Chapter Text
Chapter One
~ Baldwin ~
“There's a new wound, Your Majesty. You must take care not to jostle yourself so,” the Hakim tsked, his gentle brown eyes fixed on the task at hand as he washed and wrapped the King's arms.
Outside, beyond the dim early light of the King's chambers, the peacocks in the gardens screamed, but within the room there was only the quiet murmur of his private council.
Standing still as he could, Baldwin watched as his body was cleansed and wrapped with fresh bindings for the day. Silk, so they would pull with less damage to his open sores at the end of his day. He didn't feel the drag of the material over his wounds, but he felt every tug and gentle jerk as the Hakim sealed him within the bandages. For years he had lived with little to no sensation, so for him at this point he only felt the movement of his limbs when it shook his body.
“Sire, the grain from Acre has yet to arrive. The storehouses hold, but the city may feel the delay if it persists.” Lord Joscelin said as he paced the thick Persian carpet of the chamber. “We may face starvation in the lowest quarter of the city should we fail to receive the grain in time.”
Baldwin watched his uncle pace with one eye, the other long blinded by loss of nerves. It had long ago dried and become milky, the bottom lid drooping.
The morning ritual of hearing his advisors while he was dressed came from necessity. He no longer had the luxury of dressing and then meeting with the men before he had to go to morning prayer and court, so he often had the three men he trusted most join him in his morning dressing.
“We have a reserve in Nablus that could be here before next tenday,” Count Raymond declared. There was an irritation to his tone, as though he were weary before the day had truly begun. It wasn't anything new for the poor man.
“Have the reserve moved to the granary just outside our walls, we can replace the reserve from Nablus with the shipment from Acre once it arrives,” Baldwin ordered. “How has Lord Guy received the levies?”
“With a sour face and a curse word uttered, but he's willing to pay it, Your Majesty,” Count Raymond said.
Baldwin studied his advisor, before casting a glance to his uncle, he had no reason to look to any man, such was his right as King, but he still liked to know what Lord Joscelin was thinking at any time.
Hakim Yusef moved from his right arm and began the wrapping of Baldwin's useless left arm, hovering his fingers over the young King's cheek, not touching him, but enough to hint that he wanted the King to angle his face for his right eye to be examined.
“Your Majesty, your eye is looking less irritated today, I can assume you've been using the eye patch at night?” The Hakim asked.
Baldwin nodded once, a small, barely caught nod.
Sighing, Hakim Yusef moved back, preparing to gather his medical trinkets and pouches, saying, “Well, there is nothing even the wisest man can do to bring vision back to an otherwise blind eye, Your Majesty. Would that I could, but alas even I have no such power. Has Your Majesty taken his evening meal last night?”
Baldwin shook his head, he was a young man, but already there was not a single hair remaining upon his head. Scars covered most of his face. His nose was collapsing in, and where he had slammed his mouth into a helmet during his last jousting tournament three years prior, the wound was festering and shredding his upper right lip. “I had no desire for the food placed before me.”
“Regardless, Your Majesty, you must eat something,” The Hakim insisted, stepping forward to finish dressing the King about his head. “Only the strongest men walk the desert without shoes, but the rest of us must eat and rest.”
Baldwin, unable to bow before any man, stood still as the Hakim climbed onto a stool before him and wrapped his shoulders and neck, soon he would be as shrouded as a corpse, only his ruined face poking out from the white silk bandages. He may have stooped a little to aid the poor, short physician, but not enough to be noticed by his advisors.
In the corner, quiet, but ever observant, William of Tyre scribbled his notes and lived in his own world, not going unnoticed by the King, who perhaps doted on the nearly ever present scribe most out of any in his court. Baldwin always told himself it was because Master William was rarely heavy with his opinion or advice. But often times, instead, guiding and suggesting only with a feather-like touch. Had it been any other to first notice Baldwin's leprosy, it would have hit him harder in the chest, but William was somehow comforting in that moment. But there was something judgmental about William of Tyre; the man was always seemingly waiting for a mistake. It was in the chronicler's nature, he supposed.
The discovery of his numb hand was a moment which sealed the entire ending to the chronicle of Baldwin the IV of Jerusalem. He would live only a little while, rotting from leprosy, and die, leaving his kingdom...well simply, leaving his kingdom.
In his youth, he had railed against God's plan, resented it, hated it, felt it was unfair and unjust. But he hadn't time for such self-pity now, not since taking the crown, not since Saladin rose up in the East.
