Chapter Text
"And the Lord said, 'Behold, they are one flesh; what God has joined together, let no one separate."
- Genesis 2:24
One, two, three.
You pace the length of your room, counting your steps. You knew this day would come, so you really shouldn’t be as shocked as you are. But you are, by God, you are.
Four, five, six.
They say he is handsome, and strong — fearless in battle, loyal to the king. At the age of 18, he rode to battle by His Majesty’s side at Montgisard, your father had told you. You imagine sword calloused hands and you know they cannot be gentle because they don’t know how to. They’re hands made for leather bound blade hilts and sword belt buckles and tabard and chainmail. They’re made for stiff leather gloves and stroking the necks of warhorses. You’re not a warhorse, you’re a young woman.
Seven, eight, nine.
You don’t have a say in this, of course you don’t. Noble girls are raised to be pretty and silent, not form their own opinions. You have quite a few of those of your own, but one look from your mother made you bite your tongue. You may be silent, but you’re not a fool, and you know a losing battle when you see one. You wonder if your soon-to-be betrothed thought Montgisard was a losing battle too. You wonder if he knew and chose to ride into the fray anyways.
Ten.
You pause in front of your mirror. Your reflection stares back at you like a ghost. Drawn and drained. Worry gnawing at your bones as you wring your hands. You look nothing like the girl you were yesterday. No, you look like a wife already. His name is Ancel, and he is the only son of Lord Castelnau.
And yet as you hold your own gaze in the mirror, it isn’t his name you try on your lips with girlish foolishness to see if you could grow to love him. It isn’t his family name either that will be draped over your person like a mantle.
No, you whisper your own name, and you hope this small act of defiance will be able to preserve who you really are in the face of what’s to come.
Baldwin isn’t reading. Instead, he is counting — counting the frantic rhythm Lord Ancel’s index finger is drumming on the table between them, counting his sighs too, and the periodic shifting of his weight in his seat as if his own skin had become uncomfortable.
“Ancel.”
“Hm?”
“Please end your misery — and mine — by telling me what you’re really doing here.”
Baldwin looks up just in time to catch Ancel’s green gaze before it snaps away, toward the windows, like a wistful child’s. He’s always been beautiful, even as a boy as they grew up side by side under William of Tyre’s tutelage. Beautiful, arrogant, and cruel — Ancel would regularly torment Baldwin when they were children, teasing taunts and tests of strength taken a touch too far. It is a habit of Ancel’s that survived into adulthood in a much milder form, and while he still teases Baldwin every chance he gets, it is an activity he reserves purely for himself. The last lord that tried to goad Baldwin into duelling years ago got pummeled into submission by Ancel, and that was the last time anyone has ever treated him as a boy. His friend has grown older, and so has Baldwin, but they’re not the unburdened youth they once were, once equally matched in appearance and strength.
Ancel is who Baldwin always thought he would grow up into. Handsome, full of life, a man with hands that are whole and warm and feeling, and legs that do not betray his every step. He buries the thought now — it would not serve either of them in the moment. He cradles his heavily annotated copy of Cicero’s De Officiis in bandaged, clumsy hands, and allows a singular sigh to escape his tired, tried body.
“You’re sulking because your father arranged a marriage for you you don’t like.”
The words animate Ancel as he looks back and leans forward fervently. “Don’t like? Baldwin, I detest the idea of being tied down by anyone, let alone by someone of not my choosing.”
“And you think I can stop this?”
“You’re the king. If anyone can talk the old man out of this, it’s you,” Ancel nods hopefully.
Baldwin traces the embossed title of his book — Ancel has always teased him for treating his books like lovers, caressing them with the gentleness most men reserve for their wives. In a way he is right, he has reserved his mind and heart for written words, for wisdom and virtue, for a life lived not in flesh but in spirit. In his experience, books are more reliable companions than a person could ever be. Read a book a thousand times, and it never changes — only you and your interpretation does.
“I can’t afford to oppose Lord Castelnau and you know it.”
