CHAPTER 172: CHAPTER 172 - BALDWIN’S PREPARATIONS FOR CONSTANCE’S ARRIVAL

September 7th, 1181 - Jerusalem

The air in Jerusalem was still warm with the lingering heat of late summer when the messenger from Tyre arrived. He was dusty and worn, his horse flecked with foam from the hard ride south, yet his face bore a look of triumph. In the courtyard of the Tower of David, where Baldwin had spent the morning receiving reports on the progress of the second curtain wall, the rider dismounted and dropped to one knee.

"My lord king," the man said breathlessly, "the Lady Constance has landed safely at Tyre. Her ships ride anchored in the harbor, and her retinue is already disembarking."

For a long moment, Baldwin said nothing. He felt his chest tighten, though not with sickness but with the weight of the occasion. Years of careful planning, months of negotiation, and the perilous voyage across the sea had led to this moment. Sicily had delivered its promise. His future wife—princess of the Hautevilles and aunt of William II—was now upon the soil of Outremer.

"Thanks be to God," Baldwin murmured. Then, louder, for all in the courtyard to hear, "Summon the council. We have much to prepare."

That afternoon, the king gathered his household, the masters of the city’s guilds, and the captains of the military orders in the palace hall. As he listened to their voices and weighed their counsel, his mind turned repeatedly to the practical question of Constance’s journey from Tyre to Jerusalem.

"My lords," Baldwin began, his voice carrying though thin with strain, "the Lady Constance of Sicily has arrived in Tyre. God has delivered her safely to our shores. From this day we must make ready for her coming to Jerusalem, for her coronation and for our marriage before the Holy Sepulchre."

There was a murmur of assent around the table. Roger inclined his head: "A blessing, sire. The city will take heart at the sight of so noble a lady joining you."

Gerard was quicker, sharper: "The people must see triumph in this union, not hesitation. We must stage her entry in full magnificence—processions, banners, relics borne before her, so that all know Heaven favors you."

Balian added, "And we must ensure the nobility also sees their place in this ceremony. If any are slighted, they will whisper. Better to assign each baron a visible role in the welcoming or the marriage mass itself."

Baldwin nodded, fingers tapping the wood. "Yes. We shall discuss the order of procession. But more pressing: housing, provisions, and security. Tyre is but her landing place. She must ride south in safety. The road from Tyre to Jerusalem is not without its dangers."

Lord Humphrey of Toron spoke up: "My men are already garrisoned in Galilee. I would gladly send them north to meet her escort and ride with her caravan."

Gerard interjected: "The Templars, too, should take a role. Our knights are stationed along the coastal roads, and we can guarantee her swift passage."

Roger’s calm voice cut across Gerard’s sharp tone: "And the Hospitallers shall supply physicians and attendants. A queen must travel in comfort, not like a soldier."

Baldwin allowed the competing offers to hang a moment before giving his judgment. "So be it. Each order will have its place. Humphrey, you shall lead the noble escort. The Templars will ride ahead to clear the road, and the Hospitallers shall provide her household guard and comfort. No single party will claim her—it will be the kingdom entire that brings her to Jerusalem."

That seemed to settle the tension. Gerard scowled but said nothing. Roger inclined his head, satisfied.

In earlier years, such a procession would have been an arduous affair, with travelers picking their way along rutted paths, broken paving, and muddy stretches in the valleys. Merchants often complained that wagons snapped their axles before reaching the Holy City. But now, thanks to his reforms and the treasury built upon port dues and royal taxation, Baldwin had invested heavily in new roads.

Concrete. That was the word that had begun to echo proudly in Jerusalem’s streets. Roman in inspiration, but adapted by the masons of Outremer with the lime and ash of the Levant, the material bound stone into smooth, durable surfaces. The road from Jaffa to Jerusalem had been the first to be remade, but now the route from Tyre to Acre, and then southward through Caesarea and Jaffa to the Holy City, gleamed with the pale sheen of newly laid stretches.

Merchants praised it. Pilgrims blessed it. And now, Baldwin thought with satisfaction, it would serve as the ceremonial path of his bride.

"Let her journey be as smooth as the stones we have laid," Baldwin said quietly to Balian, who stood at his right hand.

The baron of Ibelin inclined his head. "It will be, sire. The masons tell me the concrete set well, even in the rains of spring. The way will be firm underfoot. And the people along the road will line it with garlands when they hear she comes."

Once the matter of escort was resolved, Brother Thomas unfurled a scroll. "Your Grace, we must also settle the dates. Word spreads quickly—already the Patriarch has been asked when the mass shall be sung. Pilgrims will throng here in expectation."

"The wedding," Baldwin said firmly, "shall be in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Let no lesser place be considered. We shall set the day three weeks hence, allowing for her journey from Tyre and for the city’s preparations."

Gerard leaned forward. "And the ceremony must be one of power. Relics displayed—the True Cross, carried before the bride and groom. Let the Saracens hear of it in Damascus, let Cairo tremble when word comes that Jerusalem and Sicily are joined."

Roger gave a faint smile. "Let us not turn a wedding into a declaration of war, Master Gerard. Still, the grandeur must be sufficient, I agree."

