“This summer has been particularly hot,” He agreed. “It seems to affect us all in different ways.”

Luceria watched him. It was unlikely that the Count was speaking to her just to make pleasant conversation. This was the man who had once persuaded the Count of Flanders to abandon Baldwin’s campaign, yet had also defended her before the entire court during her dowry negotiations. He was a curious individual, but his motives were not entirely clear to her.

“I pray that we do not suffer from the lack of rain.” She ventured.

“As do I.” He paused, studying her carefully. “Have you been given a proper tour of the castle, My Queen?”

“Not yet, My Lord.” She clasped her hands demurely in front of her. “Everyone has been so busy, I should hate to impose.”

“I have some free time at the moment,” He said. “Allow me to rectify that oversight.”

She bit her lip, “Only if it does not inconvenience you. I am expected by Master Konrad—”

“Then I shall be quick,” he promised her, and offered her his arm.

—

This was the longest conversation they had ever shared.

He had lead her to the northern wall, where water from the lake flowed into a moat. She had noticed it when they first arrived, but had not truly seen it until now. Half-bathed in the heat of the sun, the dark water was steady and calm and deceptively deep. She leaned over the wall, peering down to the bottom. She couldn’t see the end. Just like her grief.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” The Count began, “How it can all seem so peaceful at the surface, yet beneath is an unknown.”

“It’s rather unsettling, to tell the truth,” Luceria admitted, withdrawing from the edge and stepping away. Too many Omens, she thought. Too many things to worry about. “We must count our blessings for the days we are able to enjoy such beauty.”

“God has been merciful to us here.” He said softly in response. “Tiberias is a legacy, My Queen. When my stepsons come of age, I hope they learn to love this land more than I ever did. To have something that lasts, something to build upon. Something for their sons and their sons to cherish as well, you understand?”

He guided her attention to the carvings along the gateposts, relics from some ancient synagogue, long since abandoned by the time the castle had been built. Luceria traced the mason’s ‘V’ mark with her gloved fingertips, then studied the worn symbols in the stone. “The King, too, is concerned for the future,” she murmured, understanding his true meaning.

“Of course he is,” Raymond agreed. “We all are. We must be mindful of the cost, and of the reward.”

She looked at him. “You speak from experience, I suppose, having fought for so many years already.”

“I have seen much in my lifetime, My Queen. Not all of it has been good.”

“I fear war. But I am afraid that I have not seen the worst of it.” She sighed. It was refreshing to speak so candidly, though she knew better than to be too bold. The Count of Tripoli was Bohemond's friend, yes, but to her, she was still unsure.

“Aye,” He paused, “I cannot imagine how worried you must feel. My sincerest condolences for the Constable and dearest Philippa. She was well-liked and deeply loved.”

“Thank you.” Her voice cracked and she looked out over the fields. “It feels like yesterday and forever, both at once.”

“That’s the nature of grief. And I imagine there is little to distract one in these times.”

“And now we go to war again,” she murmured quietly. “You will ride with my husband’s armies, will you not?”

He chuckled, “Aye, Your Grace. Though I confess, I wish we might have settled matters without such… finality.”

She knew well that Count Raymond had been one of the few voices urging peace with Saladin. Her father had dismissed his hesitations of the Chastelet as mere avarice, a lord fretting over his coffers rather than his honor. But the Count had always insisted the Sultan was not beyond reason.

“How would you have negotiated it?” Luceria asked curiously.

“With humility, Your Highness,” he replied, “Saladin is not a monster. I would have offered him terms.”

“What sort of terms would you propose?”

“Terms that neither insulted his dignity, nor our own.” He answered. “Even if it is only temporary, an alliance can benefit both parties. I would have accepted the Sultan’s offer, and made an effort to understand his position, as I would hope he would understand us. There is much good that could come of compromise and much less so provocation.”

“You think differently from the other Lords.” Luceria said, and immediately bit her tongue. It was not her place to pass judgment on her elders. But the Count was looking at her so thoughtfully.

“Your Grace, what do you think?”

She faltered. It was not that she didn’t have an opinion, but more that she was not accustomed to being asked for one. To voice agreement would be disloyal to her husband; to disagree, unwise. There were few souls she trusted without reservation, and Count Raymond, despite his kindness, was not among them. She thought of Philippa. She would have known exactly what to say.

“Peace would be preferable, in any case,” Luceria murmured, “To war.”

He smiled at her. “Indeed. We share this sentiment, then.”

Luceria nodded, and looked out at the moat, at the water below. Dark and deep, just like her worries. “I hope that we don’t lose anyone else this time,” she said softly. “And that when we are triumphant, I hope the Sultan will see that we are merciful. Perhaps, we will have peace then. God willing.”

“I pray that is so,” Raymond replied, though he was not very convincing. They both watched the lake, and his thoughts were far from her. “But…Should…the worst happen, the Haute Cour will look to you, Your Highness.” Count Raymond swallowed, “I trust that, in such an event, your counsel will remain prudent. For the good of the realm.”

She met his gaze and felt her stomach fall in the face of his implication. “What do you mean by that, My Lord?”

“We have lost too many people, My Queen,” He replied. “Now the King rides to war when diplomacy might yet spare us. I speak only as a servant of Jerusalem. As you say, peace is our greatest need. And a wise ruler prepares for every possibility, does she not?”

“My husband will come back to me.” She said firmly. Too quickly. But there was an uncertainty in the pit of her stomach. What if he did not?

“Your Grace, no one is questioning your devotion. Only that perhaps…Were God to call the King to him, and yourself left alone…The most prudent course would be to ensure the succession remains secure.”

She swallowed hard. She had only been married two months, with most of it spent in mourning, and now she must plan for her husband’s demise? “You are speaking of remarriage?”

“Not for you,” He corrected carefully, “But Countess Sibylla and later, Princess Isabella. Their matches must be made with care. Jerusalem cannot afford division.”

She bit her lip. The Count was correct, but to discuss this felt like treason. Yet something told her to remain silent and listen. “Do you have candidates in mind, Count Raymond?”

“Baudouin of Ibelin,” he said, too readily. “A good man who truly knows Outremer and her interests. Lady Sibylla would not be unhappy to wed him, I think. They have spent some time together. The girl favors him, I am told.”

“Oh?” Luceria felt her head spinning, “Your counsel is... noted, my lord. Though I pray such plans remain unnecessary.”

“As do we all, Your Grace.” He bowed, “Godspeed.”

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 8 June 1179

Count Raymond’s thoughts had festered in her mind all night, his concerns rooting into her thoughts like some kind of worm. Sleep had offered her no relief, for even in her dreams, all she could see was the possibility that she might lose Baldwin to battle. So when she woke to find him already dressing for war, her heart convulsed with such violence that she feared she might vomit all over the floor.

For a moment, she simply watched him. She memorized the curls of his golden hair, the clumsy way in which he struggled to clasp his belt around his waist, the healing scabs peeking through the bandages on his face, and the tiredness that seeped through his bright blue eyes. His scarf hung loosely around his neck. She knew Anselm would fasten it properly atop his helmet later, but she would tie it for now, if only to hold him in her arms for another second.

“Lucy,” he turned at the rustle of sheets. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No.” She was already reaching for the fabric, her fingers lingering on his chest. “Let me.”

He indulged her in fragile silence as she fussed with his scarf. It was comforting, this act of dressing him. Pretending for just a single moment that she wasn’t about to send him to battle. “I know I cannot ask you to stay. But I wish you would.”

“We are better prepared this time.” Baldwin promised her. “You need not fret, my love.”

“Be careful,” she pleaded, her fingers resting over his tunic. “Please, Baldwin.”

“Always.”

“You must come back to me.”

He nodded with an awkward smile. “I will. And when it is done, I shall properly show you Galilee. Take you to Nazareth, even. Hosanna would adore it, would she not?”

“Mmm.” Luceria murmured. “Asad as well.”

He squeezed her hand. “We will make a proper adventure about it. Perhaps even to Tripoli. Or Antioch. You promised to show me your home? Remember? The night we met?”

How could she forget?

They were all grand plans, none guaranteed. She needed something tangible, something she could claim as hers before he went away. She pulled on the scarf gently, bringing his head down to hers. Her eyes met his, like glass in the starlight, her breath shaking as he watched her.

“Luceria—Wait.” He protested, knowing what it was that she wanted. Knowing exactly why it was madness. “We can’t.”

But neither illness nor war could take this from her. And if this was to be her last memory of him, then the consequences of it would not matter. “Let the future sort itself out.” She murmured, “Grant me this one kiss, love, and I will hold it in my heart until the end of time.”

Still, he hesitated.

Still, she refused to yield.

And when she closed the final space between them, he did not pull away.

The kiss was gentle.

It was soft.

It was cruel how quickly it was over.

Chapter Text

Tibnīn, 10 June 1179

He pressed a bandaged finger to his lips, the lingering taste of her mouth still sweet upon his tongue. It was madness. But the thought of her lightened the burden of his armor, of his disease, of his title, and for the first time since Banias, Baldwin felt alive, as though God had given him wings so he might fly to the sun.

