Chapter 153: Chapter 153 - A Question of Thrones and Hearts
March 12th, 1181 – Palermo, Kingdom of Sicily
The sun of Palermo spilled through the tall, narrow windows of the royal audience chamber, scattering a warm gold across the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the perfume of fresh citrus brought in from the gardens, a subtle reminder of Sicily’s wealth and its dominion over land and sea. But the morning’s lightness did not reach Constance’s heart. She sat rigid in her chair beside her cousin, King William II, her eyes fixed on the two foreign envoys who had traveled from the distant Kingdom of Jerusalem.
Balian of Ibelin stood tall and composed, his dark hair touched faintly with streaks of early gray, his noble bearing as unyielding as the pillars behind him. Beside him stood Brother Gerard, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, his black mantle adorned with the white cross of his order. The room was lined with William’s trusted advisors: men of law, church, and sword, along with two court physicians whose reputations extended as far as Rome.
William leaned forward in his carved walnut throne, his fingers laced loosely. "Lady Constance," he began in the smooth cadence of a ruler who knew how to draw out tension, "you are now to hear from Baldwin’s envoys directly. They have brought not only words, but proof—medical, theological, and political—that this proposed match is not the death sentence you feared."
Constance’s gaze was cool but unyielding. "Then let them speak, cousin," she replied, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.
Brother Gerard was first to step forward, bowing deeply before her. "My lady, I know the thought of marriage to a man afflicted with leprosy inspires dread in any heart. It is natural. But our king’s physicians—both in Jerusalem and from abroad—have prepared a set of precautions that have kept his household and attendants free from harm for over a decade."
He motioned to a scribe, who carried forward a bundle of parchment bound with ribbon. One of William’s physicians took it, unrolling the documents across the council table for all to see.
The elder of the two Sicilian physicians adjusted his spectacles and began reading aloud. "Baldwin’s leprosy is of the tuberculoid form, not the lepromatous. The contagion risk is minimal when proper care is taken. Contact of skin to skin, particularly if lesions are bandaged and precautions observed, poses almost no risk. Furthermore, the king’s hands and arms are the most afflicted—his face and torso remain largely unaffected, and his general health is managed carefully by his attendants."
Brother Gerard continued, "The king’s physicians advise that marital relations can be conducted safely under specific circumstances. These include the use of linen barriers, thorough washing of the body, and limiting exposure to areas affected by the disease. The possibility of bearing children remains—several learned clerics and physicians attest to this, and there is no evidence to suggest his illness renders him barren."
Constance’s lips pressed into a thin line. "And what, pray, would such precautions entail? Speak plainly. I am not a child to be soothed with half-truths."
The younger Sicilian physician cleared his throat, glancing at William for permission before answering. "It would mean, my lady, that you and the king would not touch in the manner most couples do. Marital relations would be carefully prepared for—he would be fully cleansed, his affected skin covered with treated linen, and contact would be limited to prevent exposure. Physical closeness outside these moments would also be minimal—no shared bedding without precautions."
Constance let out a slow breath, her voice tinged with disapproval. "So... not romance. Not passion. Only... duty."
Balian’s eyes flicked toward her, but he remained silent. Brother Gerard inclined his head gravely. "We understand, my lady. And yes—Baldwin’s chief aim in this marriage would be to secure the throne and unite your kingdoms. But I assure you—he will honor you, protect you, and see to your dignity as queen."
The discussion went on for some minutes, the physicians elaborating on how similar precautions had preserved the health of Baldwin’s mother and stepmother for years. Advisors spoke of the political benefits, the union of Jerusalem’s ports and Sicily’s fleets, the deterrent it would pose to both Muslim and Christian rivals. Constance sat, silent and thoughtful, her eyes drifting again and again to Balian, who stood like a stone sentinel, never speaking.
At last she turned her gaze directly on him. "And you, Lord Balian—you have not spoken a word since entering this chamber. What do you think of your king, not as a sovereign, but as a man? If I am to give up the hope of passion, I would at least wish for a husband I might call friend. What sort of man would I be marrying?"
The room fell quiet. William leaned back in his throne, watching with interest. Balian blinked slowly, as if weighing the request, then looked to William. "Your Grace, if I may—could I speak with the lady privately? Just you, her, and myself. Without the rest of the court."
William considered for a moment, then nodded. "Clear the room."
Chairs scraped back. The physicians bowed, the advisors filed out, Brother Gerard followed with a last respectful inclination of the head. The heavy oak doors shut with a dull echo. Only the three of them remained—King William in his throne, Constance in her seat opposite, and Balian standing between them, hands clasped loosely.
Balian stepped forward, his voice low but steady. "My lady... Baldwin is the greatest man I know. I have known him since he was a boy. My own wife, Maria of Byzantium is his stepmother. I have seen him at court, in council, and on the field of war. He is not only my king—he is my friend, my brother in arms, and a man whose word is iron."
Constance studied his face, searching for any hint of flattery given out of duty. She found none.
Balian continued. "He loves his family—fiercely. He has protected his stepmother, his sisters and his nephew. If you were to become his wife, I swear to you on my honor, he would do everything in his power to keep you safe. Not only because you would be his queen, but because he respects the bond of marriage, even when it is forged for politics."
He paused, glancing briefly toward William before lowering his voice further. "I believe there are two reasons he seeks this path. The first is his duty to the throne. He must secure the succession. His current heir is his nephew—son of his sister Sybilla, who was exiled for conspiring with traitors to overthrow him. If that boy were to take the throne, Baldwin fears Sybilla would rule in his stead and undo every reform he has made to strengthen the kingdom. He cannot allow that."
Constance’s brows drew together, her mind turning over the implications.
"The second reason," Balian said, his voice softening, "is personal. Baldwin has been a leper since childhood. Since the first signs appeared, he has lived apart—guarded, respected, but never... close to anyone. He is lonely, my lady. I think he longs for a partner he can trust, someone who will not fear him, someone who can give him council and who will share the burdens of ruling and perhaps ease the weight he carries. Even if you bear no child, you would still give him that, and in turn he would give you loyalty and respect."
For a long moment, the room was still but for the faint rustle of the curtains in the warm Sicilian breeze. Constance’s gaze was fixed on the marble floor, her fingers twisting in her lap.
"I will think on this," she said at last, her voice measured. "I will pray on it. And when my mind is settled, I will give my answer."
Balian bowed deeply. "That is all we ask, my lady."
William gave a small nod, leaning back as if the air in the room had shifted. "Then we will leave it there for today. Constance will consider the matter in the days to come. And if she wishes, the envoys will remain in Palermo until she is ready to speak again."
The moment ended quietly, but the weight of it lingered—like the warm, golden light that refused to fade, even as the day moved on.