⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀❝She wants him to come on the wind, to wrap himself around her, to bury his face in the hollow between her breasts. Alternatively to arrive on the dawn, to appear on the horizon as a sun-god casting the glow of his warmth upon her. By any means at all she wants him back.❞ ── J.M. Coetzee, Disgrace
﹙characters﹚︰ King Baldwin IV, Tiberias, Princess Sibylla, Guy de Lusignan, Reynald de Chatillon, Balian de Ibelin, Original Characters
﹙pairing﹚︰ CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS. KING X DUCHESS.
﹙synopsis﹚︰ Jerusalem is changing. Baldwin is changing. You are changing. Among all the change remains one constant: the reverence in your gazes whenever the other is near.
﹙content warnings﹚︰ This work of fiction will explore leprosy, sex, christianity and islam, blasphemy, power imbalances, misogyny, sexual harrassment, abandonment, suicidal ideation, and major character death. Please read with caution. These may change as the story goes on.
﹙word count﹚︰ 2.7K
﹙notes﹚︰ Once again reminding us to normalize swooning over a man who lived eight centuries ago and to also please forgive me for any historical inaccuracies! We have Guy in this chapter... I am so normal about him I swear. Guy de Lusignan sideplot ♡
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ CHAPTER TWO
Just as with you, Baldwin has many words to describe Guy de Lusignan. He has yet to organize them into sets. Obnoxious, irritating, loud, wrong, brutish, aggravating . . .
He sits at his desk, the feather of his quill brushing against the lips of his mask as he moves it back and forth. He has not yet dipped it. There is a parchment laid before him, he cannot focus on it. All he can think about is how in one hour, he will be sitting before the court. The court including Guy, the knights, the Patriarch, you, and Tiberias. Though, you and Tiberias, he can stand.
Lecherous.
The word hits Baldwin hard. Implants itself into his mind. Lecherous, yes. Another adjective for Guy. Solely towards you. Has Guy been lecherous towards other women? Undoubtedly, but that is none of the king's business. He is concerned with you.
Sibylla had mentioned it in passing to him, on a day when she could stand to be near him. It was not really her choice, now that he thinks about it. It was an event dinner. He recalls the memory, can hear her words as if she were standing beside them and speaking them into his ear:
"Your duchess friend," she murmured as if she did not know your name, as if she did not grow up with you just as he did. "Guy seems to have taken a great interest in her. Perhaps the interest is mutual."
She was baiting him, he knew, and he didn't take it. He sat there, stared forward. He knew that looking directly at her would unsettle her, just as it does everyone else. Everyone else aside from you and Tiberias, and perhaps Guy. Of course, Guy. Baldwin cannot escape him, not even in his mind.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ♱
Pleasantries are exchanged. The concerns are stated. Baldwin is bored.
His gaze shifts to you, sitting in your seat beside Tiberias, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped together in your lap as your own gaze moves about the room. You are bored as well, he knows, even if you do not look it. Sitting through court has never been your strong suit.
While sitting there, half-listening to whatever the court is whining about today, Baldwin decides that the one word he would ultimately use to describe Guy de Lusignan is obnoxious. Not in the traditional sense, no — in the sense of never being able to get rid of him, no matter what you do. He is obnoxiously persistent, like a fly. Shoo him off? He comes right back. He has to make himself known no matter where he is or what situation he is in.
Just as he is right now.
"Tiberias knows more than a Christian should about Saladin's intentions," he declares. Everyone besides you and Tiberias murmur in hushed agreement. "We must not go to war with Saladin, we do not want it," Tiberias counters firmly, stepping away from Guy and pacing before Baldwin where he sits on the throne. The king does not move.
"Blasphemy!" One of the knights yells. He begins ranting about how Jerusalem has an advantage on behalf of Jesus Christ bearing the cross for the sins of humankind. He motions vaguely in the general direction of the Sepulchre. "There must be war. God wills it!" He yells. Guy follows in agreement along with the others. The court goes into an uproar.
For a moment, Baldwin and you make eye contact. You look just as unamused as he does. You say nothing. He then makes eye contact with Tiberias, who gives him a look, silently asking what to do. A raise of his hand, and Tiberias yells over the court. It falls into silence. All eyes are now on the king.
An exasperated exhale. The scroll in his hand is handed back to the courier. His gaze sweeps the room. "Saladin has crossed the Jordan . . . with two hundred thousand men." He braces himself to stand, pushes up off the armrests. He gives a near imperceptible shake of his head as Tiberias offers his hand. His own hand comes to rest on the marshal's shoulder. "We must meet him before he reaches Kerak. I will lead the army." He murmurs softly.
Tiberias gives him an empathetic look. "My Lord, if you travel, you will die." A moment of silence stretches on. Baldwin lifts his head, looking out at the court.
"Assemble the army."
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ♱
"What in God's name were you thinking?!"
Baldwin strides down the hall, his veil and robes flowing behind him. The sun catching his profile makes him look ethereal. His hands are folded neatly behind his back.
You walk beside him, hand hovering just behind his back to steady him if need be. He is not helpless, you know this, but he is still not as strong as he once was. He can fall if he is not careful.