The council had begun, they camped quietly near where the tomb of Shamgar the judge was said to lie. Baldwin found comfort in that legend, as though an echo of the past stirred in him as he surveyed the map of the Chastelet’s construction, of the very roads the Ayyubids threatened. So too would Baldwin defend his people, his home, and his Queen, as Shamgar must have once stood against the Philistines.

He had no fabled ox goad, but in the palm of his hand, he had something better: an old red ribbon and the hope in which she had kissed him.

God was good. He could not fail.

Dawn bled crimson across the clouds where they met. Before him stood men of war, hardened by years he had hoped to live, and other men who had grown with him in Montgisard. Count Raymond, whose absence in prior conflicts had been a source of quiet contention, now stood amongst them as well. And Master Odo and his Templars completed the assembly.

Yes, Baldwin thought, We are better prepared this time. She would be proud. He straightened his aching shoulders, willing strength into his padded frame. He must do this.

“Sire.” One of the scouts broke the tense quiet. “The Infidels camp near the Litani. Their raiding parties are scattered like rats as we speak. Saladin may not even know we’re upon them.”

“God delivers them to us.” Master Odo stepped forward instantly. “If we strike now, we can rid Outremer of the best of Saladin’s forces, and make him rue the day he marched upon our borders. We must ride out at once.” He demanded.

Lord Raynald stood closer to the King than perhaps protocol dictated. He gave a slight nod, the curls of his greying auburn beard bristling. “A tempting prospect, Master Odo.” He rumbled, his eyes darting towards the council, the usual zeal seeming more tempered by something else, some hesitance, or perhaps concern. His gaze lingered on the bandages that wrapped around the king’s arms. Luceria would have seen the contemplation, but her husband did not. “We are better off waiting for the infidels to come to us.”

The suggestion was not unprecedented, but the men were well-rested and in high spirits, and the scouts suggested that the Ayyubids were spread out. The Templar’s desire to attack was not surprising, given that their forces had the advantage of fortitude and training. And the King did not want to risk dividing their armies and making all of them vulnerable. If they were going to fight, they would do it together.

Count Raymond raised an eyebrow, but he nodded as well. “I agree with Lord Raynald.” He said, words that sounded unnatural coming from his mouth. “Saladin is no fool. He will not have left his main force undefended. Even with the element of surprise, we would still be at risk. I counsel against immediate attack, at least until our intelligence is more complete.”

Aimery de Lusignan, the new Constable was unable to hold his tongue at that, “Must we always wait for the enemy to come to us?” His fists struck the table, “With respect, my lords, those dogs do not yet know that we are here. To delay is to spit upon the graves of those who fell at Banias.” His eyes met Baldwin’s, blazing with the need to correct his predecessor’s sacrifice. “Let me lead the vanguard, sire.”

Master Odo nodded. “The Constable speaks wisdom. The longer we wait, the stronger he will grow. I urge you to reconsider, sire. Remember Montgisard. Remember what boldness won you then.”

The words burned, but William had taught him too well to let the pain show. His mind was already clouded with the thoughts of Banias, of Lord Humphrey. Of her grief. His heart was already racing with the taste of her, the promise of her. God help him, he would not fail. He could not. Redemption was a few hours away, if only he had the courage to reach out and seize it.

“I am of Master Odo and Constable Aimery’s mind.” Baldwin declared. “Saladin must learn that he cannot strike our people with impunity. His raiders are vulnerable now, and we are more than well-rested and prepared. We have the Templars and the most seasoned warriors by our side.” His eyes locked with those of his friends and compatriots, “This is our opportunity. This time, we shall take them by surprise.”

Raymond sighed, “I pray Your Highness has weighed the dangers with the utmost care. But,” he added, bowing his head reluctantly, “I will follow my King.”

Raynald remained silent, watching the young King’s back as the men dispersed to prepare their forces for battle. His eyes narrowed. He could not quite decide if he was pleased or disconcerted. It was not often he found himself aligned with Tiberias, after all. Rarer still that he doubted his own instincts.

Yet doubt he did.

Marj Ayyun, 10 June 1179

A surge of pride left his heart soaring with each galloping stride forward as they emerged from the battle lines victorious. The plains of Marj Ayyun stretched wide as the harsh midday sun blazed above them. And while summer had been particularly cruel to Outremer, God had granted them mercy once again, and they had emerged from the fray without any major casualties.

The True Cross glittered in the sunlight, bold and beautiful as it had been during Montgisard. Back then, the cross was the beacon of the Divine Grace that had allowed them to achieve such an impossible victory. And today, it brought them comforting success.

The skirmish had been short. Brutally so. They had charged into the valley where the Infidels were encamped and caught off-guard. It was almost satisfying, seeing the way the Ayyubids scrambled in surprise, trying to assemble any sort of force to combat them. But nothing was good enough. Saladin’s forces were scattered and leaderless without him. The Franks had made short work of his men, breaking their forces apart, and then routing what remained of the Sultan’s army.

But there were still prisoners to be dealt with. The ransom for the nobles and generals would be substantial, but the common soldiers would not fetch much coin, and would cost even more to feed and house. It was better to send them to the slave markets at Tripoli and be done with them, but Baldwin was not eager to do so.

Yet once the Chastelet would be ready, Saladin would no longer be able to pillage and raid their settlements the way he did. He could not bear the idea of any more of their villages falling to the Ayyubid’s forces. Constable Humphrey would have been proud, Baldwin thought. The King was doing everything he could to ensure his death had not been in vain.

His sacrifice would be worth something.

“The Templars have set up their tents, and Lord Balian’s men have secured the camp’s perimeter. Our knights have been fed, and everyone is exhausted but…” Anselm informed him with a growing smile. “I have not seen the morale of our men this high since Montgisard.” He paused. “It is an admirable victory, Your Highness.”

Baldwin allowed himself the moment of satisfaction. “Thank you, Anselm. You have served me well today.” His heart was still racing. And the rush of the adrenaline, of the victory, of Luceria, all burned in him. He could almost believe he was well again, just as strong as he had been in the summers that have passed. Was it her kiss? Or the promise of many more like it?

The squire smiled, bowing his head. “I am at your disposal, Your Majesty. I was told not to disturb you until you called for me, but you must be hungry, and there is food. Would you care to eat now?”

“Yes, I think I might.”

“Excellent. Come. The men are waiting to celebrate.”

—

The war council was in good spirits when it met at sunset. The men were chatting and jesting amongst each other, and even Lord Raynald and Count Raymond seemed pleased with the outcome of their skirmish. Master Odo was almost jovial, despite the Templars’ usual stoic nature. Lord Baudouin of Ibelin and Hugh of Saint Omer had even lead patrols to ensure that the remaining Ayyubids had fled, and the Franks were now in control of Marj Ayyun, having set up camp in the center of the valley.

In celebration, Baldwin had permitted his men to drink. Wine was passed around and his shaky fingers cramped around the stem. Alcohol did little to distract him from the growing numbness in his body, but that was never an excuse to not take a sip or two from his chalice.

“To our King,” Lord Aimery declared, raising his goblet to toast. He had also proven himself that day. “Who has once again led us to victory!”

The men clanked their cups together and drank in his honor. Baldwin smiled. He was not sure if it was the alcohol, or just the relief from the battle, but he felt lighter. Happier, even. When he would return to her arms in Tiberias, she would not have any more reason to cry.

A selfish part of him desired to ask her for another kiss, but the more honorable half of him shied from the idea. Her affections would come at the cost of her health; if she were to become sick, it would be his fault.

But how his heart yearned. Lying next to her each night had become more tempting than anything else he had ever known. Every evening spent by her side was a blissful sort of torture he could not describe. Especially now that he had tasted paradise.

Abruptly, he rose. His thoughts had wandered into dangerous territory again, and the wine had left him much too warm. “Forgive me,” he said, “But I find myself in need of air. I shall return directly.”

One of the Lords made a crude comment about a chamber pot, eliciting a round of laughter that trailed after Baldwin as he stepped away from the tent. The sky was the color of saffron now, the heat of the day finally fading into the desert, giving way to something that was actually pleasant. There was thunder in the distance; and perhaps tonight they might actually have some rain.

He wouldn’t be gone for too long. He just needed some time to calm his raising heart and get all his thoughts in order. There was still much planning to be done. They had to think about their next steps, and what treaty they might propose to Saladin while they held the upper hand. His wife deserved no less than a kingdom at peace, and he meant to see it done.

The soft snorts of grazing horses drew his attention. Baldwin walked towards Asad who lifted his head as he approached. He stroked the stallion’s soft nose gently, “Hello, my friend,” he murmured, and Asad huffed in response. “Thank you, for today.” The King gave him an absent-minded pat, and then sighed, watching the sunset. “God help me, I miss her.”

He kept his eye on the horizon. Red clouds met red earth, matching the ribbon tied around his belt. Lost to his own thoughts, he realized everything made him think of her. Asad nudged his shoulder. “I know,” he said, almost apologetically. “I should not be distracted, but…It is harder than it looks. She is…” He shook his head. “No, you do not understand. You cannot.”

Asad snorted, and he laughed at himself for thinking that his horse might understand. “I should return to the council.” But instead of leaving, Baldwin remained where he was, reluctant to part with the company of one being who would never judge him.