“Oh, you always say that, but you always cut him off in court when he goes on one of his long-winded monologues.”
“I cut him off because I need to temper him. I do not need another voice constantly lobbying for war,” Baldwin corrects his friend as he lays the tome on the table between them. Ancel wanted Baldwin’s undivided attention, and so he shall have it — whether or not he is ready for the unavoidable truth that comes with it is another matter entirely. “Your father has the ear of the Templar Grandmaster. I need to appease him. Do you think me meddling in his private affairs will improve our already strained relationship for the better?”
“It’s one favour. Just one.”
“It’s just one vow.”
Ancel scoffs. “Easy for you to say!”
The silence stretches for a few seconds and Baldwin allows his friend’s mind to catch up to his mouth. Satisfaction blooms across Baldwin’s chest like an ugly bruise when Ancel has the decency to look guilty.
“I didn’t mean anything by it… It’s just… You really can’t understand what this is like.”
“Because I’m a leper? Because I could die tomorrow? In a week? A year? Because no one would be willing to tie the life of their daughter to my guttering flame?”
“Because no one expects you to marry,” Ancel adds gently. Annoyingly, when it matters, he always knows just what to say.
Baldwin swallows his childish indignation. Sits a little straighter too, like a king is supposed to. “I am married to the crown. I have hundreds of wives to appease at court in the form of my lords, and every day I please one, I upset twenty. I’m sure you’ll manage one wife.”
The early spring evening is creeping up on them slowly, stretching the shadows across the solar like a funeral shroud. Jerusalem yawns beyond the open windows like a beast, and its thousand lantern eyes are being lit one by one to keep the oncoming darkness at bay. A lazy wind stirs the royal gardens below where the almond trees have begun to blossom already, sweetening the heavy incense-laden air. Baldwin breathes deeply, blue eyes settling on the slouched form of his beloved childhood friend.
“I’m sorry, Ancel. I would help if I could, but I’m afraid on this occasion, my hands are tied.”
“Oh, well. Your hands are quite useless anyways nowadays.”
Baldwin huffs out an amused laugh as he picks up a quill and points it at Ancel. “Maybe so, but my pen is still sharp.”
“Then may God have mercy on the enemies of Jerusalem.”
Ancel pours them both wine — mild, watered, rich in taste but dull enough to not cloud the senses. It is getting harder to do mundane things with his hands, that much is true, but just for one night, Baldwin chooses to be a young man, sitting and drinking with his friend. He lifts his goblet with as much grace as he can muster and drinks.
“I hope you’re not cross with me.”
“I think deep down I knew you couldn’t help. That no one could,” Ancel admits, studying the wine in his cup in a rare moment of reflection and self-awareness. “I just needed someone honest enough to say it to my face.”
Baldwin hums, leaning back in his chair. “How soon?”
“The betrothal in about two weeks. The wedding is expected in a month. Maybe two.”
Ancel stands, fetches the chess set tucked in a box under unopened correspondence, sets up the game between them. A peace offering, as much of an olive branch as one can expect from the young Lord Castelnau.
Baldwin allows his ever present worries to drift out of his conscious mind for the time being.
Now, they’re just two young men in the solar, sitting, drinking wine, playing chess, complaining about their fathers. Baldwin always hated that passage in the Ecclesiasticus every monk he’s ever met seems to be obsessed with: “In omnibus operibus tuis memorare novissima tua, et in aeternum non peccabis” — “In all your works, remember your last end, and you will not sin.” His entire body is a walking, breathing reminder of decay, after all, and so he hated that line with all his heart until he understood the real reason why people need to be reminded. Death is certain, and most men with their senses still sharp are terrified of it, but right now you’re alive. There’s wine in your belly and laughter on your lips, a game at your hand, and warmth in your heart. Death will come whether you want it to or not, so you might as well live, even if for a little while.
And maybe enjoy it too, a little bit, if you can. That is not a sin. Perhaps it is the most blessed thing one can do while still being alive.