"I beg of you to spare me your lecture, mon cœur. I am more than capable of handling this matter. I am a king, yet you fuss over me like I am but a sickly child."
He pauses after speaking, immediately catching the irony. Perhaps those were not the correct words to use. You stare up at him in disbelief. "Winnie," you begin, your voice soft, placating, "you cannot be serious. I have full faith in you, I do, but this is Saladin we are dealing with. Please, consider the situation."
Another pause.
"You think me incapable."
His words irk you, though you would not admit this aloud. You give him a look. He does not face you. "Are you attempting to prove a point? Is that what is happening?" You ask. He does not respond. So, you do not press. "Very well. I will speak to Guy. Let us go to your chambers."
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ♱
And so, you find yourself in the garden with Guy de Lusignan.
The two of you walk the path together. One of his hands rests on the hilt of his sword, the other hanging idly at his side. Your hands are folded behind yourself, a habit you picked up from Baldwin as a child.
It isn't that Guy does not respect you. You are both a duchess and the best friend of the king. But he doesn't like you very much. The reason remains unclear.
"You cannot expect me to listen to you simply because you bat your lashes at me." He says. He shakes his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He is amused by your persistence. Bastard. "Tell me something," he stops abruptly, as do you, the two of you turning to face each other fully. He looks down his nose at you. "Do you know what a war entails?"
You offer him a slow, unamused blink. He flicks a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve. "I know enough," you say. He lets out a noise, something between a laugh and a scoff. "Yes, I suppose Winnie has taught you all about it." He turns, begins walking again. You follow.
A pause. Then, with false sympathy, he speaks. "I suppose I can enlighten you, if you ask nicely." His tone makes it clear exactly what kind of enlightenment he's offering.
You want to be civil, you really do, but Guy makes it so incredibly hard. "Perhaps," you begin, stressing the second syllable, "we can sit in the library. You may enlighten me all you like."
You should not have said that.
"Very well," he agrees, his gloved thumb caressing the hilt of his sword. "I expect you there at dusk tomorrow. Be there." With that, he walks off. You glare at his back. His broad shoulders beneath his tunic. For a split second, you wonder what it would be like to hold onto them. You shake the thought off and turn around to go find Baldwin.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ♱
The look that Baldwin is giving you is priceless, truly. He stares at you, unblinking.
"Winnie, say something." You beg.
He continues to stare from the spot on his bed where you're perched beside him, hand resting on his thigh.
"So," he says slowly, "you accepted Guy's invite to be enlightened—" he stresses the word with deliberate skepticism, "—about war, and now, after deliberately making an issue for yourself, you have come to ask me to solve that issue."
A pause. Then, dryly, he adds: "Monstrous of you, truly."
He exhales slowly, shaking his head. "You are a riddle. A riddle I attempt to solve, yet the wording changes every week. An ever-changing riddle." His voice softens, yet there is a teasing undertone within it now. "Must I assign you a minder to keep you from underneath Guy de Lusignan?"
You gasp. He chuckles. A breathy sound.
"I take that as a no. Very well. Here is what we will do," he begins, voice taking on the kingly tone that brooks no argument. The tone you hate. "You will meet with Guy, and you will listen to his war theology. You will sit two paces away from him, and you will not touch him. Do you understand?"
You nod. "Yes, Winnie."
His expression nearly softens. Nearly. But he holds firm, lifting his right hand and gently flicking your forehead, a feat made clumsy by the slight tremor of his hands, but he manages. "Good," he says, the word softened despite himself. "Behave yourself." He leans back against the pillows, watching you with quiet affection. "Would you like to stay here in my chambers for the night?"
Your own gaze softens, and you're already getting up to snuff out the candles. "Of course. Always."
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ♱
The entirety of this little rendezvous has been Guy staring at you as if he is seconds away from hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carrying you off to his chambers, and you pretending to be oblivious.
You've done as Baldwin asked — no, commanded of you. Well, mostly. You sit one pace away instead of two, and you are not touching him, but he is touching you. He is no longer in his chainmail armor, but in his leisure wear. You can see his shoulders even clearer in the brown tunic he's since changed into.
Catching your gaze, he offers you a lazy smile that is more wolfish than he intended. He's explaining the ethics and morality of war to you. As if he has any morals, you think inwardly. There is a chalice of wine on the table beside his arm. If he isn't careful, he might knock it over. But he remains careful, pulls his arm back before reaching for the chalice and taking a sip from it. His eyes never leave yours. You thought maintaining eye contact would teach him to not cross you, but instead it has made him think that you are interested.
"You know," he begins, licking his lips as he sets his wine down, "Sibylla has been spending much more time away from the inner city. The princess, in Ibelin. It should be you over in Ibelin fussing about the well, should it not?"
Unfortunately, he has a point.
Everyone . . . well, not everyone, but a handful of people know about Sibylla and Balian's affair. The handful being her close circle, which includes you, Guy, Baldwin, and Tiberias. You never cared much for Sibylla as the two of you grew older, but you still maintain your childhood rituals — hand holding, kisses on the cheek as greeting, and calling each other habibti, though you no longer call her that as much as she does you.