There was a faint twinkle beyond the clouds that was then followed by the sound of thunder. Baldwin thought it was odd to see stars so early in the night when the sun had yet to vanish, but as he watched, he soon realized they were not stars. They were campfires, hundreds of them, like the sky itself had caught fire and fallen to earth.

And the thunder that had roared was not the voice of God, but the footsteps of an army. The pounding of drums, of war chants, and the golden flags of Saladin’s dynasty.

His guards were conspicuously absent, and Asad was still tacked. “It’s-it’s alright,” He tried to soothe the horse as he grasped the reins, but his damned legs buckled as he tried to mount. Metal clanged as he slipped, his knees striking the sand.

“To Arms!” A soldier screamed. “SARACENS. TO ARMS!”

Knights stumbled from their tents, half-drunk and fumbling for their swords as Baldwin clambered to drag his beast by the reins, forcing Asad to trot back towards the camp. His men were scrambling in formation as more of the Infidels came from the hillside. The Franks had just fought and won one of the most important battles of their time, and now the Infidels were riding down on their position.

The Ayyubid cavalry charged through their ranks. Scimitars were raised, the mares they mounted causing the Franks’ warhorses to lose their nerve. Their camp was not ready, and their men had not even gotten into their positions before the enemy started to cut them down.

Baldwin clung to Asad’s bridle, his feet tripping over each other as he struggled to find his footing in the dirt. The stallion whickered nervously as the sound of hooves drew closer.

“Asad, come on—” He pleaded. “We have to help.”

The pain in his left hand had become so intense that he could barely move it anymore. The world was spinning around him and he was losing his grip on reality.

But he would not lose his grip on Asad’s reins.

He was shaking as he fumbled to pull the stirrup, trying desperately to get his foot into it. He tried to jump, throwing his waist against the saddle, but to no avail. He could almost feel her hands on him in that moment. Her eyes. Her lips. She should not have kissed him, he thought, but she did. She did. God help him, she did.

“Please,” he begged. To the horse, to her, to God. His voice cracked. “I need to fight.”

He could hear the screams of his men. Of dying men, of wounded men, of frightened horses. Of arrows, and swords. The sight of fire. Fire. The Ayyubids were burning their camp, and the smell was growing worse. Smoke seeping into his nostrils. His knights were rallying, throwing themselves between him and the slaughter, just as they had at Banias. Dying for a king who couldn’t even mount his damned horse.

“Come on,” He raised his leg and kicked at the ground. The armor was heavy, but surely he was stronger.

“Please!” He jumped, his left knee hitting the saddle, and the pain blinded him for just one second. Long enough for the reins to slip from his fingers, and for Asad to rear, knocking him to the ground.

He gasped, “Asad. Calm down!” He tried to reach out for the stallion, for the reins, for anything. But there was nothing in his grasp but the earth. The stallion screamed, striking at the sky as Saracens drew closer.

“ASAD.” He screamed, trying to force himself off the dirt and stand. “ASAD PLEASE.”

Strong arms seized him from behind, hauling him up with brutal urgency. “We need to move.” Lord Raynald’s voice was harsh and urgent. Baldwin fought to break free.

There were shouts, and the clang of swords, and the hiss of fire. But his eyes were on Asad.

“ASAD!” He screamed. “LET ME GO. LET ME GO. ASAD!”

Raynald hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Your life matters more, boy!”

“NO! PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN.” Baldwin tried to struggle, but his legs were already starting to feel numb. “ASAD. PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE. NO. I CAN FIGHT. I NEED TO FIGHT. PLEASE. PUT ME DOWN. PUT ME DOWN. NO. ASAD. ASAD. ASAD.”

Asad’s screams were as desperate as his own. But Raynald’s grip did not yield. The Lord of Kerak carried the King, even as the boy struggled against him, even as he screamed. Baldwin watched the chestnut Arabian disappear into the fading sun; his hands outstretched, his fingers grasping, his voice growing hoarse with every cry. But the distance between them only grew and grew until it became insurmountable.

Chapter Text

Beaufort Castle, 17 June 1179

The Castle of Beaufort stood immutable, as if the long years since Count Raymond of Tripoli had last seen her weathered stones had been but a fleeting moment. With a quiet exhale, he allowed the valley to unfold beneath him, the sun-washed hills of the Levant stretching far beyond its ramparts. Below, the limping remnants of his forces still trickled through the gates, but his scarred-eye sought only one among them: his son.

Hugh was the eldest of his stepchildren. A man fully grown, just a hair shorter than he. His olive complexion spoke of his mother’s Latin blood, but his unruly brown hair was entirely his own. Eschiva had always been fiercely protective of him, and over the years so too did Raymond grow to care for the lad. They were only ten years apart in age, and so their bond had always been less that of a father and a son and more akin to a seasoned knight and his protégé.

The castle had become a haven for the shattered and suffering. For days, men had staggered through its gates. Beaufort was only four miles from Marj Ayyun, and now the tables in the courtyard were piled high with the wounded and the dying, groaning beneath the hot summer sun. Raymond had been among the first of the men to escape when Saladin’s forces ambushed their camp, knowing that any moment could mean his capture.

He had already been once imprisoned. For nearly a decade in the hands of Nur ad-Din. Those who had once lost the taste of freedom were loathe to sacrifice it again. Count Raymond of Tripoli had no desire to return to captivity.

Lord Raynald de Chatillon had also returned. He had stumbled into the castle three days prior, his armor covered in blood and muck, and his arms swollen from carrying the King and bearing the weight of his plate. That the Lord of Kerak had survived was no surprise; the man had all the stubborn endurance of the roaches that crawled over the walls of the keep. The King, on the other hand, had not fared so well. The boy had fallen ill after their retreat, and he had yet to recover.

“It’s still too soon to give up hope.” Balian’s voice was gentle. Raymond had not heard him approach.

“He still hasn’t come.” Raymond replied, his scarred eye twitching. “I sent him out to scout.”

Balian sighed, “My brother is among the missing too, but we should not lose heart just yet. It’s possible that they were separated. You know as well as I that there were many who fled in different directions.”

Raymond shook his head, his eyes still searching the horizon. “They should have made it back by now.”

The Lord of Ibelin placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, guiding him away from the wall. “Come,” he coaxed, “There are many others that have not returned either. All we can do is pray and prepare our coffers for the ransom demands.”

Beaufort Castle, 1 July 1179

“It will be some time before you walk again, Your Majesty. And riding…” The Hospitaller brother hesitated, his hands stilling as they wound the bandage about the king’s right foot. “I am sorry. I wish I had better news.”

The numbness in his body had only gotten worse after the battle, and now, Baldwin could barely feel anything in his foot at all. The pain in his leg had been excruciating for the days since he awoke, and when his limbs finally stopped hurting, he thought that he had finally recovered.

But the truth was much crueler than he had anticipated.

“A cane may aid your mobility,” Brother Armengol continued, ever pragmatic. “And the sores on your back and legs are healing well. But I must warn you that there’s likely irreversible nerve damage. There is only so much that can be done, Your Majesty. Being out in the heat for as long as you were only exacerbated your condition. With the proper care, you may yet live with dignity.”

The King did not say anything in response. He could only stare at the man, his eyes empty and hollow. The world around him was spinning, and his mind was in disarray. He did not know how long he was out for, but it had taken them nearly two weeks to nurse him back to consciousness.

“We are grateful that you are still with us, Your Majesty. Remember that in the face of this great loss. God’s plan is mysterious, but it is not without reason.”

Baldwin nodded, his voice still shaky. “Thank you, Brother Armengol.” His voice was hoarse. But he knew the man deserved some sort of recognition, at least for his efforts. “You may leave now.”

As the Hospitaller departed, Anselm stepped forward from the corner of the room, kneeling at the side of his bed. “Your Highness.” He murmured. “I am sorry.”

Baldwin sighed, turning his face away from the squire. “It is no fault of yours.” For who could have known the cost of pride? Who could have known that all of his courage had been naught but folly and weakness?

Anselm sighed, “Your Majesty...”

“I couldn’t even mount my own horse, Anselm.”

Anselm said nothing to that. There was nothing to say.

At last, Baldwin swallowed, forcing the question past his throat. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Anselm swallowed as he sat on the stool next to the King’s bed, clasping his hands together. He couldn’t look his Lord in the eye. “We were unable to recover Asad, Your Majesty.”

Baldwin inhaled sharply. He had known. Of course he had known. But knowing and hearing it aloud were different things.

The squire continued. Listing names of the fallen, the captured. Master Odo. Baudouin of Ibelin. Hugh of Tiberias. All prisoners waiting for ransom.

“Send word to Luceria,” the king said finally. “I am alive. That is enough.”

The King’s orders would be followed. Always. He knew Anselm would do well to obey him, and his stepfather’s stewards who guarded Beaufort would see to his needs until he was recovered. But he also knew that his Queen would weep again tonight, and that there was nothing that he could do to stop the sorrow from spreading across Outremer.

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 7 July 1179

She read his letter at least five times for every night that he had not returned. Every day was the same, with only the words on those pages to keep her company. She prayed a little harder, the wood of the rosary beads indenting her palms until her hands were red and covered in circular marks. She sat at the window of the castle, watching the sun go down, watching the horizon, watching the sea, waiting to see the King’s banners at the gates.

