she’s so gorgeous. she got her masters in cuntology with a concentration in milfological studies from the university of servington. oh, she also graduated magna come louder.
Have some lovely Baldwin IV cover illustrations for Zofia Kossak’s 1937 novel The Leper King (Król Trędowaty):
I’m particularly fond of these two - I think the minimalist art style suits both the subject and our leprous boy quite well, and I like the design the artists chose for his cloak and veil.
I also came across a rather pretty Polish cover for the Bernard Hamilton book:
My version of the Kossak novel (published in Germany in 1964), sadly, looks quite boring in comparison:
And while we’re on the subject: I have to admit I rather enjoyed Kossak’s take on the events in the Holy Land between roughly 1176 and 1187. Of course, it is very old-fashioned in terms of its writing style, and far from historically accurate - but considering that it was published in 1937, long before most of the decisive academic works we know had been written, I think Kossak nonetheless did an admirable job with presenting the historical events in a way that is both comprehensible and somewhat entertaining. Being nitpicky about the details while having access to almost a hundred years’ worth of further research would be a little unfair, in my opinion.
That said, I’m not sure this is the right novel for you to read if you are simply looking for some good sauce about Baldwin, since Kossak’s portrayal of him is a bit of a mixed bag. In some instances, her Baldwin resembled the wise, gentle king we know from KoH very closely, but in others, he came across as whiny and wallowing in self-pity, acting much more childish than he should. (Remember: In that time and place, men were considered legal adults at the age of fifteen.) So, what I missed in Kossak’s Baldwin sometimes was the inner strength that - according to the chroniclers - he must have possessed in spades. His mother Agnes of Courtenay, by the way, receives a similar treatment and is presented as an overweight clucking old hag, which is, unfortunately, the default characterisation she is given in older historical fiction.
Apart from that, though, The Leper King was a hoot. This may be just my particular brand of weirdness talking - I’m currently writing my thesis about medieval German literature, so go figure - but I unapologetically love those early literary takes on Baldwin & Co. Their differing characterisations of the various historical figures are always fun to compare, sometimes I merely get a good laugh out of them while other times I end up being surprised or even genuinely impressed. This novel, somehow, managed to pair the WTF-factor with moments that I found genuinely heart-warming and dialogue that was by turns either well-written or absolutely laughable.
To be fair, some of this can probably be chalked up to the translation because - let’s face it - many things that sound fine in any other language become very odd, all of a sudden, when translated into German. Towards the end of the book, for example, Kossak covers the Hattin episode and thus briefly tells how Eschiva and her sons retreated into the citadel at Lake Tiberias when Salah ad-Din laid siege to the city. Upon hearing this news, Kossak’s Raymond exclaims affectionately “Meine tapfere Alte!”, which is best translated as “My valiant old lady!”, and if that isn’t the funniest shit ever, then I don’t know.
What I also found particularly wholesome - though of course not historically viable - was the way Kossak depicted the relationship between Baldwin and Raymond. For some reason, she seems to think Raymond was Baldwin’s uncle (when in reality he was his first cousin once removed), but the “favourite uncle & favourite nephew” dynamic she builds between them really works for this novel. As a Raymond fangirl, it was also quite refreshing to read something that showed him as both sympathetic AND ambitious and, for once, didn’t make him do the whole “cackling evil relative who is after the crown” act.
In the German translation, Raymond repeatedly calls Baldwin fondly “Mein Junge” und “Mein Kleiner”, which literally means “my boy” and “my little one”. I’m not crying, you’re crying. Baldwin, in turn, refers to Raymond as “Oheim”, which is an old German term for “uncle” (specifically: the brother of the mother - imagine that: Raymond as Agnes of Courtenay’s brother! 😂). Hence, while it is simply a genealogical mistake and historically speaking, of course, a cartload of bollocks, it nonetheless warms my heart that this novel chose to present us with the one and only depiction of a literal “Uncle Tibs”.
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