Poor William snorted, his face turning red as Saphira, with the mien of a Queen, leapt into his lap and settled, her rumbles loud enough to overpower any other words in the large chambers. Master William never seemed in full health whenever the black cat was near, but he bore it with the grace of a true Lord.
Baldwin had long accepted that while he may be King beyond his chambers, within them the gifted cat from an Egyptian noble ruled as a pagan goddess. There was no denying her.
A knock on his chamber doors, had a servant entering, a tray to break the King's fast in her hands. She bowed and left hurriedly, as the Hakim motioned jovially to the light meal of bread, honey, and goat cheese.
“There,” he said. “Your Majesty has a fine feast.” He thumped his chest with a grin. “To keep him strong and fighting.” “Hm,” Baldwin made a sound, which he often attributed to a laugh. Kings didn't laugh, it was wholly improper, but he found when the mood struck him to find amusement in something, the hum often was enough. “Thank you, Hakim Yusef.”
The Hakim bowed to him. “I shall be by this evening to check on His Majesty. Good day, Your Majesty.” As Baldwin sat at the table in his chambers to take his meals in private, Saphira abandoned William of Tyre, moving to leap into Baldwin's lap, where she settled happily. As obedient as he could, with no appetite, Baldwin picked at his plate, feeding some goat cheese to Saphira, as Lord Joscelin and Count Raymond both continued keeping him apprised of his kingdom.
Another knock on the door had Count Raymond moving to receive whoever was interrupting the King's meal. He returned with a missive in hand, breaking the wax seal and reading it.
“King Shahin of Marash has been killed,” he announced. “The kingdom overthrown in the chaos, Your Majesty.”
“Assassination?” Lord Joscelin inquired.
“No, apparently there was a battle outside the city walls, the King's daughter was crowned in the aftermath,” Count Raymond read on, brow furrowed deeply. “She held out for three days, before surrendering to the insurrectionists.”
Casting his gaze across his chambers to a small collection of precious gifts and trinkets received from visiting nobles, Baldwin's moonlight blue eye landed on a carved wooden falcon, a gift from King Shahin which he had received from the man.
Marash was a small kingdom, more a Byzantine principality than a grand kingdom, but it bordered Jerusalem and had therefore been a loyal ally.
“And the young Queen?” Lord Joscelin urged Count Raymond.
“Exiled, scouts saw some refugees scattered across the desert, in the wastes between Jerusalem and the sea. They couldn't confirm if the Queen walked with them. Apparently she made a deal with the insurrectionists to spare her people, she would abdicate the crown and leave her kingdom.”
“This could cause turbulence at our North-Eastern border, Your Majesty,” Lord Joscelin said. “It's a wonder they didn't kill her, she could still raise an army.”
“Insurrectionists are opportunists, they're craven and foolish,” Count Raymond replied.
“Your Majesty?” Lord Joscelin prompted his King, as Baldwin continued to gaze at the falcon. The small, cedar wood thing had been such an odd comfort to him, such a comfort in fact that Baldwin as a child had worn down the head a little with his thumb, leaving a divot in the top.
“Send some knights out to fetch the exiles, bring them to safety under our banners,” Baldwin said.
“The new ruler of Marash may see this as a declaration of loyalties, Your Majesty,” Count Raymond warned him.
“Let them. Jerusalem is stronger than Marash, especially a fallen Marash. I will honour the bond we forged with King Shahin, and now his daughter. Send knights, however, have them hang back when they find the exiles, allow the scouts to go first flying our banners high so they know we are not a threat. If the Queen is found alive and well, I want her brought before me immediately upon returning to the city.”
~ Theodora ~
Dust clung to her hair and stung her eyes, as the brutal desert wind shredded the hem of her gown. Every step through the desert sands was a battle. Her mouth filled with grit, and her feet were swollen, aching horribly.
But she would endure.
Her hands clutched the thin cloak around her shoulders, the only barrier against the sun and grit, while the small knot of survivors shuffled behind her, weary and silent.
A silk ribbon, faded and fraying, peeked from her braid, as one of the only remnants of Marash’s grand court that she had managed to save. Her dark curls, once coiled into precise patterns under heavy silk, now tumbled in wild waves, catching the sunlight like shadows moving over stone. She had no time to care about appearances; every instinct was survival, and every glance over her shoulder measured danger.
Somewhere ahead, the horizon shimmered with heat and dust, and the faint glint of banners, unfamiliar and yet impossible to ignore, drew her gaze. She paused, squinting, throat dry, pulse quickened. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was the end.