The waiting was agony.

Yet though she longed for Miriam to bring her meals in solitude, though she ached to be left alone with her worry, Luceria was no longer merely a princess in love. For she was now the Queen. And she had to serve as a symbol of strength for the Kingdom, and hope for the people, even if she had very little left of it for herself.

The morning began like any other; the bells of the church rang and the sounds of the fortress came to life. She sat among widows and maidens, breaking her fast with grace and tears stiffly held back. Fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, and friends—most whose fates were still unknown. And Luceria knew that she must keep her own heartbreak silent for their sakes. At least Baldwin still lived, though wounded, though unable to stand. But what comfort was that when so many others would never see home again? She found it hard to eat, but she did so to keep her strength. She would need it, if he would not be returning to her anytime soon.

After breakfast, she swept from the hall, her shawl draped over her arms as she moved toward the courtyard to oversee the distribution of alms. This had become her daily ritual, to pray in the chapel and then to go outside and give charity to those who needed it most. She would meet the indignant at the gates and bring them prayers, rations, and coin. The people watched, murmuring, as their sovereign served those even more wretched than she.

But as she passed through the corridors, the sound of sobs caught her attention. At the foot of the stairs lay the Lady Eschiva, Countess of Tripoli and Princess of Galilee. Luceria was not well acquainted with the woman. But the sight of her wiping away tears stopped her.

“My lady?” she said gently, stepping closer. “What grieves you?”

The older woman looked up. “Ah. It is nothing, Your Highness.” She bowed her head, but did not rise to her feet. “Please, do not concern yourself.”

But Luceria was already kneeling beside her, offering the Princess her handkerchief. “Please. Let me help, if I can.”

“My son.” Eschiva shuddered. The words were scraped raw from her throat. Rage. Desperation. Fear. All of it bled into her voice. “To be taken—to be held captive—!” She choked, and Luceria squeezed her hand. “In that infidel’s hands—!”

Luceria held her tongue. There was no comfort to offer. To be captured, was to live at the will of one’s enemies. And to be held for ransom, was to live at the will of one’s allies. And in this moment, the woman feared for the fate of her child. “God will not abandon him.”

Eschiva swallowed her tears. “If He is merciful,” Lady Eschiva breathed, her words shaking. But it was clear she was still struggling with her faith. There had been no ransom demands yet. Nothing but silence from the Sultan and the men he had captured. “Whatever the price is, Galilee will pay it. Whatever the cost, I will bear it.” She swore, clutching Luceria’s fingers so hard the Queen felt her bones grinding together. “Will you speak to the King?”

“Of course.” The girl replied, without hesitation. She had no right to deny her. “But it will take some time. He is still very ill, and...” She paused, and then took in the sight of Eschiva. A mother who did not need to hear of the ills that afflicted the King. For the first time, Luceria’s own worries seemed small, almost selfish. At least she knew where her husband was. “My husband is fortunate to have returned to me at all. If I can ease the hearts of others, I am happy to do so.”

For if Luceria could do nothing else, she would try her hardest to make sure that the mothers and the wives and sisters of Outremer were tended to. That their fears were heard. That their concerns were met. And when her King returned to her, she would hold him in her arms, and remind him that he was loved, that he was needed, and that she would be there for him, always.

The Sea Fortress, Tiberias, 15 July 1179

She said nothing to him when he returned, not at first. He could barely look at her, barely choke up the words needed to comfort his wife. She crossed his chambers and walked towards him, her arms winding tightly around his bandaged arms. Baldwin scarcely had the strength to hold himself upright (and perhaps his strength had abandoned him completely), and all he could do was lean into her as her fingers combed through his tangled hair. The last light from sunset fell across the chamber in hues of gold, but Baldwin saw none of it. The King who once burned with fire and fervor now lay broken in the cradle of Luceria’s arms. Everything still ached. His eyes, his body, his mind.

He had never seen such pain reflected in his wife’s face. Never heard her heart break in such silence. And he had caused it. All of it. He could tell by the way she breathed that she was relieved to see him, and yet, he knew that she was not happy. The war was not over, half of his army had been lost, and his failure was all that remained.

She did not ask about Asad. The only soul that had stayed by his side through it all had paid the full price of his pride. And now, the beast was gone, sold off to some tujjaar or butchered on an auction block. Baldwin could not bring himself to mourn him. He did not deserve that grief nor the tears that came from it. All that remained was rage: at himself, at Saladin, and at the God who had cursed him to suffer.

A King that could not command an army was worthless.

“You have returned to me,” Luceria murmured, “Against all hope. God be praised.”

He wanted to tell her how much he had missed her too. That in that moment, her kiss was the one thing that kept him clinging to life despite the agony of it all. How her eyes, the color of the summer seas, was all he could think of when he closed his. How her hair, as bright as the sun, was what he yearned to touch. He wanted to kiss her. This time, he did not want to be gentle.

Instead, he choked out, “I failed.”

Luceria’s expression shifted into a frown, and his heart broke all over again. There was a certainty that had hardened in her gaze, something that was almost like regret. She was too wise not to know the truth of it, and he had no doubt the other nobles had already brought her the news.

“Move over,” she murmured quietly, tugging at the linens that surrounded him. He obeyed, mindful of the bandages binding his torso. When she settled beside him beneath the covers, her forehead nearly touching his, she laced her fingers through his and said, “Tell me.”

And he did. The words stumbled from his lips in such disarray that it was impossible for her to understand him. The battle, the false-triumph. The bright laughter of council before the ambush. Asad’s screams as fire shredded the darkness. The stench of smoke, the smell of blood. Her father’s grip wrenching him back, and how he plunged into oblivion before waking at Beaufort.

But the memories were incoherent. And there were moments that stood out to him more than others.

Asad’s leather reins in his hands, but he could not mount, not with his legs the way they were. His left arm, the way it had burned when he tried to pull himself onto the horse, the way his knee had struck the saddle. The way he had screamed when the stallion reared and threw him into the dirt. The Ayyubids, on their mares, their scimitars flashing under the red sky. The sky ablaze, the campfires. The ground, the way the sand felt between his fingers, the pounding of the hooves on the earth.

“You are still with me.” She murmured. Her voice was soft. Her touch was gentle. She was always gentle. “I’m here.”

“I failed!” His voice broke. “I lost Asad—my men—I can’t even walk.”

She shushed him, holding him as tightly as she could without causing him pain. “It will be alright. I promise you, Baldwin. Everything will be alright.”

The words were almost foreign to his ears. But she said them over and over again. Until his breaths had calmed, and he had fallen silent. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but never fell. He wiped them away. If he had died out there he would have never held her again. He would never have felt the silk of her hair. But now she was here, and so was he, and God, oh God, she was his.

Oh God. How close it had all been.

“Lucy,” he murmured. His hand lingered in her hair, the curls like wisps of gold. “Lucy.” He repeated, his voice breaking.

“Baldwin,” she breathed in response.

And when their lips met, the world was quiet once again.

And he knew it was reckless to kiss her. But he could not describe the madness that which took over his body as his hands moved to her waist, gripping at the red silks which have plagued him since he laid eyes on her.

Baldwin knew with every fiber of his being that he should stop. It was wrong in all ways known to God and Man to desire her flesh pressed against him. To feel the warmth of her, to feel anything other than the numbness that had consumed him since Marj Ayyun, to touch something—someone— that was alive and breathing, and to hold her close enough that her heart was beating against his palm. He tasted her mouth, he tasted life, and how it made him forget the death and the fire and the screams of the horses and the sound of his own thoughts, screaming. Screaming.

And when he kissed her harder, she did not stop him.

Her mouth opened against his with a sound that was less than innocent, that was needier than the one before. He groaned (God, why did he groan?) as his arms tightened around her, and she was pressed against his body like molten wax. He felt feverish—he had been feverish for weeks now—but this was the kind of heat that pooled in his loins, that left his body wanting. And God, she was so much softer, so much warmer than his imagination had allowed, and his own body was hard and rigid. And it hurt, it hurt to feel anything at all after so much pain, but he did not care. He needed her. God help him, he was going to die if she did stopped, if she did not breathe life back into him.

For all his prayers, Salvation came only in the press of her lips. Guilt would come later. Regret would wash over him like the waves of the sea, and shame would surely follow.

But here and now, it was enough to feel, to want, to taste and to touch and to know that even if he could not walk, even if his hands could not wield his sword, they could still caress her.

Chapter Text

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 8 August 1179

“Fuckin’ hell, ow!” Geoffrey of Le Mans hissed as his commander, Sergeant Rolant of Acre, slapped the back of his head.

“What was that, whelp?” The sergeant growled as he leaned over Geoffrey and glowered at him. His thick, bushy eyebrows formed an intimidating line above dark eyes that seemed to pierce the soul of any young recruit that dared meet his stare.

“Only that it stung, Sarge,” Geoffrey muttered, lowering his head as much as possible without being too obvious about not wanting to maintain eye contact. True, he had fallen asleep at his post, but he had no intention of letting the Sarge know for sure. God knew Geoffrey already had enough troubles without the man breathing down his neck: sweating his arse off in this cursed desert, swinging a sword for a leper king who hadn’t the good sense to die quietly, all while the memory of France taunted him like an itch he could not scratch.

