CHAPTER 165: CHAPTER 165 - A QUEENS REFLECTION

Palermo, June 6th, 1181

The sea beyond Palermo’s harbor glittered like hammered bronze under the morning sun, ships from every shore rocking gently at anchor. Some bore the banners of merchants—striped awnings of Genoa, Pisa, Amalfi—others belonged to the royal fleet, their hulls tarred black, sails furled tight against the steady breeze. From her apartments in the Palazzo dei Normanni, Constance could hear the harbor bells, the calls of stevedores in a half-dozen tongues, and the faint chant of a priest beginning mass at a church nearby. Sicily never lacked noise, and never lacked reminders that this island was a crossroads of kingdoms, faiths, and ambitions.

She had risen early, before her maids came to braid her hair and set her gown. In her private chapel she had spent the first hours of the morning in prayer, kneeling before the icon of the Virgin brought from Byzantium a generation earlier. Her prayers were not smooth or easy. They came with hesitation, with the weight of unease in her chest. For though she had, weeks before, given her assent to Baldwin’s proposal, the full gravity of it settled upon her now as the negotiations advanced and the days of her own freedom grew shorter.

"Grant me discernment, O Lord," she whispered, fingers pressed to the painted wood. "Let me not be the cause of ruin, but an instrument of strength. If this marriage is Your will, grant me courage. If it is folly, grant me a way to endure it."

Her confessor, Father Matteo, stood silently behind her, waiting until her prayer ended before approaching. He was a measured man, Sicilian-born but trained in Paris, always gentle with her conscience yet unafraid to remind her of her duties.

"You waver," he said softly, "but no woman who takes such time in prayer has truly lost her way. Doubt is not sin, my lady—it is the crucible in which God tempers faith."

Constance rose, smoothing her gown, though her eyes remained clouded. "Faith is one thing, Matteo. But marriage is another. This match... I see the wisdom. Baldwin is a strong king, perhaps the only king in the East capable of standing against the Ayyubid. But he is also a sick man. What kind of life awaits me in Jerusalem, tied to a husband who lives each day under the shadow of death?"

Matteo’s gaze was steady. "The life of a queen, perhaps. And the life of a woman who may secure both her family’s honor and Christendom’s bulwark. You do not marry only a man, Constance—you marry his cause."

Later that morning she summoned her councilors, the trusted circle her cousin William permitted her to keep at her side. They gathered in a vaulted chamber overlooking the gardens, where roses and orange trees bloomed. The air smelled of citrus and stone warmed by the sun. At her right sat Count Roger of Avellino, grey-haired and blunt, whose loyalty to her mother’s line of Hauteville blood was unquestioned. Beside him was Lady Albinia, a widowed noblewoman of Palermo, sharp-tongued but shrewd, who often spoke what others dared not. And at the far end was Bishop Pietro, whose steady presence lent an air of solemnity to every discussion.

"My lady," Roger began, bowing slightly, "the scribes are already preparing drafts of the dowry charter. The King’s chancery is in agreement that we should offer the terms discussed—a levy of knights and sergeants, a gift of galleys, and the sum of fifty thousand bezants. Yet they await your final assent, as it is your hand that seals this."

Constance nodded slowly. "The terms are heavy, but they are within Sicily’s strength. And more than that—they bind Sicily and Jerusalem in a partnership that will outlast any single man. Baldwin asked for soldiers and ships, and gold besides. He asked boldly. Yet boldness is what is required, if we are to see the Cross stand in the East."

Lady Albinia leaned forward, bracelets clinking softly. "You speak as though you are already his wife, Constance. But tell us—do you truly accept this union in your heart? A king he may be, but a leper also. That is no light thing. What husband can he be to you, in truth? What life will you have among the Franks of Outremer, far from Sicily, with your household stripped away?"

Her words fell heavy in the chamber. Even Roger shifted uneasily, though he was no man for delicate matters. Bishop Pietro cleared his throat before replying, his voice even: "It is not only the bond between man and wife we weigh here, but the fate of two realms. Jerusalem is no petty barony—it is the Holy City, the place of the Lord’s Passion. If its king is strengthened, Christendom is strengthened. What greater honor could Sicily claim than to set its lady upon that throne?"

Constance listened, her hands folded upon the table. Within her, two truths warred: the pragmatic sense that this match was wise, and the personal fear that it chained her to sorrow. Yet she thought again of Baldwin’s envoys, of Balian and Gerard, whose frankness had surprised her. They had spoken not as flatterers, but as men serving a king they respected. Baldwin had not hidden his sickness, nor sought to disguise the risks. That honesty had struck her more deeply than any gilded promise could.

"I have already given my word," she said at last. "And I will not be forsworn. My heart may hesitate, but my mind sees clearly. Baldwin is a man who carries a kingdom on his shoulders. If I can help bear that weight, then I must."

The council bowed their assent, though Lady Albinia’s eyes still glittered with doubt.

The day unfolded with a steady rhythm of duties. Constance walked the palace gardens with her ladies, pausing beneath the shade of cypresses where mosaics gleamed on the walls of the Cappella Palatina. The golden images of saints seemed to watch her with eyes both merciful and stern. Her maids, chattering of dresses and ships, barely noticed her silence. Yet within her mind the image of Jerusalem rose more vividly with each passing hour—its walls being rebuilt, its markets, its shrines. She imagined herself riding through its gates, a queen by Baldwin’s side, and wondered if the people would greet her with joy, or with suspicion.

At midday she received a letter from her cousin William, the king. His words were warm, though touched with the caution of a ruler balancing many fronts. "Cousin, you carry not only your own destiny, but the hopes of Sicily. This marriage, if concluded, binds us to the heart of Christendom’s struggle. See it through with dignity, and know you have my support."

She read the letter twice, and tucked it into her girdle. William’s support was no small thing. It meant her path was fixed.

That evening, as the sun sank over Palermo, casting the sea in bands of crimson and violet, Constance returned once more to her chapel. The air was cool, filled with the faint scent of incense lingering from morning prayers. She lit a single candle before the Virgin and knelt again.

"Holy Mother," she murmured, "I have consented to a path that is not easy. Guard me, that I may not falter. Guard Baldwin also, who bears more pain than any man deserves. If it be God’s will, let this union bring peace, not sorrow."

Behind her, Father Matteo entered quietly. "You will be remembered, Constance. Not for the fears you feel tonight, but for the courage you show tomorrow. Whatever awaits in Jerusalem, remember—you do not go alone. You carry Sicily with you."

She turned, her face pale but resolute. "Yes," she said. "And if God grants it, I will carry more than Sicily. I will carry hope."

The candle flickered, its light dancing upon the painted icon. Outside, the harbor bells tolled once more, marking the night watch. Ships creaked in their berths, ready for voyages to every shore. Constance rose from her knees, and for the first time since her assent, felt not only dread, but a strange, steady strength.

She was still Constance of Sicily—but soon she would be Queen of Jerusalem.