The morning sun filtered through the narrow windows of Baldwin's chambers, casting golden streaks across the stone floor. Ethan sat at a wooden table, his bandaged hands steadier than they'd been in days. The garlic-turmeric paste and honey salves, applied diligently by Brother Gerard, had begun to show results. The lesions on his arms were less inflamed, the raw edges of his sores slightly less angry. The willow bark tea dulled the constant ache in his joints, giving him a clarity he hadn't felt since waking in this body. It wasn't a cure—Ethan knew leprosy required multidrug therapy far beyond this era's reach—but it was progress. For the first time, he dared to hope he could slow the disease's march.
Brother Gerard entered, carrying a small vial of amber liquid and a bundle of dried leaves. "Sire, I have acquired frankincense oil and neem leaves, as you requested," he said, setting them down. "The merchants in Acre drove a hard bargain, but they swear by the neem's purifying qualities."
Ethan nodded, his mind already racing. Neem was promising—its antibacterial and antifungal properties could complement the turmeric and garlic. The frankincense oil might reduce inflammation further. "Crush the neem leaves into a paste with the turmeric mixture," he instructed. "Mix a few drops of frankincense oil into it. Apply it twice daily, and keep a record of any changes."
Gerard's brow furrowed, but he no longer questioned the king's orders. "As you command, my lord. The court speaks of your vigor today. Your presence yesterday inspired many."
Ethan allowed a small smile, hidden by his silver mask. His appearance before the court had quieted some of the whispers, though he knew Sibylla and Raymond were still maneuvering. Baldwin's memories, now fully integrated, gave him an edge—he could anticipate their moves, read their intentions. But military strategy alone wouldn't secure the kingdom. Saladin's army was closing in, and Jerusalem's resources were stretched thin. Ethan needed more than knights and prayers. He needed innovation.
As Gerard applied the new paste, Ethan's thoughts drifted to his old life. He wasn't an engineer or a scientist, just a barista with a knack for trivia and a few history podcasts under his belt. But he knew enough about the modern world to recognize the gaps in this one. The 12th century lacked so much—sanitation, efficient agriculture, basic mechanics. Could he bridge that gap? Introduce technologies that were simple yet transformative, without arousing suspicion?
He started small, picturing the kingdom's needs. Jerusalem relied on trade and agriculture, but its fields were parched, and its sieges were brutal. Irrigation could boost crop yields—simple ditches or aqueducts, like those the Romans had built, were within reach. He'd read about medieval waterwheels; could he refine them for grinding grain or even powering basic tools? And for war, the Crusaders' armor and weapons were effective but heavy. Could he introduce lighter crossbow designs or better siege equipment, like counterweight trebuchets? These were centuries away historically, but with Baldwin's authority, he could nudge the kingdom toward them.
"Gerard," Ethan said, testing the waters, "how do our farmers water their fields?"
The physician blinked, caught off guard. "With buckets from wells or rivers, sire. In dry seasons, they pray for rain."
Ethan nodded, his mind sketching a plan. "Summon the master of the royal works. I want to discuss… channels to bring water to the fields. Like the Romans did."
Gerard's eyes widened, but he bowed. "I will fetch him, my lord."
As Gerard left, a squire announced the arrival of Balian of Ibelin. Ethan straightened, grateful for a familiar ally. Balian entered, his surcoat dusty from the road, his expression grim but resolute. "Sire, the scouts have returned from Montgisard. Saladin's army is encamped near the valley, overconfident in their numbers. The terrain favors us, as you predicted."
Ethan's heart quickened. Baldwin's memories painted the scene: a narrow valley, perfect for funneling Saladin's forces into a trap. "Good," he said, his voice steady with the king's instincts. "Muster the knights and levies. We march for Montgisard in two days. The Templars will lead the charge, with the Hospitallers on the flanks."
Balian nodded, admiration in his eyes. "Your father would be proud, sire. This is the Baldwin who held court at thirteen."
Ethan forced a smile, the mask hiding his unease. He wasn't Baldwin, not entirely, but the memories made it hard to draw the line. He shifted the conversation to his new ideas. "Balian, our kingdom is strong, but it could be stronger. What if we built machines to grind grain faster? Or devices to hurl stones farther in sieges?"
Balian frowned, intrigued but cautious. "Such things exist, sire—mills and mangonels—but they are costly and slow to build. Have you a new design in mind?"
Ethan hesitated. He couldn't exactly sketch a blueprint, but he could describe concepts. "Imagine a mill powered by a river, not men. Or a siege engine that uses weights, not ropes, to throw stones twice as far. I'll speak with the master of works to design them."
Balian's eyes lit up. "If such things are possible, they could change our fortunes. But the barons will need convincing, and the Church may call it unnatural."
Ethan nodded, expecting resistance. He'd have to frame these innovations as divine inspiration, not modern knowledge. "I'll handle the court," he said. "Focus on the march to Montgisard."
As Balian left, Ethan turned to the table, where a parchment map of the kingdom lay spread out. Baldwin's memories guided his finger to Montgisard, tracing the valley's contours. He could win this battle—he knew it now, with a certainty that wasn't his own. But victory on the battlefield wouldn't solve everything. The kingdom needed food, water, and defenses to survive the long term. And he needed to survive his leprosy.
The neem paste tingled on his skin, a reminder of his gamble. If he could stabilize his health and introduce even one or two technologies—irrigation, improved mills, better siege weapons—he could strengthen Jerusalem against Saladin and the court's schemers. But time was short, and every step risked exposing him as something other than Baldwin.
A knock at the door broke his reverie. Sibylla entered, unannounced, her expression a mix of concern and calculation. "Brother, you push yourself too hard," she said, gliding closer. "The court speaks of your plans—war, machines, medicines. Some call it madness."
Ethan met her gaze, Baldwin's memories warning him of her ambition. "Let them talk," he said coolly. "Jerusalem will stand, and I will see it thrive."
Sibylla's smile was tight. "Of course, my king. But take care. A king's strength is in his allies, not just his dreams."
She left, her words lingering like a threat. Ethan clenched his bandaged fist. He had a battle to win, a kingdom to innovate, and a body to save. With Baldwin's strategies and his own modern ideas, he'd fight on all fronts. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the map, he wondered how long he could wear the mask of a king before it consumed him.