So, he chose to act as though nothing was wrong and that he was awake the whole time. But Rolant was not a man to be so easily deceived.

“Do you take me for a fool, you mewling turd!” The Sergeant roared as he reached forward and shoved Geoffrey off of the small stool he had been sitting on for the past several hours. “I saw your head against the wall, you little shite! The fuckin’ wall! You’re supposed to be watching the fuckin’ gate, and your head is against the wall!” The sergeant ranted as he grabbed Geoffrey by the front of his gambeson and yanked him to his feet, then proceeded to shove him toward the edge of the guard post where he was expected to keep watch.

“There. That’s the view that should be filling your eyes, not the back of your head.” Rolant muttered. “Fucking useless cunt.”

“I was only resting my eyes, Sarge. Honest.” Geoffrey asserted, still unwilling to admit that he had, in fact, done the exact opposite of that. Bloody hell. In another life, he should’ve been at the court, sucking on some fat nobleman’s tit for milk and silver. If he was more quick-witted, more handsome, and blessed with a silver tongue, he might have been in Tiberias, dancing with the daughter of a nobleman while the court celebrated the Queen’s nameday.

That was a life worth living. Not this sweaty purgatory of watch-duty and Rolan’s dusty boot up his arse.

The lad often thought about what it’d be like to get close to one of those noblewomen; one, in particular, who had dark hair and was just as old as he.

She smelled like roses.

He saw her once, on the Sabbath, at church in Nazareth, when she was visiting. It was just one quick glance, but it was enough to imprint her image in his mind forever. The way she smiled and looked around the cathedral, just over the heads of the congregation, made him wonder what she would look like smiling at him. Her veil billowed lightly from the wind blowing in through the doors as her servants did their best to shield her from the sun and keep the dust away. She glanced at him once. Just once. And he thought for sure that he would die on the spot.

If he only had the courage to speak to her, then he would not be here, in this God-awful land, fighting for some pious, leper king who had more faith than common sense. But he didn’t have the courage, and here he was, with Sergeant Rolant’s angry, fat finger pointing in his face.

“Mark me boy,” The sargeant snarled, “If you ever fall asleep on your watch again, I will cut your balls off and wear ‘em for earrings. See if I don’t.”

Geoffrey nodded, keeping his eyes locked onto Rolant’s, determined not to give away any indication that the sergeant was scaring the living shite out of him.

“Sorry, Sarge,” Geoffrey said as Rolant backed away and let go of his gambeson. He tried his best not to stumble as he regained his footing.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Rolant warned as he started to walk back to the gatehouse.

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 13 August 1179

“They say he can’t walk no more,” Henri of Bagras said, his French piss-poor and difficult to understand, as if he had only just learned the language yesterday while he was shoveling horse shit from the stable. “Carried ‘round like a babe. Imagine that, huh? A king who can’t stand on his own two feet like some kind of cripple.”

The other men in the barracks grunted. Some nodded. Most ignored him, having become accustomed to Henri’s tiresome ramblings. The man had nothing better to do with his time than to spread gossip amongst his fellow soldiers.

Geoffrey of Le Mans kept his eyes focused on his sword and whetstone, slowly moving the stone along the length of the blade as he listened to Henri prattle on about the king. Since the loss at Marj Ayyun, morale had been low amongst the ranks, and Henri was not doing much to improve upon it.

Most of these men had never even met the king. And Geoffrey himself had only seen the fabled leper twice, after all. The first at a skirmish in Damascus when he first arrived at the Holy Land, and then another at Montgisard where the King looked like an incantation of St. George himself as he slew Saladin’s men by the dozens.

Had he not known the sovereign was a leper, Geoffrey would have thought him any normal man. But he was told by the other soldiers that his appearance had taken quite the turn over the last few months. To think such greatness could be reduced to being carried around in the manner of some kind of invalid was depressing, to say the least.

It must’ve been the heat that made it worse.

God’s teeth, this bloody heat.

His mother had sworn that fever thrived in scorched air, though Geoffrey had always been too hale to test the theory. He wondered if she still muttered such things in her little cottage by the Sarthe, weaving remedies for ailments he’d never suffered. Five years it had been since he’d last seen her. Years enough for a boy to grow into a man who (miraculously) still had all his limbs attached, which, as far as maternal comfort went, ought to count for something.

He hated being here. He wished he was anywhere but in this heat. The whole reason he came to the Holy Land was to make his fortune, but there is little fortune to be made if your king does not keep you safe.

“Christ’s hairy arse, Henri,” Sergeant Rolant growled from his cot, where the sergeant laid with his eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. “Don’t you got somethin’ useful to do? Or do they not assign real work where you come from?”

“Just tryin’ to make conversation, Sarge,” Henri responded, taking offense to Rolant’s tone. “No need to get your bollocks in a twist.”

“It’s gossip, you twit,” said Rolant. “Nobody likes gossip but whores and old women. If I wanted to hear it, I’d pay for one of the whores in the brothel or go visit your mother.”

“Leave my mother out of it, bdelyròs,” Henri warned, his eyes narrowing.

Geoffrey chuckled as he watched Henri and Rolant go back and forth. Sometimes the barracks were not so bad. Henri was young and dumb, and Sergeant Rolant was old and bitter. And Geoffrey thought that, perhaps, he was neither. But he did feel old, at least in spirit.

He did not have the enthusiasm for life as Henri and the other new recruits, and he did not have the bitterness that came from years of battle like Rolant and the Templars who stationed themselves in this fortress.

Perhaps twenty-one was too young to feel this way.

Geoffrey sighed as he laid back against his cot, letting his arms dangle over the sides with his grip still firmly on his sword. As he stared up at the ceiling, he listened to the other men in the barracks snoring, or moaning, or bitching and wondered if he would ever find his way out of this place.

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 16 August 1179

He dreamed of her again that night. The dark-haired woman in the Cathedral. Geoffrey wondered if he was losing his mind, dreaming of someone he had never even spoken to, someone so beautiful and regal, who would want nothing to do with a footsoldier like him.

Yet there she was, in his dreams, every night, smiling at him, walking with him, her hand just out of reach for him to touch. She never said anything, and he never felt compelled to speak, as though they both knew why they were there together, as though words would ruin everything.

“You got a lady back in Antioch?” Geoffrey asked Henri as they wiped their faces with wet rags that morning. The smell of sweat permeated the barracks, filling the air with that musty, stale odor Geoffrey could never seem to get used to.

“Dozens, you bastard. Couldn’t walk down the street without a beauty begging to warm my cock,” Henri boasted with his stupid smile as he wiped the back of his neck. “Why, you want an introduction?”

Geoffrey chuckled. “No, no,” he shook his head. “I was just thinkin’.”

“Thinkin’ ‘bout what?” Henri asked, tossing his dirty rag into the corner with the other soiled linens.

“Nothin’,” Geoffrey responded with another shake of his head. “It’s nothin’ worth telling, anyway.”

He knew better than to talk about his dreams with the others, because they would only make fun of him. Henri, especially. He was just an idiot, and idiots didn’t know how to be tactful.

“Come on. Out with it, you coward. You started this”

“Started nothing. You barely told me a damned thing about this parade of women you’ve bedded.” Geoffrey countered.

Henri shrugged, “Well, what can I say? What’s there to tell?”

“I don’t know. How many girls have you been with? Their names?”

Henri looked stunned, as if he had not considered such things until that moment. “Well, I-I mean, it don’t matter, does it?”

Geoffrey laughed and shook his head again as he turned to go to gather his things. “I knew it! You’ve never even touched a girl, have you?”

Henri glared at Geoffrey as the men around them chuckled, and then picked up his discarded rag and began beating Geoffrey with it. “The fuck you say, huh? You don’t know what I got and what I don’t got! You ain’t never been home with me, stupid prokyon!”

“Christ! Mercy!” Geoffrey continued to laugh as he raised his hands to try and protect himself from the barrage of filthy fabric. “Stop, stop, I take it back, just stop!”

Henri did not listen. He continued to beat Geoffrey until Sergeant Rolant finally had enough and barked for everyone to settle down. Threatened them both with scrubbing the cesspits with their tongues if they kept being rowdy.

Then Henri dropped the rag at his feet and stood over Geoffrey with his hands on his hips, still glaring at him, but the corner of his lips began to turn up into that stupid smile Geoffrey had come to know quite well over the last several months.

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 20 August 1179

He pressed his hands against the newly sealed stone the masons had set along the outer works. It was still warm to the touch.

The fortress was almost finished, and soon, they’d have much less to worry about. Intel from the scouts had claimed Saladin was heading westward with his army. And though the infidel’s objective was unconfirmed, everyone in the fortress knew he was coming for them.

But they were over a thousand men strong. And they were protected behind stone walls larger than anything Geoffrey had ever seen. While the outer compound still needed work, everything else had been completed: the wall walks along the parapets, the barracks, the armory, even the chapel.

“I swear to Christ, I dare that heathen bastard to come. I just fuckin’ dare him,” Henri said as he looked out over the desert to the east. “Let him drag his whole piss-stinking camel-fucking host right up to our gates. We could squat behind these walls until Judgement Day if need be. Not a siege ladder in hell could scale this.”

