The dawn air was crisp, carrying the scent of dust and horse sweat as the army of Jerusalem assembled outside the city's walls. Ethan, as Baldwin IV, sat astride a white destrier, his silver mask gleaming beneath a hooded cloak. The chainmail hauberk felt like a lead weight on his frail shoulders, but the neem-turmeric paste and frankincense oil had steadied his condition enough to ride. His joints ached, dulled only slightly by the willow bark tea he'd downed before dawn. He gripped the reins, Baldwin's memories guiding his posture to project strength despite the leprosy gnawing at his body.
Before him stretched a modest but determined force: five hundred knights, their armor glinting in the rising sun; two thousand foot soldiers, gripping spears and shields; and the elite contingents of the Templars and Hospitallers, their red and black crosses stark against white surcoats. Banners fluttered, bearing the lion of Judah and the cross of Jerusalem. Ethan felt the weight of their eyes—some reverent, others skeptical, all measuring their masked king.
Balian of Ibelin rode up beside him, his expression steady. "Sire, the men are ready. The scouts confirm Saladin's army is encamped near Montgisard, overconfident in their numbers. We can reach the valley by dusk if we march swiftly."
Ethan nodded, Baldwin's memories painting the battle's strategy: a narrow valley, a sudden charge, Templar knights shattering Saladin's flanks. "Keep the pace brisk," he said, his voice firm despite the rasp. "We'll camp just outside the valley, out of sight. The Templars lead the charge tomorrow."
Balian bowed and relayed the orders, but Ethan's attention shifted to the cluster of nobles riding nearby. Raymond of Tripoli, the regent, sat tall on his horse, his gaze flickering between Ethan and the horizon. Joscelin de Courtenay, Sibylla's uncle, whispered to a knight Ethan didn't recognize, their eyes darting toward him. The Templar Grand Master, Odo de St. Amand, rode with his knights, his zeal palpable but his loyalty to the king—not the Church—questionable. The Hospitallers, led by their own master, Roger de Moulins, kept their distance, their allegiance split between duty and ambition.
Baldwin's memories supplied context: the nobles were a fractious lot, bound by faith and necessity but divided by greed and power. Raymond sought influence, perhaps even the crown if Baldwin fell. Joscelin backed Sibylla's ambitions, eyeing a regency for her future son. The Templars and Hospitallers served the Cross but often pursued their own agendas, their fortified preceptories rivaling royal authority. Ethan needed to unify them for Montgisard, or Saladin would exploit their divisions.
He spurred his horse forward, riding along the column to address the men, a move Baldwin's memories urged as both tradition and necessity. "Knights and soldiers of Jerusalem!" he called, raising a bandaged hand. "We march to defend our Holy City against Saladin's host. God is with us, and we will prevail!"
Cheers rose, loudest from the foot soldiers and levies, their faith in their young king unshaken. The Templars shouted "Deus Vult!" their fervor infectious. But Ethan caught Raymond's tight-lipped expression and Joscelin's subtle sneer. He'd have to watch them closely.
As the army marched, Ethan rode among the nobles, testing the waters. He pulled alongside Raymond, whose cool demeanor masked a calculating mind. "Regent," Ethan said, "your counsel has been vital. I trust you'll command the left flank at Montgisard, as we planned."
Raymond's eyes narrowed, perhaps surprised by the king's directness. "Of course, sire," he said, his tone measured. "But the men whisper of your health. To lead in battle is a heavy burden. Perhaps I should take the vanguard, to spare you."
Ethan's jaw tightened beneath the mask. Baldwin's memories warned that Raymond's offer was less about concern and more about seizing glory—and influence. "My place is at the front," Ethan said firmly. "The men need their king. You'll hold the flank, Raymond."
Raymond inclined his head, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of resentment. "As you command, my lord."
Next, Ethan approached Joscelin, whose loyalty to Sibylla made him a wildcard. "Joscelin," he said, keeping his tone warm but authoritative, "your family has ever served Jerusalem. I rely on you to rally the center with Balian."
Joscelin's smile was thin, his eyes darting to Raymond before returning to Ethan. "My honor, sire. But the court speaks of your… innovations. Water channels, strange machines. Some fear you stray from tradition."
Ethan bristled but kept his voice steady. "Tradition hasn't stopped Saladin's armies. My 'machines' will feed our people and break our enemies' walls. Would you rather starve in a siege?"
Joscelin's smile faltered, but he bowed. "Your wisdom guides us, sire."
The exchange left Ethan uneasy. Joscelin's words echoed Sibylla's warnings, suggesting a coordinated effort to undermine him. He needed to solidify his authority before the battle, or victory at Montgisard might only delay the kingdom's fractures.
As the army paused to water their horses at a stream, Ethan dismounted, wincing as his boots hit the ground. He approached Odo de St. Amand, the Templar Grand Master, whose men were key to the battle plan. "Odo," Ethan said, "your knights will strike first at Montgisard. I trust you'll follow my orders precisely."
Odo Ascalon, the Templar stronghold, was nearby, and Baldwin's memories confirmed Odo's pride. The Grand Master's eyes burned with zeal, but he bowed stiffly. "The Templars serve God and the kingdom, sire. We will crush the infidel as you command."
Ethan nodded, sensing the unspoken tension. The Templars answered to the Pope, not the king, and Odo's fervor could make him reckless. "Stay disciplined," Ethan warned. "No unauthorized charges. We hit Saladin's flanks together, or we fail."
Odo's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "As you will, my lord."
As the army resumed its march, Ethan's thoughts drifted to his technological projects. The irrigation channel was flowing, Anselm had reported, watering a small plot with promising results. The waterwheel prototype was nearly complete, and the counterweight trebuchet model had hurled a stone fifty paces in its first test. These were small victories, but they fueled Ethan's vision: a kingdom self-sufficient in food, its fortresses armed with superior weapons. If he survived Montgisard, he'd push these innovations further, perhaps introducing windmills or basic sanitation to curb disease. But first, he had to win the battle—and the loyalty of his fractious army.
By dusk, the army reached the hills overlooking Montgisard's valley. Ethan surveyed the terrain, Baldwin's memories confirming its advantages: narrow paths, steep slopes, perfect for an ambush. He issued orders to camp quietly, concealing their position from Saladin's scouts. As the men settled, Ethan felt the weight of their eyes. He was their king, their leper, their hope. Tomorrow, he'd lead them into battle, balancing Baldwin's genius, Ethan's ingenuity, and a body that could betray him at any moment.
He touched the vial of frankincense oil at his belt, a reminder of his fight against leprosy. The political games—Raymond's ambition, Joscelin's scheming, the Templars' zeal—were as dangerous as Saladin's army. But Ethan was ready to face them all, with a king's will and a modern mind.