The heavy oak door creaked open, and a woman stepped into the chamber, her presence commanding despite the simplicity of her attire. Sibylla, Princess of Jerusalem, was younger than Ethan expected—perhaps eighteen, with sharp green eyes and auburn hair braided beneath a delicate veil. Her expression was a mix of concern and calculation, as if she were assessing a chessboard rather than her ailing brother. Ethan, still adjusting to the weight of Baldwin's bandaged body and silver mask, straightened on the throne-like chair, hoping he looked more kingly than he felt.
"Sire," Sibylla said, her voice soft but deliberate as she dipped into a curtsey. "I am relieved to see you awake. The court whispers of miracles."
Ethan's throat tightened. He didn't know Sibylla—not personally, only from history books. She was Baldwin's older sister, ambitious, destined to play a pivotal role in the kingdom's future. But was she an ally or a threat? He had no idea how Baldwin had interacted with her, and one wrong word could expose him as an impostor.
"Thank you, Sibylla," he said, keeping his tone neutral, the Old French flowing unnaturally from his lips. "Your presence is… comforting. What brings you here?"
Her eyes flickered, perhaps catching the hesitation in his voice. "I wished to see you myself, brother. Your illness has kept you from court too long, and the nobles grow restless. Raymond of Tripoli speaks boldly in your absence, and there are whispers of alliances forming without your consent."
Ethan's stomach churned. Politics. Of course. Raymond, the regent, had already struck him as a man with his own agenda. Now Sibylla was hinting at factionalism in the court—nobles scheming while the kingdom faced Saladin's army. He needed to tread carefully. "What do you suggest?" he asked, hoping to draw her out.
Sibylla stepped closer, her voice lowering. "You must show strength, Baldwin. Appear before the court, rally the knights. Saladin's shadow looms, and a weak king invites betrayal. I can help you, as I always have."
The words were warm, but Ethan sensed an edge. Was she offering support or positioning herself to control him? He remembered Sibylla's historical reputation—loyal to her brother but fiercely ambitious for her own son's claim to the throne. He nodded slowly. "I will address the court soon. But I need your counsel, sister. Who can I trust?"
She smiled, a calculated curve of her lips. "Trust is a rare coin in Jerusalem. The Templars are loyal to the Cross, but their zeal blinds them. The Hospitallers serve, but their eyes are on their own power. Raymond seeks influence, but he is no traitor—yet. For now, trust me, brother. I am your blood."
Ethan wasn't convinced, but he forced a smile, the mask hiding his uncertainty. "I will consider your words. Thank you, Sibylla."
She inclined her head and withdrew, leaving Ethan alone with his racing thoughts. He had to navigate this snake pit of a court while his body crumbled under leprosy. Speaking of which, he needed to act on his medical ideas before the disease worsened. He rang a small bell on the table beside him, summoning Brother Gerard, the Hospitaller physician.
Gerard entered, carrying a bundle of parchment scrolls. "As you requested, sire, I have brought texts on healing—some from our own monasteries, others from Saracen merchants in Acre. I must caution you, their methods are unorthodox."
Ethan leaned forward, ignoring the ache in his joints. "Show me."
Gerard unrolled a scroll, its script a mix of Latin and Arabic. "This speaks of herbs—garlic, myrrh, and a root called turmeric, used by the Saracens to cleanse wounds. Another text mentions honey as a salve to prevent corruption of the flesh."
Ethan's pulse quickened. He'd been right—medieval medicine wasn't entirely useless. Garlic and turmeric had antibacterial properties, and honey was a natural antiseptic. In his time, Hansen's disease was treated with specific antibiotics, but those were impossible here. Still, he could work with this. "Can we obtain these? Garlic, turmeric, honey? And what about willow bark? It reduces pain and fever."
Gerard blinked, clearly surprised by the king's knowledge. "Willow bark is known to us, sire, used for aches. Turmeric is rarer, but traders from the East bring it. I can procure these, though I do not understand how they might aid your… affliction."
"It's worth trying," Ethan said firmly. "Mix garlic and turmeric into a paste, apply it to my lesions daily. Use honey on any open sores. And brew willow bark tea for the pain. I want reports on any changes."
Gerard hesitated, likely torn between skepticism and duty. "As you command, my lord. But you must not neglect prayer. God's will—"
"God gave us minds to use," Ethan interrupted, then softened his tone. "I trust in His guidance, but I must explore every path."
Gerard bowed and left to gather the supplies, leaving Ethan to ponder his next steps. He wasn't just fighting leprosy; he was fighting time. The disease would progress, and even if he slowed it, he needed a long-term plan. He recalled reading about early attempts at isolating bacteria in the 19th century—far beyond this era's capabilities. But maybe he could experiment with fermentation or mold, like the accidental discovery of penicillin. It was a long shot, but he had to try something.
As he sat, staring at the flickering torchlight, a sudden pain lanced through his skull. He gasped, clutching his head as images and voices flooded his mind—memories that weren't his. A boy, crowned at thirteen, standing before a cheering court. A battlefield, knights charging under a blazing sun, the clash of steel and the cry of "Jerusalem!" A map of the kingdom, its fortresses and trade routes etched in perfect detail. Strategies—flanking maneuvers, feigned retreats, the use of terrain to counter larger armies. Baldwin's memories, his knowledge, his life.
Ethan staggered, gripping the chair to steady himself. It was as if a dam had burst, pouring the Leper King's mind into his own. He saw Montgisard—not as a history lesson, but as Baldwin had planned it: luring Saladin's forces into a narrow valley, using the Templars' heavy cavalry to break their lines, exploiting the enemy's overconfidence. He knew the strengths of every castle, the loyalties of every baron, the weaknesses of Saladin's supply lines.
The pain subsided, leaving Ethan breathless. He wasn't just Ethan anymore. He was Baldwin, too—or at least, he had Baldwin's military genius, his understanding of this world. For the first time since waking in this body, he felt a spark of hope. He could do this. He could fight Saladin, outmaneuver the court, maybe even find a way to survive the leprosy.
But the weight of those memories brought a new fear. Baldwin's life was one of duty, sacrifice, and pain. Could Ethan bear that burden? And what did it mean that Baldwin's mind had merged with his own? Was he still himself, or was he becoming someone else?
He pushed the thought aside. For now, he had a sister to manage, a war to prepare for, and a disease to fight. With Baldwin's strategies and Ethan's modern knowledge, he might just pull it off.
"Sire?" A squire's voice broke his reverie. "The court awaits your presence."
Ethan stood, his bandaged hands steady despite the ache. "Lead the way," he said, his voice carrying a new confidence. He was Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem—and he was ready to fight.