“Judging by how often you nod off on watch, you’ll be lucky to see another week, let alone another year,” Sergeant Rolant barked from behind them. He shoved them both out of his way and stood at the edge of the guard post, his face stern as he looked over the desert with narrowed eyes. “It’s quiet today,” he said. “I don’t like it when it’s quiet.”

“Why?” Henri asked, earning himself another slap to the back of the head.

“Because, shithead, when it’s quiet, you know the enemy is planning something. Trust me. I’ve been around long enough to know that when the enemy seems like he’s not there, that’s when he’s the closest. So, keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, Sarge,” Henri said, rubbing the back of his head. The sergeant turned and walked away, and as soon as he was gone, Henri leaned against the wall again and sighed. “You think Saladin pisses himself a little when he hears our name?”

“I dunno, Henri. You think Saladin’s heard ‘bout how many girls you been with back home?”

“Go to the devil.”

“It’s your own fault for braggin’ when you know you got nothin’ to brag about.”

Henri shrugged and turned back toward the open desert. He rested his elbows on the stone wall and sighed again. “You think I’ll ever be like Sarge?”

“A mean old bastard?”

“No. You know what I mean. A warrior, like him. The kind men follow.”

Geoffrey studied the sergeant’s retreating back. "You ever killed a man before, Henri?”

“Not yet. But if those infidel bastards come, I will.”

“You think the King’ll send reinforcements if they do?”

Henri shrugged. “Suppose so. Why? You scared?”

It shouldn’t have slipped out. For years, Geoffrey had hammered that fear down, buried it deep where no one could prod at it. But the quiet between them, the way Henri stared at the horizon like he could will himself into bravery... it cracked something open.

“Yeah.” He admitted. “At Montgisard… Christ. They just kept coming at us. Everywhere. I could hardly keep up.”

Henri didn’t laugh. Instead, he just nodded slowly. “Jerusalem will come. The King won’t let us rot.”

“I hope not.”

“I think we should just concentrate on not dying tomorrow.”

“Aye. One day at a time.”

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 24 August 1179

Concentrating on not dying was a lot harder when you had to piss, Geoffrey decided.

The infidels came at dawn with arrows of fire. It was like nothing he could have ever imagined, with flames and smoke coming from everywhere. The heat, already sweltering before the attack had begun, became unbearable as the sun rose and their men on the wall walks began to fall to the Saracen assault.

Christ’s bones. Christ’s bloody, broken bones. Fuck.

“Stay low, you stupid whoresons!” Sergeant Rolant growled at the men as he shoved them forward toward the ladder leading up to the wall walk. “You die and I’ll fucking kill you. Understood?”

Geoffrey did not understand how one could die if one was already dead, but he did not question the sergeant as he climbed up the rungs. As he reached the top, he glanced over the edge and saw that there were thousands of them. And, for the life of him, Geoffrey could not believe that they were digging in front of the gate.

“The heathen’s offering a dinar to anyone who deserts!” Henri grinned like a lunatic, his head bobbling with excitement. “I’d jump ship for five.”

“You’re a piss-poor excuse of a Christian, you know than, Henri.” Geoffrey shouted back at him, squinting to keep the sun out of his eyes. But should he be captured, he knew he was neither important enough to ransom nor was his life even worth a mere five dinars (would he even sell for as much in the slave markets?)

He was just another faceless soldier, after all. Another body to fill the ranks. It was not as if the King had even known his name or what he looked like, or whether he even existed at all.

But by God, he’d die on his feet before he became some fat Emir’s slave.

“Hold the line!” Sergeant Rolant yelled over the sounds of the infidels shouting below and arrows flying overhead. Geoffrey felt his heart pounding in his chest, his palms sweaty as he gripped the pommel of his sword tight enough that he thought he might crush the handle.

The archers were doing well, firing volley after volley down into the enemy. Bodies were falling and littering the ground in piles, and still, more came, climbing over their comrades’ corpses as if they were nothing.

It was a really bad time to need to piss.

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 29 August 1179

Henri was up in flames.

He was quite literally up in flames, screaming, flailing his arms, and crying as the Saracen’s fire engulfed his body. Geoffrey could do nothing but stare in horror as he watched his friend burn.

All around him, the fortress was being overrun with Saladin’s army.

A wall had collapsed that morning, and now the enemy was pouring in through the breach, killing and slaughtering everyone in their path. There was no escape now. If he had thought of it before the wall had come down, Geoffrey would have jumped to his death from the ramparts and avoided the fate of his comrades. It was better than listening to Henri scream like a pig being butchered.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Geoffrey muttered to himself. Henri’s stupid smile was gone now, forever, the skin on his face melting as the fire consumed him, permeating the air with the smell of boiling fat.

He knew he shouldn’t just stand there. He should run. He should fight. But his legs refused to move. All he could do was stand there like a dumbstruck peasant watching his crops burn.

“I swore I’d kill you if you died!” Rolant roared at him before grabbing the front of his surcoat and pulling him in close. “Don’t you lose it now! You’re gonna make it through this, you little cunt!”

Geoffrey nodded, though he did not believe he would survive. There was no way out, no possible escape. They were outnumbered. They had nowhere to go, and their brothers in Jerusalem would never make it in time. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, ready to fight to the last breath if he needed to, and then he glanced back at Henri’s smoldering corpse one last time.

The boy had been stupid, but at least one of them was now out of harm’s way. Geoffrey could only pray that his death would be so quick.

The Chastelet, Jacob’s Ford, 30 August 1179

It was finished.

Geoffrey sat curled against the wall with his knees pulled up toward his chest. The other prisoners were all around him, doing the same thing, just waiting. He wished he was as courageous as the templars who had decided that death was better than imprisonment. But he could not do it; he could not take his own life as they had done. Even now, he still wanted to live, despite what he knew would happen to him in the end.

He heard that the King had arrived. On top of a litter with an army in tow, carried to the hilltop overlooking the fortress. He must have witnessed firsthand the devastation with his bandaged head bowed in grief.

A part of Geoffrey wished he could have seen such a sight, but only for the sake of seeing the novelty of it.

Henri, after all, would have enjoyed the spectacle too.

But it was all probably horseshit. A piss-poor translation of Arabic into Greek into Latin into French, until the story had been so distorted that it may not even be true. The King might as well have ridden in on a winged lion hurling pig shit at the infidels. And maybe. Well, maybe it was better if Baldwin hadn’t come. There was dignity in being a forgotten corpse. Less in being a rescued one, when rescue was already too fucking late.

He tried to sleep, tried to close his eyes and pretend he was back home in France, wondering what kind of life would have been like if he had never come to this God-awful place. But whenever he did manage to get some sleep, he was plagued by dreams. Not the beautiful ones he had of her, but the horrible ones of Henri in flames. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Henri’s screams in his head, and he wondered how he would ever be able to live the rest of his life without hearing them.

He should have never left France. He should have never come here, where it was hot, and dry, and miserable. Where there was nothing to do but fight and pray and die.

God Almighty.

He really had to piss.

Somewhere in France, September 1179

“Are you ready to set sail, Monsieur?” The shipmaster asked him. His face was weather-beaten, and his light hair seemed as though it had been bleached by the sun itself. “The storm is gaining speed. We need to leave by tonight if we’re to have any hope of avoiding it.”

“Tonight,” The man echoed. He did not trust the shipmaster. Why would he? Men with nothing to sell but their labor always reeked of desperation. And desperate men sold anything. Including their passengers if the price was right.

But then again, wasn’t he desperate too?

Banished from Poitiers after that particularly unfortunate incident (a kidnapping of all things, not his usual sport, but when a man is stripped of his lands, he either kneels and starves or drags others into the mud with him) he had very little choice but to follow the path paved by his older brother’s ambition.

The Holy Land. Where Sinners went to buy absolution with the blood of infidels.

He hoped the journey would not take too long. He had never been on sea for long, and the idea of leaving the only land he knew and traveling thousands of miles to the east to fight for his brother’s leper king was less than appealing.

“Will we get caught in it?” he asked. “The storm?”

“We should be able to avoid it if we leave tonight,” the shipmaster said with another nod. “I’ll have the crew begin loading the cargo and prepare the ship for sail. Do you need help getting on board?”

“No,” he responded. The last scraps of his pride would not allow him to stagger onto that deck like some stupid little boy. “I can make it there myself.”

“Very well, Monsieur de Lusignan. You have one hour.” The shipmaster turned and walked off, heading toward the vessel and leaving him standing there with his one small bag of possessions.

But that was the thing about exile: it stripped a man bare. And when a man had nothing, he became something far more dangerous.

Guy de Lusignan would land in the East a beggar, but he would leave a king.

Or not at all.

Chapter Text

To be deprived of the use of one’s limbs is of little help to one in carrying out the work of government. If I could be cured of the disease of Naaman, I would wash seven times in Jordan, but I have found in the present age no Elisha who can heal me. It is not fitting that a hand so weak as mine should hold power when fear of Arab aggression daily presses upon the Holy City and when my sickness increases the enemy’s daring...I therefore implore you, having called together the barons of the kingdom of France, to send me seasoned commanders to strengthen the defenses of this realm. We stand ready to entrust any whom you might dispatch, that their swords may guard our Holy Places until the Lord in His mercy may grant me, for the sake of the anguish which I am enduring, that health of a body which I desire but cannot have.

