The great hall of Jerusalem's palace thrummed with anticipation, a sea of nobles, knights, and clergy packed shoulder to shoulder. Their eyes followed Ethan—Baldwin IV—as he entered, each step a deliberate effort to mask the weakness in his leprosy-ravaged body. The silver mask covering half his face gleamed in the torchlight, a symbol of both his authority and his affliction. Ethan's heart pounded, but Baldwin's memories, now fused with his own, steadied him. He knew this hall, these faces, the weight of their expectations. He was their king, and today, he had to prove it.
He ascended the dais, settling onto the throne with as much grace as his aching limbs allowed. The court fell silent, waiting. Ethan scanned the crowd: Raymond of Tripoli, his regent, stood with a guarded expression; the Grand Master of the Templars, Odo de St. Amand, radiated zeal; and Sibylla, his sister, watched from the side, her green eyes unreadable. Ethan drew a breath, letting Baldwin's instincts guide his words.
"Lords and knights of Jerusalem," he began, his voice carrying despite its rasp, "Saladin marches on our lands. His army threatens Ascalon, and with it, our kingdom's heart. We will not yield. I call upon every man here to prepare for war. The Holy City will stand."
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall, though Ethan caught skeptical glances among the barons. Baldwin's memories whispered their names and motives: Joscelin de Courtenay, ambitious and untrustworthy; Balian of Ibelin, loyal but cautious. Ethan pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the moment. "Raymond, report on our preparations," he commanded.
Raymond stepped forward, detailing the mustering of knights and levies. "We have rallied four hundred knights and two thousand foot soldiers, sire. The Templars pledge eighty knights, the Hospitallers sixty. We fortify Ascalon, but Saladin's numbers dwarf ours."
Ethan nodded, Baldwin's strategic knowledge flooding his mind. Montgisard was near, a battle where Baldwin had historically outmaneuvered Saladin. The memory was vivid: a narrow valley, a sudden charge, exploiting the enemy's overextended lines. "Send scouts to the valley near Montgisard," Ethan said, surprising himself with the clarity of the order. "I want reports on the terrain and Saladin's movements. We will choose our ground."
Raymond's eyes widened slightly, but he bowed. "At once, my lord."
As the court dispersed into discussions of logistics, Ethan's thoughts turned inward. The military plans felt natural, thanks to Baldwin's memories, but his body was another matter. The leprosy gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his mortality. He'd instructed Brother Gerard to prepare the herbal remedies—garlic, turmeric, and honey—but he needed to see progress soon. If he was to lead an army, he couldn't afford to collapse mid-campaign.
Later, in his private chambers, Brother Gerard arrived with a wooden tray bearing a clay bowl of pungent paste and a cup of steaming liquid. "As you commanded, sire," he said, setting the tray down. "A paste of garlic and turmeric, mixed with olive oil, and a tea of willow bark. I have also acquired honey from the Judean hills, pure and untainted."
Ethan inspected the paste, its sharp smell stinging his nose. In his time, he'd read about turmeric's anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, and garlic's ability to fight infections. It wasn't dapsone or rifampicin, but it was a start. "Apply the paste to my arms," he said, unwrapping the linen bandages to reveal the scarred, discolored skin beneath. The sight made his stomach turn, but he forced himself to stay composed.
Gerard hesitated, his face paling at the extent of the lesions. "Sire, this is... unconventional."
"Do it," Ethan said firmly, channeling Baldwin's authority. "And note any changes—redness, swelling, anything."
Gerard nodded, spreading the paste with a wooden spatula. The cool mixture soothed the burning skin, though Ethan couldn't tell if it was placebo or progress. He sipped the willow bark tea, its bitter taste wrinkling his nose. Aspirin's ancestor, he thought—salicin, a natural painkiller. If it reduced his fever and joint pain, he could focus on the war.
"Tell me about Saracen medicine," Ethan said as Gerard worked. "You mentioned texts from Damascus. What do they say about skin diseases?"
Gerard frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "They speak of cleansing the body with herbs and baths, sire. Some claim a plant called 'neem' purifies the blood. Others use oils distilled from frankincense to heal sores. But these are heathen practices, and I cannot vouch for their efficacy."
Ethan's mind raced. Neem? He'd heard of it—an Indian plant with antimicrobial properties. Frankincense might have anti-inflammatory effects. These were leads, fragments of a puzzle he could piece together with his modern knowledge. "Find neem," he ordered. "And frankincense oil. I want to test them."
Gerard bowed, though his expression suggested he thought the king was grasping at straws. "I will inquire with the merchants, sire."
As Gerard left, Ethan leaned back, exhaustion creeping in. The court appearance had drained him, and the herbal treatments were a gamble. He needed time—time to experiment, time to strengthen his body, time to prepare for Saladin. Baldwin's memories gave him a military edge, but they also carried a weight: the king's relentless drive, his acceptance of a short, painful life. Ethan wasn't ready to embrace that fate. He wanted to live, not just as Baldwin but as himself.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Balian of Ibelin entered, his weathered face serious but kind. "Sire, the scouts have been dispatched to Montgisard. I come to offer my sword and counsel. The barons are uneasy, and Sibylla's whispers do not help. You must bind them to you."
Ethan nodded, grateful for Balian's straightforwardness. Baldwin's memories confirmed his loyalty, a rare commodity. "Thank you, Balian. I'll need you at my side. Prepare the knights for a march. We'll face Saladin soon."
Balian bowed and left, leaving Ethan to stare at the flickering candle on his table. The paste on his arms tingled, a faint hope in a sea of uncertainty. He closed his eyes, picturing the battlefield at Montgisard, the strategies now as clear as his own memories. He could win this battle. He could survive this body. But first, he had to keep the court in line and his disease at bay.
Tomorrow, he'd test the neem and frankincense. Tomorrow, he'd rally the kingdom. Tonight, he was a king with two minds, fighting for a future that history said he couldn't have.