Fate | Baldwin IV

return to Jerusalem

It was the second week of fall, yet the weather clung stubbornly to summer's warmth. On a sweltering Sunday afternoon in the cathedral of Tyre, the king and I sat secluded in the front row, our gazes fixed on the altar. It was deathly quiet, and no one dared speak moments before the ritual began.

The mass was called upon the news of Pope Alexander's passing on August 30. The king had little affection for the man or his ideals—and the sentiment had been mutual— but as soon as the word reached us, he ordered several public masses to be held across the kingdom in the pope's memory. For an hour, the bells of Tyre's churches tolled without pause, echoing through the streets and out to the harbor where they mixed with the sound of the waves and the cries of the seagulls.

I did not mourn, but was present at the king's side out of duty. I was relieved even, that the man who had so openly despised my king and spoke of his rule with scorn was no longer a concern, and the new pope Lucius, whom we learned had ascended in his stead, seemed to pay little heed to the reports he received about our kingdom, for we had yet to hear from him personally. His attention, as expected, would be centered on Rome for now, and while his support was desirable, the king would rather have his indifference than have him uphold his predecessor's meddling and disdain toward himself at the cost of western action.

The king himself seemed unmoved as he stared absently at the choir assembling near the altar. His expression betrayed no hint of sorrow, only the distant weariness of a man who carried too many burdens to grieve a distant pontiff. After several moments of pure silence, a slow, collective intake of breath signaled the start of the ritual at last. The voices of the choir rose, reverberating off the cathedral's stone walls, the notes starting low and then climbing higher in perfect sync.

Transfixed, some of those who gathered, lords and commonfolk alike, remained motionless, their faces impassive, while others began to weep quietly. Archbishop William, who was still absent from his ecclesiastical seat in Tyre to oversee the bureaucracy in Jerusalem, had assembled quite a choir indeed; their angelic voices intertwined in such beautiful harmony that it would bring even the infidels to tears. Well, nevertheless, we found it hard to even focus on what was going on at all.

Beside me, I heard the king shifting slightly. He drew a deep breath before leaning in just enough for his words to reach me. "A new Grand Master for the Templars will arrive soon from Aragon," he murmured, his gaze set forward. "We must meet him in Jerusalem."

Without taking my eyes off the choir I whispered back, "When?"

"We shall prepare for the journey tonight."

I turned to him, startled by the sudden announcement. He remained focused on the altar, his profile calm and unreadable. Swallowing my disappointment, I slowly looked away, my chest tightening as I considered the abruptness of our departure.

"I thought we were staying until the end of the month," I ventured, my voice quiet but insistent.

"We've stayed longer than necessary," he replied. "Now that things are changing, I must return to the head of the state."

I remained silent, my gaze low. I loved Tyre, and the thought of leaving so soon left me heavy with longing. I hesitated, then asked, "Can Sibylla not greet the Grand Master in our place?"

But I knew the answer even before the words left my lips.

The hymn in the background paused, the room falling into a momentary silence as all the voices faded, except for the faint shuffle of someone coughing in the back. I pressed my lips together, slightly straightening up in my seat rather awkwardly. Then the choir resumed, their voices rising to fill the vast cathedral once again.