Chapter 154: Chapter 154 - Prayers and Discussion
March 14th, 1181 — Palermo
The convent guest chambers assigned to Princess Constance had been quiet for much of the day, but within the stillness her mind was a restless tide. Since returning from her meeting with William, Balian, and Brother Gerard, the matter had clung to her thoughts like a shadow she could not shake. She had been presented with evidence, testimony, and assurances — yet none of it could erase the image that kept intruding upon her imagination: the pale, blotched hands of a leper, the slow stiff movements, the knowledge that the disease lingered always, unseen but not gone.
She had prayed already this morning in the small chapel adjoining her chambers, kneeling long after the candles had burnt low, but her heart found no ease. She rose now and went to the broad arched window overlooking the cloister garden. The orange trees swayed gently in the breeze, their blossoms filling the air with sweetness. It struck her bitterly that this place was so alive with scent and light while she stood here trapped in a cloud of dread.
Her ladies, sensing the weight on her mind, had been careful not to chatter idly, but when Constance finally turned to them, she saw in their eyes the questions they had been holding back.
"Come," she said softly, motioning to the bench beside the window. "I would have your thoughts on this matter. Speak freely — there is no offense in honesty."
Lady Agnese, the eldest of her attendants, folded her hands in her lap. "Highness, the offer is... not without merit. King Baldwin’s victories are known across Christendom. To be his queen would be to share in a realm strong and respected. Yet..." She hesitated, glancing at the others.
"Yet the leprosy," Constance finished for her.
Agnese inclined her head. "It is not only a fear for yourself, but for any children you might bear. Even with the precautions Brother Gerard spoke of... it is still the thought of sharing a life so close to such a malady."
Young Lady Isabella, who had been quiet, spoke next, almost in a whisper. "If what the physician says is true, and you will not be harmed if all care is taken... then perhaps it is not the sickness itself but what it means. The court in Jerusalem must already treat him differently. Would you be... pitied, or even shunned, for being his wife?"
Constance felt a flicker of irritation at the girl’s bluntness, but she knew the thought had crossed her own mind. "That is the truth of it," she said. "I have no fear of titles, nor of ruling beside a strong man. But this... this thing... it robs a man of his flesh, little by little. How can a marriage stand if one half must always think of disease before all else?"
Lady Caterina, younger than Agnese but steadier in her speech, leaned forward. "Highness, if I may — the physicians spoke with certainty. If you trust their craft, then the danger is small. And what your royal nephew said is not without weight: you will need a husband who can guard your claim should misfortune befall him. The King of Jerusalem has proved himself on the battlefield. Could any prince of the Empire, or of France, offer the same?"
"Perhaps not," Constance admitted. "But the King of Jerusalem is not like other men. He lives with this illness every hour. If I accept, I bind myself to a life... without the closeness that comes in other marriages. There will be no passion, as I told them. And I wonder—" She paused, looking down at her hands. "—if there will even be warmth."
The room fell silent, save for the faint trickle of the fountain in the courtyard below.
That evening, she sought the counsel of those who had served her family for decades. In a smaller audience chamber, away from her ladies, she met with Father Bartolomeo, her spiritual advisor, and Giacopo di Messina, a Sicilian courtier who had been her late father’s confidant.
Father Bartolomeo listened without interruption as she recounted every word that had been said to her in the great hall — the proofs offered, the reassurances, the political arguments.
When she finished, he folded his hands over the silver crucifix he wore. "Daughter, marriage is often a duty before it is a comfort. In this case, it is clear your nephew sees a bond that would strengthen both realms. Yet you are right to weigh the matter before God. Leprosy is feared because it is so visible a mark of human frailty. But remember — frailty lies in all of us, though in different form."
"Frailty is one thing," Constance replied, her voice low. "To join my life to a man whose touch is forbidden, whose lips cannot meet mine... Is that the marriage God intends?"
"God intends many kinds of unions," the priest said gently. "If this is a path of duty, He may grant you another kind of closeness with him — one of counsel, partnership, and shared governance. You would not be a leper’s bride, Constance. You would be the queen who stood beside him in his last years, and perhaps the mother of a son who unites two kingdoms."
Giacopo spoke next, his tone practical. "Highness, the politics of this are plain. If William dies without issue, you will need strength — and quickly. Baldwin can give that. And Sicily joined with Jerusalem would hold the sea as no other power could. But..." He looked at her with a frankness few dared. "If your heart recoils from the man, the match will bring you little peace. Cold alliances make cold courts."
She was silent a long moment before saying, "It is not that I recoil from Baldwin himself. Balian spoke highly of him, and I believe him. It is the disease that stands between us. Always between us."
That night, she could not sleep. She lit a single lamp and knelt once more in the small chapel, her hands gripping the edge of the altar cloth.
"Lord," she prayed, "You know my heart better than I know it myself. You know my fear, my doubt. Show me if this is the path You have laid for me, or if it is a snare. I would serve my family, my realm, and Your will — but I cannot serve in chains of dread. Give me light, or give me a sign, that I may choose without sin."
The only answer was the faint hiss of the lamp’s oil and the steady gaze of the carved Christ upon the cross.
She rose, returned to her bed, and lay staring into the darkness until the first call of the convent bell announced the coming of dawn.
The next morning, she summoned both her ladies and her senior advisors to her chambers. A long table had been set with bread, olives, and watered wine, but little of it was touched.
"I have heard from all of you in part," she began, her voice steady though her hands were clasped tightly together. "Now I would hear from you as a council. Speak as if you were to make this choice for your own blood."
Agnese spoke first, cautious but firm. "If I were you, Highness, I would accept. The precautions are clear, the political gain great. Fear is a poor counselor."
Isabella shook her head. "But marriage is more than alliance. If the heart will always be wary, it will wither."
Caterina countered, "And what of the heart if she loses Sicily to Tancred? Or to some other claimant who comes with sword and fleet? Baldwin would guard her claim with his life."
Father Bartolomeo reminded them that prayer and fasting might yet bring clarity. Giacopo, ever the realist, urged that the decision could not be delayed long — such offers did not remain on the table forever.
Through it all, Constance listened, her gaze moving from one face to another, weighing their words against the tight knot in her chest. She knew the arguments. She could recite them all in her sleep. The match was sound — except for the one thing that was not.
At last, she raised a hand for silence. "I will give my answer," she said slowly, "but not today. I will take these next days to seek God’s will in this matter. And when I speak, it will be with a clear conscience — whatever the choice may be."
The council rose, bowed, and withdrew, leaving her once more with only her ladies and the quiet sound of the garden fountain.
And still, as she sat by the open window with the scent of orange blossoms drifting in, the thought returned again and again: A strong king, a worthy ally... and a sickness that cannot be touched.