Fate | Baldwin IV

vows

We approached the archway leading into the sanctuary before coming to a halt at the entrance to the aisle, the threshold separating us from the gathered nobles and the sacred space that awaited us.

The choir's voices rose again, this time in a harmonious chant that filled the cavernous church, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. We began our walk down the aisle, Baldwin's pace measured, and mine matching his, our steps synchronizing in the silence that followed the beginning notes of the hymn. All around us, nobles and courtiers stood from their seats, turning to face us, their gazes falling upon their king with a mix of shock and pity.

Their eyes widened at the sight of his uncovered face. The scars and deformity that marked Baldwin's features were now visible to all, a declaration of his true self.

Some of the faces I recognized from the gathering of the council where our engagement was announced, and obviously there was Madame Marcelle and the maids watching from the side too, but still, many of them were foreign to me, their reactions unguarded. Some wore expressions of curiosity, others of open pity, their hands rising to their mouths in poorly disguised sympathy.

I glanced up at Baldwin, afraid he might have noticed the looks, worried that they might wound him. But his expression remained composed, his gaze fixed ahead, his posture straight, proud. He seemed untouched by the reactions, his spirit holding firm against the tide of judgment. It gave me a sense of safety, and I tightened my grip on his arm, drawing closer to him as we walked.

The choir's song enveloped us, the scent of incense heavy in the air. As we approached the altar, I caught a glimpse of the familiar faces among the gathered nobles. There, to the left, stood Lord Balian, dressed not in the usual chainmail of a knight but in the fine attire of a nobleman. He stood alongside the house of Ibelin, though his wife, Maria Komnene, who also happened to be the king's stepmother, was notably absent. Our eyes met briefly, and he offered me a small smile, but my thoughts wandered to the whereabouts of the infamous late queen dowager.

My gaze then shifted to Raymond beside. He stood at the very front, his back straight, his hands clasped before him. He did not smile, his expression unreadable, but his watchful gaze on us never faltered.

Across the aisle, to the right where the king's maternal side gathered, stood Agnes, again at the very front, her eyes lingering on the wedding gown. She was flanked by her daughter, Sibylla, and Sibylla's husband, Lord Guy. The couple watched us with expressions of disdain that they barely masked, a subtle tension lingering in the air, as though they were resentful not only of what was unfolding before them, but also of having to breathe the same air with the opposite faction standing merely a few steps away.

The silent divide between the two sides of the aisle was palpable; none of them met each other's eyes, their pride evident in the way they carried themselves, except the king's nephew Baldwin, who just looked around with curious innocence, taking it all in next to his mother. The king seemed just as indifferent, his eyes focused on the altar ahead.

I noticed another man standing close to Agnes—a rotund, red-headed man who carried himself with a kind of languid arrogance, his gaze sweeping over us with disinterest. Beside him was a tall, slender woman in richly adorned garments—her assessing eyes marking her as someone used to power, I assumed. A teenage boy stood awkwardly next to them, dressed in fine red silks. His eyes darted between the gathered nobles, and at his side was a little girl, no older than ten, her eyes wide as she stared at me. The slight resemblance she bore to Baldwin made me think she must be Isabella, his stepsister. That would make the teenage boy her betrothed, Humphrey of Toron, and the woman his mother, Stephanie of Milly...leaving the red-headed man to be no other than Raynald of Chatillon, husband to Stephanie.