Balian, ever practical, asked, "What of the dowry goods and Sicilian retinue? The ports and streets will need regulation. Hundreds may come with her, and they must be lodged somewhere, and not at the expense of the poor citizens."

Baldwin turned to Thomas. "See to it. The new districts between the old wall and the new curtain will house some of her retinue—those quarters are rising already. If more is needed, requisition from the vacant homes the crown purchased near the Tower of David."

Thomas nodded briskly, already scribbling notes.

Over the following days, Jerusalem stirred with preparations. Masons hastened to repair cracked pavement along the main processional route from the Jaffa Gate to the Holy Sepulchre. Merchants hung bright cloths above their shops, eager to show their prosperity. The military orders readied their finest squadrons to escort the queen-to-be.

The new forum site near the Tower of David—still raw earth and rising walls—was temporarily draped in banners. Baldwin ordered that Constance should see not only the ancient heart of the city but also its growing future. He wanted her to know she was marrying not a decaying kingdom but a realm that built and expanded.

Letters were sent to Acre, Nablus, and beyond, summoning barons and bishops to Jerusalem for the wedding. Pilgrims already in the city buzzed with the news, spreading it in taverns and markets. The atmosphere grew expectant, like the gathering of breath before a great shout.

Baldwin, though confined often to a litter by his illness, insisted on reviewing the works personally. He was carried through the new districts being laid between the old wall and the rising second curtain. The foundations of houses were already rising, straight streets traced by string and stake, workshops promised to bring craftsmen from across Christendom. Yet in the king’s mind, all of this was merely backdrop. The true stage was the great processional road that would lead to the Tower of David and the Royal Forum beyond, where Constance would be formally greeted.

"See that the paving is swept clean," Baldwin ordered the steward. "And hang the banners of both Jerusalem and Sicily upon the gates. The people must see in their colors the union of our realms."

"Yes, my lord," the steward bowed.

In council, the talk was more measured. Gerard of Ridefort of the Templars asked pointedly how many knights would be needed for the escort. Reynald of Sidon pressed the question of lodgings for Constance’s household, which was said to number over two hundred souls, from chamberlains and ladies to cooks and grooms.

Archdeacon Matthew, ever practical, raised the matter of expense. "The treasurers must loosen their purse strings, sire, for the streets must be adorned, and gifts laid ready at every station. The people will expect a show of magnificence. Better that we spend freely now, that the city may remember this wedding as a crowning glory, than to appear miserly."

Baldwin nodded. "So be it. Let the expense be borne by the royal treasury. We have the means, thanks to the revenues of our ports. And what we spend will not be wasted, for the glory of the city is the glory of the realm."

Still, it was Balian who voiced the thought on many minds. "The roads will carry her here, but they must also carry the message of unity. If the people see her journey upon the new works—the proof of your reforms—they will know the kingdom prospers. It will bind her arrival to your vision of Jerusalem reborn."

Baldwin smiled faintly. "You put it well, Balian. Then let it be so. Her triumphal procession shall not only celebrate her arrival, but the renewal of our realm."

That night, Baldwin sat alone in his chamber, a candle guttering low beside him. The parchments on the table before him were filled with notes from the council—lists of supplies, names of nobles to be summoned, the order of the procession. But his thoughts strayed from the practicalities.

He imagined the day: Constance riding at the head of her retinue, beneath a canopy of crimson and gold. The new concrete roads, white and gleaming, bearing her smoothly across the valleys where once carts had sunk into mud. The people of Outremer pressing along the way, showering flowers, crying blessings in Latin, Greek, and Arabic. The gates of Jerusalem adorned with banners, the bells of the Holy Sepulchre pealing across the city.

And he, Baldwin, waiting upon the steps of the Tower of David, ready to take her hand before all the people and lead her into the heart of the realm.

For a moment, the king allowed himself to close his eyes. His body was wracked with pain, his fingers already stiff and wasted by disease, but in that vision he felt whole. Strong. A monarch at the height of his power.

"This marriage," he whispered to himself, "shall not only bind two realms. It shall show the world that Jerusalem endures."

On the eve of dispatching the official royal escort north to Tyre, Baldwin went alone—or as alone as a king ever could—to the Chapel of Calvary within the Holy Sepulchre.

He knelt with difficulty, his limbs stiff, his skin mottled and bandaged beneath his robes. Before him the great altar flickered with candlelight, the air thick with incense.

"Lord," he whispered, "You have spared me longer than many thought possible. If it is Your will that I wed and beget an heir, then let this marriage bear fruit. If it is Your will that I die soon, then grant that she be a strong regent, and that Jerusalem endure."

The words came halting, but when he rose, he felt lighter. Whatever storms lay ahead, both in his flesh and in his kingdom, God’s will would be revealed.

At dawn the next day, the chosen escort set out for Tyre: Humphrey at its head, the Templars in disciplined columns, the Hospitallers with their physicians and attendants, banners snapping in the dry wind. Baldwin watched from the palace balcony as they rode out through the Jaffa Gate, a long column glinting in the sun.

When next he saw them, Constance would be with them, and Jerusalem would greet her as its queen.

And so the city waited, its king both anxious and resolute, knowing that the eyes of Christendom and of its enemies alike were fixed upon this union that would shape the destiny of kingdoms.