"It should." You agree. He nods. "Yet, it is not. It is her, laying underneath that . . . boy." He says. You can tell that he's trying to keep the venom out of his voice, but he has never been very good at that. You're quiet, resting your chin on your palm. Your free hand gives a small motion for him to go on.
He takes your invitation and runs with it. You get an earful about how much he despises Balian and therefore, despises Ibelin and the Muslims that reside there.
You're quiet for a moment before responding. "I understand what you mean. Balian is misery packaged in wrapping of a savior."
Guy pauses mid-rant, momentarily stunned into silence at your words — misery packaged in wrapping of a savior. His lips twitch, then curl into a grin so sharp it could split stone. "Finally," he says, voice full of vindication, "someone with sense." He shifts closer, gesturing broadly with his left hand. "He is always sighing about his dead wife, always judging the rest of us for actually living."
You take a sip of your own wine. He remains silent, waiting for your input. You lick your lips, thumb tracing idly over the indentations on the chalice.
"I have never understood how a woman could be unfaithful. Adultery is a sin, she knows this. The two of you may not yet be married, but there is a violation of morality."
He can sense the words you do not speak aloud. And that goes for you too. You can see the sting beneath his bravado, his brow raising and head tilting. "Perhaps hypocrisy is the true sin, chérie," he drawls. There it is. The term of endearment you knew was coming any minute now. "Here you are, lecturing me on morality while you cling to Baldwin like a—"
Guy cuts himself off, remembering just who he is speaking of. That, and the look you give him.
Instead, he settles for plucking the chalice from your hand and taking a sip. You don't protest. It isn't often that Guy is this tranquil. Well tranquil is not the word you would use. It is not often that Guy is this . . . tame.
"Besides," he adds, voice lighter now, "what exactly is your relation to the king?"
A loaded question. Your answer is immediate.
"I would grab a star out of the sky if Baldwin asked me to. His disease does not frighten me. No, disease is a part of life. His disease is a part of his life, and therefore a part of mine, and yours, and everyone else's." A pause. "The circumstance of one influences the circumstance of many, Guy. You would do well to remember that."
Guy goes very still. For once, he has no retort, no clever deflection. The chalice is set on the table, momentarily forgotten. Then quietly — unusually quietly — he speaks.
"I know."
He exhales heavily through his nose, sliding the chalice back to you with uncharacteristic care. "Just do not expect the rest of the court to see it that way." There is no bite to it, no mockery. He stands. You stand. The silence is oddly comfortable. There is a shared understanding between the two of you now.
Then slowly, you take a step, filling the space between the two of you and wrapping your arms around him. Your head rests against his chest, your eyes close, your hands gently fist his tunic. It has been so long since you've felt the embrace of another, let alone a fit, healthy man, even if Guy and Baldwin do have different builds, fit or not.
Guy goes rigid beneath your touch for only a second before exhaling sharply, his hands coming up and settling heavily on your hips. He murmurs your name in warning, yet neither of you release the other. And that is the problem.
You can feel the heat of him through his tunic, the steady thud of his heart beneath your ear. It's been years since you've been close to someone whole, someone warm, someone—
No.
You wrench yourself back so fast you nearly trip and fall to the floor before you catch the back of your seat. You stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares back, eyes half-lidded. "You should go."
Not we. You.
Because he knows — both of you know — that if you stay, you will do something you regret. For once, Guy de Lusignan is the responsible one. You turn on your heel and rush out of the door, your steps echoing down the hall. Guy laughs to himself and shakes his head.
"Dieu aie pitié." God have mercy.
⊱ ۫ ׅ @judasprieist @schizo-toddhoward @certifiedbbgmaterial @tobeahundred — let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist for this story!
Their escape was a simple enough thing to accom-plish. A minor diversion for the guard at the Tower; a dash along a narrow, twisted side street into a dark alley; several quick turns; and they were in the midst of the city, lost in a stifling crush of humanity on David Street where it intersected with the Latin Exchange and the Triple Market to become Temple Street. Baldwin drew her back, blending into the press of people along the street.
Pilgrims, newly arrived to the Holy Land and clothed in tatters of sackcloth, clotted the streets, their faces upturned in joyous rapture at being in the holiest city of Christendom. They competed with a caravan that had recently arrived, trying to move its carted goods, and with the soldiers intent on keeping order on the busy boule-vard. The pilgrims were a motley band, moving in slow procession towards the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, chanting songs and prayers, and waving the palm of Jeri-cho. A solemn line of black-clad monastics rounded out the pious mob, clouds of incense enveloping the proces-sion.
Baldwin led, Sibylla followed, growing ever more eager in their adventure, though she still was not completely at ease with him. She had often heard rumors from the women at Court about her brother's fondness for such ventures, but this was a scandal. That he wanted to include the sister he hardly knew made it irresistible.
They were two ordinary women of Araby garbed in manifold layers of silk, their faces hidden away behind the world of the veil.
A scene from the novel The Leper King, which I commissioned @厄舍府 to illustrate.🥰