“Riders,” Sir Cassian growled from just behind her. He had walked closer than usual since leaving Marash, as though he wished to bend his entire form over his Queen’s and turn his own flesh into steel as a shield. Immediately he moved to stand before her, not dramatically enough to draw attention to his small framed Queen, but enough to bodily put himself between her and the banners sparkling on the high slopes of sand.
Theodora squinted hard at the flashes of gold glinting, trying to discern the threat, her hand moving to shade her eyes from the unrelenting glare of the sun. She did not believe they came from Marash.
They couldn't have been sent by Lord Eustace as an afterthought to his mercy.
But she wouldn't have blamed him if they were. She was still very much a threat to his tentative rule over her father's kingdom.
Would he walk back on his agreement?
He didn't seem to have any integrity, and she wouldn't be so foolish to think he didn't fear her returning to Marash. In the end, it had been exhaustion on both sides that forced the conclusion. Too many corpses piled too high. But the hold outs within the city walls were running low on fresh water, food, and medicines enough to care for the wounded.
It took one child dying from a wound that could have been cared for, for Theodora to make the decision. Take it, she had thought bitterly, take it all. Leave my people in peace from their suffering, let me walk free and abandon my throne for your greed. She hadn't slept since. Walking three days, heading for what? The water? The sea? And then what?
Turning to glance at the few other nobles and servants who chose to flee with their Queen, she noticed the fear and exhaustion in their faces. Their eyes sunken, their cheeks hollow, the sun had burnt most of them and blistered their lips.
One of the points of shining gold on the hill broke off from the others, and from the distance it looked as though they were rolling down the slope, gracefully slipping towards them.
Theodora grasped the small ivory handle of her jambiya, the one she concealed at her waist in a wide sash of rough damask, and glared at the point, daring it to become a threat. She would go down sinking her teeth into someone’s face if she had to.
“Ho!” Sir Cassian shouted to the shape as it came near enough for them to make out a rider on a beautiful grey horse.
A mild relief touched at the edges of her suspicion as Theodora made out the gold cross of the kingdom of Jerusalem, was he sent to finish them off? Had an accord been struck already between King Baldwin and Lord Eustace?
“Ho!” The rider shouted back. “We've been sent as allies to the Queen of Marash.”
“There is no Queen of Marash,” Sir Cassian replied easily.
Theodora's dark eyes lifted to the back of her most loyal guard's head. She would have to chide him about that later, should they survive.
“The Queen lives no more?” The rider asked. “King Baldwin has sent for her specifically. To offer shelter and aid to her and any loyalists she may be exiled with.”
Theodora poked her head around Sir Cassian's large frame and peered at the rider hard and studious, before levelling her proud chin with the ground at her feet and stepping forward. “I'm Queen Theodora of Marash, or perhaps no longer.”
The rider instantly dismounted his horse and bowed to her. “Your Majesty.” He fumbled for a piece of parchment sealed in his side satchel and held it out to her, head still bowed. “I was bid by His Majesty, King Baldwin the Fourth of Jerusalem to set this in your hands.”
Theodora shifted her small, supple booted feet closer and closer to the rider, before she was able to snatch the letter from him and return back within the safety of Sir Cassian's broad swing.
She opened the letter, breaking the seal of of the King of Jerusalem, the wax snapping in half from her force.
It simply read: Jerusalem's allegiance was pledged to the Crown of Marash, and whomsoever wears it. My men have been commanded to guide you to Jerusalem with haste, should you desire a safe haven.
Theodora considered this. Her heart rattled the bones of her ribs. Could she trust the King of Jerusalem? Her father often spoke fondly of him, but her father was far too trusting, as she had learned.
“A sweeter boy I have never met,” King Shahin had once said when Theodora was young and asking a night sky of stars worth of questions about the boy King her father had allied with. “But speaks with a dagger-like tongue. He will be formidable and guided with good and right.”
She reread the letter, eyes on the tight and precise writing of the King. Glancing once more at her loyalists, she weighed her options.
Wander the desert like Moses forever, or place her faith in the man charged with protecting the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
Seeing how weak and tired the elderly servants looked under the desert sun, she sighed and nodded. “We will come with you to Jerusalem.”
God, she prayed, please be kind to me upon arrival. Grant the King of Jerusalem kindness and patience, and remove all deception from his mind should it dwell there.
“There are knights and more scouts waiting over the hill, Your Majesty. We were instructed not to alarm you.” The rider said, head still bowed reverently.
