Chapter 151: Chapter 151 — The Summons and the Scrutiny
Convent near Palermo - March 9th, 1181
The cloistered stillness of the Benedictine convent outside Messina was broken only by the soft shuffle of sandals on worn flagstones and the faint murmur of prayer. Within a modest chamber whose arched window looked upon a grove of olive trees, Constance of Hauteville sat at her embroidery frame, the pale gold thread in her hand glinting in the afternoon light. Her life here was ordered and quiet, a far cry from the glittering, treacherous politics of Palermo, though she had never been entirely beyond their reach.
The door creaked open. Sister Agnese, a young novice, curtsied nervously."My lady," she said, "a royal messenger has arrived at the gate. He bears a letter sealed with His Majesty’s own hand."
Constance set her needle aside. "My nephew?" she asked, already sensing that this was no ordinary correspondence.
"Yes, my lady."
Moments later, the messenger—a travel-dusted man in the livery of the Sicilian court—was ushered in. He bowed deeply before her and extended the folded parchment.
"From His Majesty King William, my lady," he said.
The wax was fresh, the golden seal of Sicily pressed deep into its surface. Constance broke it and read swiftly. William’s words were brief but weighty: Dearest Aunt, I require your presence in Palermo at once on a matter of the highest importance. It concerns the future of our realm. Delay not.
She read it twice, then lowered the parchment.
"What matter could warrant such urgency?" she murmured, half to herself. Her thoughts flickered across possible causes—political intrigue, a threat from the mainland, the matter of succession.
Her ladies-in-waiting, gathered discreetly by the doorway, exchanged glances. "Shall we make ready, my lady?" asked Lady Fiorenza, her most trusted attendant.
"Yes," Constance replied firmly. "We leave at first light. Bring out my court robes and the blue silk mantle. If William summons me to Palermo, I must be received as the daughter of Roger II, not merely as a secluded noblewoman."
The rest of the evening passed in brisk preparations. Her traveling chests were packed with gowns of crimson and deep green, with fur-lined cloaks against the still-cool March winds. A small escort of guards was assembled—enough to display her rank without drawing undue attention.
As she retired that night, Constance lay awake longer than she wished, her mind turning over the possible meanings of William’s summons. The phrasing of his letter, it concerns the future of our realm, lingered with her like a tolling bell.
Part II — The Physicians’ Council
While Constance made ready for her journey, in another quarter of Palermo the great vaulted hall of the royal infirmary was lit with the thin light of the morning sun filtering through high windows of pale glass. Here, Brother Gerard of the Hospital of St. John stood surrounded by parchment scrolls, bound codices, and wax tablets covered in his neat, deliberate script.
A half-circle of physicians had gathered—men of varied training: some schooled in the Salernitan tradition, others from the Greek-speaking lands, and even one from al-Andalus, skilled in the medical theories of Ibn Sina. They had been instructed by King William to examine the Hospitaller’s research with utmost care.
The air was thick with the scents of parchment, ink, and faintly of dried rosemary hung in bunches against illness.
"My lords," Brother Gerard began, bowing slightly. "The King has entrusted me to present my findings regarding the condition of His Majesty Baldwin of Jerusalem, and the possibility—nay, the certainty—that marriage and offspring are not beyond him."
He laid a scroll on the table and unrolled it, revealing a careful diagram of the human form, annotated in Latin.
"The key," Gerard continued, "is the stage of the disease. In Baldwin’s case, the affliction is long in progress but arrested in certain respects. There are no ulcerations in the viscera, no fevered wasting, and—most importantly—no open sores upon the skin that would render contact dangerously infectious."
One physician, a thin man named Matteo, frowned slightly. "Brother Gerard, you say ’dangerously infectious.’ But is not the disease itself always infectious?"
"Only through certain routes," Gerard replied calmly. "From my own treatment of patients—both within our Order and among the poor—I have observed that contagion most often follows direct contact between broken skin or mucous membranes. Thus, precautions are both possible and effective."
He produced another scroll, this one filled with case studies in his own hand. "Here—an Armenian knight, afflicted in much the same manner as Baldwin, wed and sired two children. His wife remained untainted throughout their marriage. The same with a merchant of Acre, whose marriage endured for twelve years before his death of unrelated fever."
Another physician, older and grey-bearded, tapped the scroll. "And what precautions were taken?"
Gerard’s voice was steady, clinical. "First, no kissing upon the lips—indeed, none upon the face at all. Second, the afflicted must be fully clothed during marital congress, with hands gloved if there are any lesions. Third, no relations if any sores or blisters appear upon the body. In Baldwin’s case, such outbreaks are rare and localized, easily observed."
The Andalusian physician, Yusuf ibn Harun, leaned forward. "Your findings align with certain Arabic treatises I have read, though they are seldom spoken aloud. It is not common knowledge among the laity that the disease can be so constrained."
Gerard inclined his head. "And therein lies the challenge—most men assume it to be wholly incurable and wholly transmissible. I do not deny its dangers, but with prudence and discipline, there is no reason His Majesty cannot wed and beget."
He moved on to the next set of scrolls, each tied with a strip of red silk. "These contain observations from the leprosaria of Cyprus, from the gardens of St. Lazarus in Jerusalem, and from my own experiments with isolation and treatment. You will see that in dozens of marriages between an afflicted and a healthy spouse, the rate of transmission is far lower than feared—indeed, negligible when these protocols are observed."
Matteo and Yusuf both bent over the parchments, murmuring to one another in a blend of Latin and Greek. The others passed the scrolls from hand to hand, pausing over diagrams of protective garments, notes on herbal washes, and detailed symptom charts.
At last, Gerard unrolled a final piece of parchment—Baldwin’s own medical chart, carefully anonymized for privacy but clearly indicating the signs of his condition. "This," Gerard said, "is why I have advised King Baldwin to seek a bride. The disease, in his case, is stable. He remains vigorous, of clear mind, and capable in the duties of a husband and king. It is my conviction, based on twenty years of service, that there is no medical impediment to his marriage—provided my instructions are followed."
The hall was silent for a moment, save for the rustle of parchment.
"You understand," Matteo said finally, "that the court will wish to weigh both the medical and political risks. The idea is... unconventional."
Gerard met his gaze evenly. "Unconventional, perhaps. But the times are perilous, and alliances may hinge upon truths the world does not yet accept. I ask only that you judge by the evidence, not by inherited fear."
The physicians nodded, some slowly, some more readily. They would study the scrolls, confer, and in due course present their judgment to King William. But already, Gerard could see in their eyes that his case had stirred both caution and curiosity—precisely as he had intended.