— King Baldwin IV to Louis VII

Acre, 12 December 1179

It was cold when the ship docked in the Holy Land. Guy de Lusignan was not used to such winters, but then he had never sailed to the edge of the world before either. The journey had taken over four months; first overland to Marseilles, then across the Mediterranean to Cyprus. And from there, eventually, to Acre, which was where the crusader ship docked.

He did not like ships. In fact, he hated them. The way they creaked and groaned, constantly threatening to break apart; how the wind would catch the sails, threatening to tip the whole thing over into the water, or the waves would throw the ship up and down so fast that his knees could not keep up with it and neither could his stomach.

Now they were here, on dry land again at last.

He could kiss the ground and never leave it again, if he was some kind of peasant. But being Guy de Lusignan, once the lord of many holdings in Poitou, now in exile, he only strode off the wooden gangplank to let his feet touch the stone pier. His face betrayed nothing but disdain, as if he was not happy that the journey was finally over, but simply that it had ever happened at all.

“There he is,” Aimery’s voice came from amidst the crowd. He pushed his way forward and clasped hands with his younger brother. “What has it been, a decade? You have not changed much.”

“You have certainly gotten fatter,” Guy replied with an almost sardonic smile.

He studied his older brother who was dressed in fine garments, including thick woolen robes to guard him against the cold. Aimery seemed to be thriving here in Outremer, as the French called these lands beyond the sea. It made Guy regret his own appearance; his best clothes were worn and torn from months of travel, and he had nothing with him other than what he carried on his back. Dust from the journey seemed permanently etched into the weary wool of his one good cloak.

“My wife employs the finest cooks in Jerusalem, I am sure of it,” said Aimery, patting his belly. “Come, let us get you out of the cold and somewhere you can rest. You look worse than your cloak.”

“I would not object,” Guy conceded with a grunt, falling into step. “How fares that business anyway? I was under the impression that the noblemen of this kingdom did not marry for love, only titles and dowry. What exactly did you get in return?”

Aimery only grinned as they walked through the crowd, surrounded by Saracen merchants, Frankish soldiers, and all kinds of people in between. Guy did his best not to sneer at this mongrel horde.

“She’s certainly better than whatever whore or kitchen wench you have ever lain with, brother mine. I will introduce you once we are in Jerusalem. She is from the House of Ibelin,” Aimery said proudly, as if his little brother should be impressed. Receiving only Guy’s raised eyebrow, he added slyly, “Our young King sets a fine example. He’s quite the romantic. He himself married for love, you know.”

Guy’s lips thinned. He kept his voice low beneath the harbor din. It would do him no good to be caught on these streets by the rabble and get his skull cracked open for insulting their ruler. Even so, it was hard for Guy not to snigger. “The Leper can scarce grip his own scepter without spilling his own bones, yet enjoys the luxury of following his heart’s whim?” He shook his head. “I suppose you can do that when you are King.”

“It is admirable,” Aimery argued as they reached his horse, which was tended by one of his soldiers. “Despite his afflictions, the king remains steadfast and has ruled well thus far.”

“Let me know how long that continues. He sounds half-dead already.”

“Such things are not said aloud here in Outremer,” Aimery warned him. “Would you like to be exiled twice?” he added with the same wry smile his brother was wont to display.

“Well, at least I’ll be in good company,” Guy grumbled. “Your ugly face is just about the only friendly one that I could hope to find in this forsaken land.”

He tied his bundle of belongings to the rump of his brother’s horse and swung up behind its saddle. He sat awkwardly, holding onto his brother’s mid-section without actually gripping onto him.

“You are very welcome, brother mine.” Aimery kicked the horse into motion and Guy tried not to fall. They left the busy port of Acre behind them, riding south towards Jerusalem.

Jerusalem, 18 December 1179

Luceria swept into the King’s chambers quietly with the grace of one who understood both protocol and heartache.

She stared at him for a moment, the way his eyes fluttered in his sleep, his hand tucked under his cheek and the bandages on his face had come undone around his neck, giving her an all-too-real glimpse at his scars. His hair was longer, curling at the nape of his neck towards his chin, and she knew he would cut it before the Christmas festivities.

The room held the stillness of uninterrupted time. Her eyes flickered to the many things untouched in his chambers. The chessboard with half of the pieces still scattered on the table from a game they’d played together two moons past; the cane she had commissioned to help him move about on the bad days resting idly by the wall; and the small box of candied fruit (her one indulgence) that he kept filled because she enjoyed them so.

How very like him, to curate comfort he could not partake in himself.

She stepped towards his bed carefully, trying to avoid making noise. He stirred, releasing the faintest of breaths as he woke. Luceria sat down beside him, leaning forward to press her hand to his cheek gently. “It is only me, my love.”

There was silence. It took several heartbeats before he replied. “Luceria.” He breathed out her name in greeting. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. I did not want to wake you,” she said, studying his eyes as they opened. He held her gaze, his eyes dark and blue in the muted light, his skin paler than when he faired better. It broke her heart to see him so, but she hid her emotion well. “How do you feel?”

His fingers felt stiff and numb as they brushed against hers. He closed his eyes and sighed. “It was the rains last week. They worsened the pain, and I find it difficult to stay awake at times.”

She nodded, understanding his pain without him needing to say more. His spirit had been broken, and in the wake of his losses, he had fallen into this melancholy that refused to waver. Her hand touched his, and she squeezed gently. “I know, Baldwin, I know.” She swallowed, her breath coming in shaky. “How are your legs?”

Baldwin opened his eyes to look at her, his expression inscrutable. With difficulty, he lifted himself up to rest against the headboard of his bed. “The same. Sometimes worse, sometimes better.” He took his wife’s hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. “But this, this never changes.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she leaned in, resting her forehead to his. This close, the bandaged sores and scars on his face were blurred into insignificance. She could smell the Saracenic ointment on his face, sharp and bitter. She exhaled, slowly and carefully, forcing her heart to calm.

“No, it does not,” she said softly. “We will be welcoming visitors for Christmastide and Epiphany soon. You have been missed, but you need not rise if you are too tired.”

“I have much work to attend to,” he replied, although his tone did not sound convincing. “The ransoms must still be paid, the army must be—” A cough escaped him, which threatened to turn into many; he swallowed them, though they tore at his throat. “—The army must be rebuilt,” he managed to continue.

“This new lot of crusaders should have reached Acre by now, and I imagine they will be here within the week, my love. They bring horses and arms and knights to help rebuild our forces. You needn’t worry about that until you are stronger. We can see to the rest,” Luceria assured him. “In fact, Lady Eschiva has already secured the funds for her son. And Lord Balian has been corresponding to the Emperor. I’m sure we will get the gold from him. Or from elsewhere, if not Constantinople.”

“But Saladin still has yet to put a price for Master Odo’s freedom,” he said. “I am afraid it will be more than we can afford.”

“Then we will find another way. There has to be something that can be done. Perhaps a prisoner exchange? He must have some men that are valuable to him too.” Luceria reasoned.

“His nephew was captured in one of our skirmishes, but that’s about it.” Baldwin replied, his eyes flicking back to his letters. “But I’m sure he would rather have the gold than the man.”

“Suggest it,” she urged, “And if that doesn’t work, we will find another way.”

“I’m sure Master Odo will be thrilled to hear that he may not make it home for the Christmas feast.” His smile was a frail thing.

She squeezed his hand gently, smiling in return. “I am sure he will live, and I will tell him it is all your doing.”

He stroked her hair with his free hand. “You are kind. I have been bedridden and melancholic, and here you are, taking responsibility for my failings.”

Luceria felt her cheeks redden. Her heart beat erratically. His words made her weak, but she kept her composure. “You have done your best with what has been left to you. There are no failings. God has his reasons and tests us all, does he not? Perhaps this is yours.” She laid her other hand on top of his, letting her fingers lace between his.

“He does test me,” the king mumbled. “I thought losing the Chastelet might be his worst. I was wrong. Not being able to walk makes me—” He hesitated. “I am like half of something,” Baldwin mumbled, sounding almost choked as his voice grew thicker. “Half of what I was. I cannot ride, cannot fight. I can barely hold court anymore.”

Luceria sighed. Her eyes lingered on the ivory cane resting idly on the wall, still unmoved from its place. She swallowed hard. “Baldwin,” she began, “Have you been practicing, like Brother Armengol suggested?”

He did not reply.

“Are you afraid to fall?”

He gave the barest of nods. His face was inscrutable again; Luceria knew his pride had taken more of hit than he let on. He would not admit that it bothered him that much, but it did. It hurt to see him suffer, to know that he could not do anything to ease his pain or make things better. And she knew, that if she fell apart or let any of her grief show, it would not make his life any easier.

Luceria’s lips tightened, “Konrad has had years of practice. I can ask him for his counsel if you would like.”

He chuckled despite himself. “A master cripple to teach the apprentice cripple, is that it?”

She squeezed his hand. “I want you to gain your confidence back. If Konrad can help, then yes, that is exactly it.”

