The streets of Jerusalem rang with jubilation as the victorious army returned, the royal banner of the cross and lion fluttering above the procession. Ethan, as Baldwin IV, rode in a cushioned litter, his silver mask concealing the exhaustion etched into his face. The Battle of Montgisard had been a triumph—Saladin's army shattered, thousands of his men dead or fled, and Jerusalem's faith in its young king restored. Yet Ethan's body ached, the leprosy's grip unrelenting despite the neem-turmeric paste and frankincense oil that kept his lesions from worsening. The willow bark tea dulled his fever, but the strain of battle had pushed him to his limits. He was a king on borrowed time, and the court's political vipers were far from defeated.
The palace great hall was packed with nobles, clergy, and knights, their cheers echoing as Ethan ascended the dais to his throne. The victory had silenced doubters, but Baldwin's memories warned him of the fragility of such loyalty. Raymond of Tripoli, Joscelin de Courtenay, and even the Templars watched him with calculating eyes, and Sibylla's absence from the battlefield lingered like a shadow. Ethan knew he had to confront her—her ambition, tied to Joscelin and her future son, threatened to undermine his rule.
As the court dispersed, Ethan summoned Sibylla to his private chambers. He sat at a wooden table, a parchment map of the kingdom spread before him, alongside a sketch of the counterweight trebuchet and a report on the irrigation channel's success. The waterwheel prototype was now grinding grain, and the test field's crops were thriving, a small but tangible step toward food security. These innovations were his lifeline, but manpower was the kingdom's weakness. Montgisard had cost five hundred men, and Jerusalem's forces were stretched thin. Ethan's modern mind churned with ideas to address this—could he reform recruitment, train levies more efficiently, or incentivize settlers to bolster the population?
Sibylla entered, her auburn hair framed by a silk veil, her green eyes sharp with a mix of deference and defiance. "Brother," she said, curtsying, "your victory at Montgisard is the talk of the kingdom. The people call you God's chosen."
Ethan studied her, Baldwin's memories supplying her motives: loyalty to family, but a fierce ambition for her son's claim to the throne. "The people's faith is heartening," he said, his voice steady despite the rasp. "But your absence from the battlefield was noted, sister. Joscelin spoke against me before the battle, questioning my health, my leadership. Did you put those words in his mouth?"
Sibylla's smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, her tone smooth. "Joscelin speaks for himself, Baldwin. I urged caution, not disloyalty. Your health concerns us all. To risk yourself in battle—"
"My health is my burden," Ethan cut in, his voice sharp with Baldwin's authority. "I led the army and won. Your whispers, through Joscelin or others, weaken the kingdom. If you seek to secure your son's future, do it by supporting me, not scheming with barons."
Her eyes flashed, but she lowered her gaze, a calculated gesture. "I am your sister, Baldwin. I want only Jerusalem's strength. But the court fears for you. If you fall, who leads? My son is but a child, and Raymond—"
"Raymond follows my orders," Ethan said, though he knew the regent's loyalty was tenuous. "And you will cease stirring doubt. Montgisard proves I am king. Stand with me, Sibylla, or stay silent."
Sibylla's lips tightened, but she nodded. "As you command, my lord." She curtsied and left, her departure leaving a chill in the room. Ethan knew the confrontation had only delayed her maneuvering. Baldwin's memories warned that Sibylla's ambition would resurface, and he'd need to bind her loyalty—or neutralize her influence.
Alone, Ethan leaned back, his bandaged hands trembling from the strain of the day. Brother Gerard's latest report lay on the table: the neem paste and frankincense oil continued to reduce inflammation, and a new batch of Arabic medical texts from Saladin's captured supplies hinted at herbal compounds for pain relief. Ethan's modern knowledge seized on these—could he isolate plant-based antiseptics or analgesics? It was a long shot, but every day he slowed the leprosy's progress was a day to reform the kingdom.
His thoughts turned to manpower, a problem Baldwin's memories underscored. The Crusader states relied on feudal levies, knights, and religious orders, but losses like Montgisard's were unsustainable. Saladin would regroup, and Jerusalem needed more soldiers. Ethan's 21st-century perspective offered solutions. Could he standardize training for levies, creating a more disciplined militia? In his time, he'd read about medieval towns forming communal militias—perhaps he could organize Jerusalem's citizens into a reserve force, trained in basic spear and shield tactics. Rewarding service with land or tax exemptions might attract settlers from Europe, bolstering the population.
He jotted notes on a parchment, his handwriting shaky but determined. First, a training program: weekly drills for able-bodied men in Jerusalem and outlying towns, focusing on formation and archery. Second, incentives: offer land grants in safer regions like Galilee to knights and settlers willing to serve. Third, alliances: strengthen ties with Byzantine envoys or Armenian lords to secure mercenaries or auxiliaries. These reforms would take time, but Montgisard's victory gave him political capital to push them.
His technological projects offered another angle. The irrigation channel's success could support larger farms, freeing men from labor to train as soldiers. The waterwheel, now operational, could scale to multiple mills, increasing food production. The counterweight trebuchet, still in prototype, promised a defensive edge—Ethan envisioned a network of fortified outposts armed with these weapons, reducing the need for large garrisons. He'd meet with Anselm tomorrow to refine the trebuchet's design and expand the irrigation network.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Balian of Ibelin entered, his face weary but proud. "Sire, the city is secure, and the wounded are tended. The barons are quiet—for now. But Raymond speaks of consolidating power under a regency, citing your health."
Ethan's jaw clenched. Raymond's ambition was predictable, but dangerous. "Summon the court tomorrow," he said. "I'll announce plans to strengthen the kingdom—training for levies, rewards for service. Let Raymond try to argue against that."
Balian nodded, a spark of admiration in his eyes. "You've changed, sire. Montgisard has made you a legend, but these plans… they're bold. The barons may resist."
"Let them," Ethan said, his voice firm. "Montgisard bought us time, not safety. We rebuild, or we fall."
As Balian left, Ethan stood, wincing as his joints protested. He looked out the window at Jerusalem's moonlit domes, the city he'd fought for. Sibylla's defiance, Raymond's scheming, and Saladin's inevitable return loomed large, but Ethan felt a flicker of hope. With Baldwin's strategies, his modern ideas, and a body holding steady, he could reform the kingdom—more soldiers, better defenses, a stronger future. But as he adjusted his mask, the weight of his dual identity pressed on him. He was Baldwin, he was Ethan, and the path ahead would test both.