"To the health of Jerusalem…long may it live."
You say it with such sadness…but I shall not leave you today.
He wished he could have seen her face. But he had watched long enough to notice how the dark wine quivered in her goblet, her fingers grasping the stem as if it held poison. Her voice brimmed with mixed emotions. As she spoke he could not help feeling that she wished to say something else. Sybilla rarely talked about the future.
One day, dear sister...it shall claim you. It shall claim us all.
Baldwin retreated from the edge of the terrace and proceeded to his chambers. For the most part he seldom visited this area of the palace, though on occasions such as today he allowed curiosity would get the better of him. He had little use for the atrium's space anymore.
The life of a leper would be bitter, as he found out years ago. The life of a leper king was no better, though in different respects. On rare occasions the daughter or sister of a prominent noble would arrive. It was almost flattery. He knew well the underlying consequences of a betrothal in his surrounding political affairs. Jerusalem's peace had been nurtured with years of the utmost care and delicate interactions with the Muslim world. Therefore, it could not be bestowed upon or shared with just anyone for the mere sake of its riches or prestige. It could not be bought as a step to be closer to God. And it could not, for any reason, be used as a fanatical outpost for war upon sacred soil.
Yet despite his skillful diplomacy, in the eyes of foreign powers Jerusalem remained all that and more. It had always been so. As he ventured further away from the atrium, his memory drifted back to the last time he had used it to host a guest of his own. It was quite some years ago.
She was Clara Spannoocchi of Siena, Tuscany, daughter to one of Italy's most illustrious families. There had been a lengthy correspondence with the patriarchs of her house in regard to the appeal of her marital potential. On her mother's side she possessed the wealth of vast estates; on her father's, a strong relationship with the church.
Her uncle Bartolo, a large, proud man whose fortune stemmed from his fine trade in ships, had escorted her personally across the sea and sand. If their emissaries had been correct, her beauty had been passed from her mother, a refined woman of equally refined tastes. Clara was young and already quite a lady; a light veil covered her dark, curled hair, her manners were pristine, and she had a complexion that shone even fairer in the desert sun.
On the surface, she had an excellent upbringing; he remembered almost every detail. Her eyes were the only things he could not recall. She had met his gaze once and never again.
She spoke little in his presence as most of the conversation was kept between her uncle and himself across the great table. A successful merchant, Bartolo was adamant about the additional prosperity his family could offer the desert city. "There would be enough wine to grow gardens in the dunes! They say the Muslim kings have their temples crowned in crescents of gold. Would that such ornaments be our sacred crosses of equal caliber. That alone is worth God's grace!" Bartolo clasped his hands together, wringing them in the display of his ardor.
Baldwin countered. "There is currently a peace kept between our peoples, and our gods. It would be best to see that such is prolonged as much as possible. Our lives exist too closely to not take care." The king looked directly at Bartolo as he spoke, though the man did his best not to notice.
Then, with genuine seriousness, Bartolo replied, "Caution does not necessarily yield protection as the fruits of your labor. Trust is dangerous commodity to bestow upon those people. Their honor is doubtful. In my country, there is no one who does not know God, for they know what is true and good. As I speak, there are many in my company who would come here to safeguard your city of Christ. Do not be so modest, my lord. As it is now, the walls glisten under the sun!" Bartolo eyed the king questioningly. "Would you not say that such pleases God?"
Baldwin rested his chin on the pyramidal formation of his hands, his elbows propped comfortably on the arms of his chair. A challenge in faith; he was hardly surprised. In Baldwin's moment of silence, even the zealous Bartolo started to feel the chill of his shadowed gaze. Clara trembled uncontrollably. At last, Baldwin spoke.
"Jerusalem…is not what it is merely because it is ruled by men."
Bartolo twitched with a huff. "Well, that is an interesting way of looking at it." He took in Baldwin's cryptic words with mild consideration and swiftly emptied another goblet, his brow furrowed with some deep thought. Baldwin had no need for wine and Clara had politely refused any drink from the servants. But remembering her withdrawn presence, Bartolo offered his goblet to her and insisted, "Ah, but you must, my dear Clara. You are tired. It will be all the better for you."
Clara's lips quivered and Bartolo's tone hardened through his smile. "Drink."
As Clara took to goblet from her uncle's hand, Baldwin stole a direct glance at her. He could only imagine the amount of control she was exercising to keep the goblet steady in her grasp. Her knuckles were white, but when the goblet met her lips she did not spill a drop. When she accidentally met Baldwin's gaze, she smiled a tight, timid smile, and quickly lowered her eyes again. She was learned, obedient…and absolutely terrified.
"She has all the makings of a fine young bride, does she not?" Bartolo chortled, taking back the goblet and motioning for a refill. He was akin to a fat merchant proud of his cattle. His round cheeks were glowing from the sweet liquor's warmth.
Baldwin gave Clara a slow nod, his voice gentle as he regarded her. "A lady indeed. A prime example for one so young."
Her slender fingers curled in her lap. "Thank you, my lord. I do not deserve such high praise." Baldwin leaned back in his chair.
You've taught her well, my good Bartolo, she will certainly make a fitting bride. But pawns are many in this game we play. Her confidence--and your merry proposal--I am afraid, are false.
They never met again. Baldwin's years of living in a mask had allowed him to assess his audience without notice: their gestures, manner of speech, and emotional response. And because he displayed no face of his own, they often had no clue as to just how well they were being read, or for how long. Beneath her composed exterior, stilled by the gently clasped hands and seemingly modest, downcast gaze, Clara was little more than a pretty pawn in fine clothes.
It was unfortunate. She was pleasing, elegant, and from any other lord's point of view, worth every benefit of her betrothal. But to Bartolo's later dismay, it was not nearly enough for Jerusalem's king. From Baldwin's observation, avarice followed prosperity as closely as Bartolo's supervision over Clara. Surely she had become another noble's wife by now, courted and betrothed in some similar manner of feigned benevolence. After his meeting with her, Baldwin had no other personal visitors, by circumstance and by choice. Baldwin's bandaged fingers brushed lightly against his pale robe. A choice made reasonably. Still, beauty had its own curse in this world.
Sybilla. The thought brought his mind back to the image of her and the young man, Dreu. Whomever she chose, or whoever would pursue her, it would ultimately be by his authority that she could give her hand in marriage. It would require his…conscious approval.
'You will never be alone, brother,' she had said. Her voice was so clear.
Could you have truly meant those words, Sybilla? Out of duty or out of love, will I one day know your heart's truth? Could I ever reveal to you my own heart's desire? My one, guilty wish?
He did not dare attempt to answer his musings, unspoken as they were. He arrived at his chambers and disappeared into the vast room lit with torches and embellished braziers. The day was coming to a close and he was expecting company within the hour. He had received news that a friend of his had fallen from fever. It saddened him greatly to have such ill tidings in already strenuous times. Yet surprisingly enough, the friend had a son who would come to lay claim to the property held under his father's name. Balian, they called him.
Baldwin sat down upon the seat at the edge of his carved desk and began to document the necessary proceedings for tomorrow's agenda.
Balian, son of Godfrey. Now Baron of Ibelin. What is it that you seek here? Your fortune… or your future?
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Author's note: 'Clara' and her family's role is fictional, but the Spannoochi family did exist in the 12th century, in Siena, Tuscany. It is believed that the Spannocchi were part of one of the great feudal clans that, along with the church, controlled most of the countryside of Tuscany during the medieval period. Members of the family continued to be active in the life of Siena into the 1800's. Today, Castello di Spannocchia still stands.