“Very well, but do not be surprised when I am still crawling on the floor when he is finished with me. He does not seem to have much pity, even for his King, crippled or not.” He tried to smile at her. She smiled back.

“Now go,” Baldwin said in an attempt to lighten the mood, “Do not let this leper keep you in his chambers for longer. I would like to sleep for an hour more, and then I will attend to the letters awaiting me.”

Luceria shook her head, standing. “I cannot think of anything that would give me more pleasure, than to be in your chambers, with you. In your bed, and keeping all of the letters from you.” Her smile softened, “I would steal your seal and sign them myself, if it meant you could rest and be well.”

“I doubt you would have the patience for them,” he remarked with some amusement. “But I will take your offer to heart.”

Luceria laughed quietly, moving to stand, “Rest, and I may sweeten the deal, if the reward is good enough.”

Baldwin’s eyes lit up briefly at that. His smile turned almost mischievous. “Be aware of the promises you make, my queen.”

She grinned at him, blowing him as kiss as she moved to the door, her smile still on her lips. “Only if you can walk over to me and claim them, my dear King.” And with that she was gone, the door shutting softly behind her.

Jerusalem, 25 December 1179

Christmas in the Eastern lands of Jerusalem was different than what he was used to. Though perhaps, it was just the color of his mood that made the world seem more bleak, even on this most holy of days. His borrowed clothes felt loose around his frame, ill-fitted and uncomfortable. They were his brother’s castoffs, which did nothing to improve his mood. And that such brother had gone to socialize with many of his peers, and while Guy held his cup and nodded and laughed along with the others, he cared little for any of it. He was restless and bored, and his mind kept going to France, and all that he had lost. 

He had come to Outremer seeking fortune; there was nothing left for him in France, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any. Aimery had made quite the career for himself, becoming constable, marrying into land and power, earning respect and riches, all of which Guy coveted. Here was an opportunity to do something worthwhile with his life. Yet the longer he spent in the company of his brother’s friends and peers, the less inclined he felt to stay.

Aimery had always been more outgoing. More handsome and charming. The older brother, the favored son, the best heir to their father, and the one people admired. It was clear to Guy even here, far from home, that Aimery was loved by many, and Guy was only welcome because of his brother. Aimery’s friends had no interest in befriending him, nor did they have anything to gain from him, and thus their interactions were brief, cordial, and meaningless.

They would not notice if he stepped outside. Maybe take in the moonlight, get some air. The other crusaders barely remembered his name, and the locals even cared less. Even the Saracen servants seemed to ignore him.

At least in France, Guy had the respect due to his name. Here, he was just one among dozens of newly arrived pilgrims and crusaders. One of so many.

Outside the sky was clear; the stars were out, and the moon was nearly full. Guy took another sip from his cup. Wine from the vineyards of Nablus, he was told by some cupbearer. He had gotten used to the taste, which was full-bodied and strong, though sweeter than what he was accustomed to. But still. It did not compare to the wine from France.

“Another thing that is lacking in this godforsaken land,” he mumbled into his cup, taking yet another sip. “Why anyone would come here on purpose is beyond me,” he continued, speaking to nobody in particular. “Unless of course you were exiled, or deranged, which is the only reason any man would ever consider setting foot in these dry, dusty lands.”

“Do you often hold such spirited debates with your wine, Monsieur?” The woman’s voice was soft, gentle in the darkness, and Guy turned to see her approach. She wore the clothing of the locals, an indigo veil as dark as the night concealed her hair, but her eyes shone in the moonlight like constellations. Her bliaut had many hanging beads of gold, all of which chimed gently as she walked up to stand next to him. “I believe they say that is the first sign of madness, no?”

“I am quite mad,” He admitted as if he had no shame. “I have come all the way to Jerusalem to be bored on Christmastide.”

She laughed. It was a bright, unexpected sound that made Guy stiffen. He hadn’t intended to be witty.

“Do I amuse you, my lady?”

She smiled coyly, blue eyes dancing in the starlight, and tipped her head. “You do, but I think the wine is more at fault than your person.” She paused, studying him. He resisted the urge to straighten under her scrutiny, fingers tightening around the cup. “You are Lord Aimery’s brother, yes?”

“Regrettably.” He grumbled, faster than he could temper his words. “How did you deduce it?”

“The nose.” She tapped her own with a fingertip, her smile widening when he scowled. “A most distinguishing feature.”

Guy grimaced, leaning against the wall of the keep, his lips pursed in amusement. “Aimery’s is worse. Larger, and decidedly more crooked.”

She snorted, covering her mouth, and then laughed, clearly amused with him. “Oh, I don’t know if I would say larger.” She managed between giggles. “Yours is rather handsome, for such an unfortunate thing.”

Against his will, he grinned. This was the most conversation he had enjoyed in weeks.

“High praise coming from you,” Guy retorted, drinking from his cup. He did not turn to look at her, but his eyes shifted, stealing quick glances now and then.

She was comely, in a way that unsettled him. Far prettier than any woman he had ever met, in fact. Her blue eyes and fair complexion gave her away for Frankish blood, and dark tendrils of hair framed her face quite flatteringly. But her mannerisms, her clothes, and even her speech was clearly from here. A daughter of two worlds, just as Jerusalem itself. She intrigued him.

And worse: she intimidated him. And that was something he had never felt before.

His breath hitched. He took another sip. He needed that wine, or he would not be able to stand so near to her. “I’m afraid I have not seen you before, and I would have certainly noticed someone like you.”

The young woman laughed, “Well, you are newly arrived. You have not met everyone, so do not feel too bad.” She paused, “I have been busy. The past few months have been difficult for many. We have all had to make sacrifices, but God willing, we will pull through the hard times and be rewarded in the new year.”

“God willing, I suppose.” Guy replied, feeling doubtful that God had any plans to will anything in his favor. The Almighty, after all, seemed spectacularly disinterested in his fortunes.

“The king has been most devastated by all the losses. He has not had the best of health of late, so do not expect to see him tonight,” she added, her fingers toying with the end of her beads. “It is good to see that his people are enjoying themselves though, despite the hardships of the past year.”

He remembered to be mindful of his words, and not speak ill of his brother’s leper King. “There is always another day,” he remarked, trying to be diplomatic. “I should not wish the King to suffer any more than he already has.”

Her eyes met him, assessing his sincerity, and she nodded once. “That is good of you, to say.” She smiled again. “I should go back inside. It is cold, and it wouldn’t do to have me ill as well.”

Guy’s breath caught. The thought of watching those blue eyes vanish into the crowded halls made his fingers tighten around his goblet. Stay. He wanted to say. Worse still, he wanted to beg. The single word burned at the back of his throat, but what reason could he even offer?

He was no silver-tongued troubadour to spin tales of valor. No scars from war, no conquests worth boasting of. Just a younger son with an unspoken hunger gnawing at his ribs. And some comeliness, though it seemed to him that this woman was beyond such shallow attempts at flattery.

“I would not wish to see you ill, My Lady. In fact, may I accompany you?” he blurted, unsure if he should ask or what the customs of this country were. “To keep you company on the short way. The cold can be dangerous, I hear,” he added, though that was not exactly the reason.

She raised a brow. “What? Is it the wine perhaps, that makes you so brave to seek my company?”

“Bravery or foolishness.” He admitted with a crooked smile. “I cannot tell the difference tonight.” He said awkwardly, standing closer still before he bowed his head. “It would have been…rude of me not to offer.”

“Propriety suits you poorly, mon seigneur,” She teased, her fingers reaching up to brush the edge of her veil. Her eyes were bright. He could stare at them forever. “But my son awaits me. Another time, perhaps. I’m sure we will run into one another. This city isn’t so large.”

His heart sank. A son? Was she married then? He felt his stomach tighten.

Of course she was married.

Someone as beautiful as her surely would not have come of age without being wedded.

“Then until next time. When I shall be sober enough to bore you properly,” he declared in some jest, raising his cup to her.

The young woman smiled, amused by him. Her eyes seemed to glitter in the moonlight. How unfair. How absolutely cruel of the Almighty to send an angel of temptation in his path and then make her utterly forbidden. It was almost too much to bear, but Guy managed. If nothing else, he had learned how to swallow his own bitterness and continue onwards.

“I shall hold you to that promise.” She teased him, making him smile despite his own thoughts.

Guy was silent for a moment. He had to know. He had to ask. Even if the answer would bring him disappointment in the end, he could not let her go without knowing.

“Forgive me, but, what is your name, My Lady?” He inquired carefully. His heart beat in his chest, louder than was probably healthy. (Maybe that was the wine though. It was hard to tell.)

“Sibylla.” She replied with the softest of laughs, her lips curling into another smile. Her eyes flickered over him again, studying him once more. He was not sure if she found him wanting or not. Secretly he hoped she did. “Goodnight, Monsieur.”

She turned to go, her skirts swirling around her feet and disappeared into the fortress. He watched until she was gone from sight, and took another long drink from his cup.

“Christ have mercy,” he muttered, pressing the cool metal of the goblet to his overheating brow. “I am undone.”

But he did not know what to do, or who to tell. And so he simply stood outside and kept drinking. Until the memory of her eyes blurred with the moon and stars. And her name became like prayer on his lips.

Sibylla, Sibylla, Sibylla.