She nodded firmly, and watched him signal to his men.
Over the hill more glints from sunlight on metal appeared. An entire army, more it seemed than had been present when her father faced off against the raiders outside the walls of Marash. A bitter thought came to her and she had to push it from her mind, it wouldn't do to become sour to King Baldwin before she even met him. After all, Jerusalem wouldn't have arrived in time to save them had they even managed to get a letter out before the chaos.
Sir Cassian bristled beside her and she knew he would not be able to fully let his guard down until he knew she was safe under the care of some harbour.
The ride to Jerusalem was an entire day of hard riding.
Theodora had been swept up and onto a horse with a knight she had not known nor had been presented to, the knight was then almost forcibly removed by Sir Cassian, who then replaced him.
Sitting side saddle as best she could while the hooves of the beast thundered hard on the ground, she ached and hungered and mourned and sulked, but mostly she turned the entire situation over and over in her mind, her hand almost clutching with sad desperation at the letter from King Baldwin. If she had stood on the precipice of a cliff, she could not feel more unsure of her next step.
The knights had given her and her people what they could for food and water, promising the King had ordered food and supplies for them once they were closer to Jerusalem. That had come and past, and they were near the city itself.
With stomachs taut from their first feast in days, Theodora and her people now rode hard with the knights and scouts until the gem that was Jerusalem began to peak on the horizon.
It grew like a sprout from the yellow desert, until soon it loomed over them. The sounds a soft roar, like the ocean, people within the walls living lives full of chaos and love and hope and joy and sorrow. It didn't feel particularly like a haven to Theodora, she had no idea what it would be for them. Heaven or hell?
In what felt like a whirl, she was dismounted from the horse by Sir Cassian, greeted by a scar-faced man who bowed and introduced himself as Count Raymond of Tripoli. He was handsome for an older man, steel hair, a scar which drooped his right eye, and a look that was both one of command and a strange gentility. It was the face of a man Theodora decided was fairly trustworthy and safe for a woman such as her.
Would she come with him? He had asked, in a tone more like an order. There was reverence, but a rush to it as though he had too much to do and not enough light in a day to do it.
Did she have any choice in the matter? She wondered as he motioned for her to lead the way, being that she was a Queen and no man dared proceed a Queen unless they were announcing her.
And then she was led into an open air court with a mass of faces peering at her. Recalling her raising, she ignored them, eyes facing forward, chin level with the earth. A Queen never bowed, she strode forth like God Himself was guiding her.
The people of court were mostly knights and soldiers in armour, a few archers stood with their longbows stuck into the sandy ground, eyes on the Queen and her ragged parade, as she walked among them.
Pushing the veil back from her face enough to peer at her destination, she spied a man seated on a throne on a dais.
This had to have been no one other than the King of Jerusalem, dressed in white silk embroidered with gold thread from head to foot. His features were hidden from her by a silver mask, with a most gentle visage, and even from the distance she approached him from, she could see he had one striking blue eye, the other clouded and blind.
Yes, she decided, he was most decidedly the Leper King, ordained by God to rule the Holy Land, cursed by the same to waste away young.
“Queen Theodora of Marash,” Count Raymond barked.
“Formerly,” he added almost sheepishly.
The court murmured at this small slip, but their King simply peered out from his mask with haunting, unimaginable eyes at the small Queen as she stopped primly before him and bowed her head in respect.
“Your Majesty,” she greeted. There was a small beat in time, enough for Theodora to quickly go over her greeting. She was so addle brained from everything, had she made a mistake in manners? The King stood then with what she noticed was slight difficulty, and descended from his throne. As he neared her, she realized that though he was slight in his robes sitting on his throne, as he came to stand before her, he towered above her, his length of being embellished by the long, flowing robes he wore.
There was the slight scent of incense and the very faint scent of sweet decay as he neared her, close enough to be confident with her, but distant enough to maintain polite respect for her being.
“A Queen, I understand, will forever be a Queen, no matter her circumstance,” he said with such a gentle, soft voice that it startled her for a moment, but there was a sigh of exhaustion at the end of every word, as though he were tired from the weight of his crown, the robes, the wind and the sunlight. With his mismatched eyes still on Theodora he bowed his own head to her. “Your Majesty.”
What a sight she imagined she was for the King as he politely took her in for a moment as they stood there. Wild and untamed from the desert, wind worn, sand scraped and filthy as a beggar. But she refused to demure. She was the daughter of King Shahin. She had to be forged of stronger stuff.