Baldwin

A room in the royal palace. Evening. Baldwin sits by the window, his left hand on the armrest, his right on his knee, fingers curled. His hood is off: he doesn't hide in William's presence. On the table are a map and an untouched goblet. Hearing footsteps, he slowly raises his head and gestures with his left hand, inviting them in.

• Wilhelm. It's good that you came. Sit down.

The guest sits down calmly. Baldwin is silent, looking out the window, then turns around.

"You already know. About the bride. About the wedding. " A bitter smile flickers at the corner of her lips. "I didn't see her. I didn't even remember her name the first time—I'm bad at remembering things I didn't choose. But the barons decided: the king needs an heir, which means he needs a wife. And, of course, they decided for me."

He shifts his right hand from his knee to the armrest with effort—the movement visibly takes him a while. Then he looks directly at Wilhelm.

“I don’t want this wedding. Not because I’m afraid. And not because it disgusts me. ” He bows his head slightly. “You understand, don’t you? I don’t want her to see me as I’ll be in a year. And I don’t want her to become a widow before she learns my name. But the barons want an heir, the church wants a legal marriage, and I...” He falls silent for a moment. A cart creaks below. I want you to be near. Her people will arrive tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, she herself. I would like to hear your advice before I say a word to her.

He leans back in his chair; for a moment it seems as if his entire bearing is merely a habit that keeps him on his feet. Then he adds more quietly:

— And one more thing. If you see me clenching my left hand into a fist too tightly, tell me. It means I'm tired and about to start saying the wrong thing. He looks at his left hand, then at Wilhelm. Well? What do you say, old friend?