The great hall of Jerusalem's palace thrummed with tension, the air thick with the scent of incense and the weight of scrutiny. Ethan, as King Baldwin IV, sat on the throne, his silver mask a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestries behind him. His leprosy-ravaged body ached, the neem-turmeric-aloe paste soothing but not curing his lesions, and a recent flare of fever had forced him to double his willow bark tea intake. Yet Montgisard's victory cloaked him in authority, and Baldwin's memories steadied his resolve. Today, he would face the court to defend his reforms, knowing Sibylla, Raymond, and Joscelin waited to challenge him. His modern mind churned with new ideas—technologies to bolster the kingdom beyond what he'd already begun.
The hall was packed: nobles in rich tunics, knights in polished armor, clergy clutching crosses. Balian of Ibelin stood near the dais, a pillar of loyalty, while Anselm, the master of the royal works, held sketches of the latest projects. Sibylla, her auburn hair veiled, watched with a calculated smile. Raymond of Tripoli, regal and guarded, stood beside Joscelin de Courtenay, whose eyes gleamed with barely concealed ambition. The Templars and Hospitallers, led by Odo de St. Amand and Roger de Moulins, flanked the room, their allegiance to the crown uncertain.
Ethan rose, his bandaged hands gripping the throne's arms. "Lords of Jerusalem," he began, his voice carrying Baldwin's gravitas, "Montgisard was a triumph, but our enemies gather. We must strengthen our kingdom—more men, stronger walls, fields that feed us through war. Our militia trains in Jerusalem and Jaffa, with three hundred men ready and more joining. Irrigation channels water Acre's fields, and waterwheels grind grain in Jaffa. A new fortress rises at Montgisard, aided by a device to lift stones faster than ever."
Anselm stepped forward, unrolling a sketch of the pulley system—Ethan's modern-inspired innovation, adapted from vague memories of Roman engineering. "This system," Ethan continued, "has doubled the speed of construction at Montgisard. Stones are lifted with ropes and weights, freeing men for other tasks. We will use it at Gaza and Ascalon, and arm these fortresses with trebuchets that hurl stones eighty paces."
The court murmured, some nodding, others frowning. A baron from Galilee spoke up, his voice hesitant. "Sire, these works are marvelous, but costly. The barons' levies are strained, and settlers in Galilee demand protection."
Ethan nodded, anticipating the concern. "The crown will fund tools and seed for settlers, and the militia will guard them. I've sent envoys to Byzantium and Armenia for allies to bolster our ranks. Jerusalem will not stand alone."
Joscelin seized the moment, his tone smooth but barbed. "Your zeal is admirable, sire, but these machines and militias unsettle the order. Arming peasants risks rebellion, and these 'pulleys'—are they not a departure from God's design?"
The hall tensed, eyes darting to Ethan. Baldwin's memories warned of Joscelin's ties to Sibylla, who remained silent, her gaze piercing. Ethan leaned forward, his voice cold. "God gave us minds to build, Joscelin. Montgisard proved His favor. The militia will defend, not rebel, and my machines will break Saladin's walls. Do you doubt Jerusalem's survival?"
Joscelin paled, bowing. "I serve the kingdom, sire."
Raymond spoke next, his voice measured. "Your health, sire, concerns us all. These reforms demand a king's strength. If you falter, who leads?"
The accusation hung heavy, and Ethan felt the court's eyes on his masked face. "I led at Montgisard," he said, his voice rising. "I will lead now. Support my reforms, Raymond, or name your alternative before this court."
The hall fell silent, Raymond's eyes narrowing before he bowed. "I stand with you, sire."
Sibylla finally spoke, her voice soft but pointed. "Brother, your vision inspires, but haste risks division. The barons need time to embrace such changes."
Ethan met her gaze, Baldwin's memories screaming her ambition. "Time is a luxury we lack, sister. Saladin regroups, and we must be ready. Stand with me, or the court will know where you stand."
Sibylla's smile tightened, but she nodded, her silence a temporary retreat. The court adjourned, buzzing with whispers of the king's transformation—a frail boy now a commanding leader, his reforms reshaping the kingdom.
Later, in his chambers, Ethan reviewed a letter from Byzantine Emperor Manuel I, delivered that morning. "To the King of Jerusalem," it read, "your victory at Montgisard is renowned. We offer ships for your ports and five hundred cataphracts, but in exchange, we seek relics from the Holy Sepulchre and trade rights in Acre." Ethan frowned—Manuel's support was vital, but the cost was steep. He drafted a reply, offering limited trade concessions but holding firm on relics, his modern pragmatism guiding the negotiation.
A scout's report darkened his mood: Saladin's forces were probing Gaza, testing Jerusalem's southern defenses. The urgency of Ethan's reforms—militia, fortresses, alliances—intensified. His thoughts turned to new technologies. The pulley system's success sparked ideas: windmills, simpler than waterwheels, could harness coastal breezes to grind grain or pump water for irrigation. Basic sanitation—boiling water, latrines outside city walls—could curb disease, freeing men for the army. Improved metallurgy, like better forges for stronger steel, could enhance weapons and trebuchet components. Ethan's knowledge was limited, but he'd read enough to know these were feasible with 12th-century tools, if framed as divine inspiration.
He jotted notes, his bandaged hands trembling. A recent fever spike had worried Brother Gerard, who'd suggested a new infusion of chamomile from the Arabic texts to calm inflammation. Ethan approved, his modern mind hoping for synergistic effects with aloe and neem. But as he wrote, a wave of doubt hit. Was he still Ethan, the barista dreaming of a quiet life, or was Baldwin's duty consuming him? Montgisard had made him a legend, but the cost—his health, his identity—gnawed at him.
Anselm's report arrived, detailing the Montgisard fortress: the pulley system had halved construction time, and the first trebuchet was being assembled. Ethan ordered its design sent to Gaza and plans for windmills drafted for Jaffa. Fortifying Jericho remained a goal, its springs a defensive asset, but required more men—hence the militia and Byzantine alliance.
As night fell, Ethan stood by his window, Jerusalem's domes aglow. Saladin's probes, Sibylla's ambition, Raymond's scheming—each was a battle. But with fortresses rising, machines spreading, and allies on the horizon, Ethan felt a flicker of hope. He was Baldwin IV, Ethan Caldwell, a king forging a future against history's tide.