The courtyard of Jerusalem's palace buzzed with activity, the clatter of hamrs and the shouts of laborers echoing off the stone walls. Ethan stood on a balcony overlooking the scene, his silver mask glinting in the midday sun. Below, the master of the royal works, a grizzled man nad Anselm, directed a team digging a shallow trench—an experintal irrigation channel to divert water from a nearby stream to the palace gardens. Ethan's heart lifted at the sight. It was a small step, but if it worked, it could transform the kingdom's agriculture, ensuring food for sieges and droughts.
His body, however, was less cooperative. The leprosy's ache lingered, though the neem-turric paste and frankincense oil had reduced the inflammation further, and the willow bark tea kept his fevers at bay. Brother Gerard's daily reports noted smoother skin around the lesions, a minor victory that fueled Ethan's determination. He wasn't curing the disease—not yet—but he was buying ti. Ti to innovate, to lead, to fight.
Anselm climbed the stone steps to the balcony, wiping sweat from his brow. "Sire, the channel is nearly complete," he said, his tone cautious. "The stream's flow is strong, but the soil is hard. It will take weeks to extend it to the fields beyond the city."
Ethan nodded, Baldwin's mories supplying context: Jerusalem's arid climate made water a precious resource. "Focus on a single field first," he said. "Prove it works, then expand. And the waterwheel—have you begun?"
Anselm hesitated, clearly uneasy with the king's unconventional ideas. "We have timber and stone, sire, but the design you described... a wheel turned by the river to grind grain? It is unlike our hand-mills. The carpenters are uncertain where to begin."
Ethan suppressed a sigh. He wasn't an engineer, but he'd seen diagrams of dieval waterwheels online. The concept was simple: a wheel with paddles, driven by water, turning a millstone. It could triple the output of flour, feeding soldiers and civilians alike. "I'll sketch it," he said, gesturing to a nearby table where parchnt and charcoal waited. "The wheel must be wide, with flat paddles to catch the current. Connect it to a shaft that turns the stone. Start small, test it on a stream near the city."
Anselm's eyes widened at the king's confidence, but he bowed. "As you command, my lord. And the... stone-thrower you spoke of?"
Ethan's mind flashed to the counterweight trebuchet, a siege weapon that wouldn't appear in Europe for decades. Unlike the traction trebuchets of this era, which relied on teams of n pulling ropes, a counterweight design used gravity for greater range and power. It was a ga-changer for sieges, and with Saladin's army approaching, Ethan needed every advantage. "Build a fra with a long arm," he explained, sketching a rough diagram. "Hang a heavy weight on the short end, a sling for stones on the long end. When the weight drops, the arm hurls the stone. Start with a small model—test it in the courtyard."
Anselm studied the sketch, his skepticism giving way to curiosity. "If this works, sire, it could breach walls thought impregnable. But the barons may question such novelties."
"Let them," Ethan said, channeling Baldwin's authority. "I'll show them results."
As Anselm departed to relay the orders, Ethan's thoughts turned to the looming battle. Montgisard was days away, and Baldwin's mories painted a vivid picture: a daring ambush in a narrow valley, Templar knights breaking Saladin's lines, a victory against overwhelming odds. Ethan had the strategy, but leading an army in person was another matter. He was no warrior, yet the kingdom expected their king to ride at the forefront, despite his frailty.
He descended to the armory, where squires were preparing his armor—a light hauberk of chainmail, tailored to his weakened fra, and a padded surcoat bearing the cross of Jerusalem. Balian of Ibelin awaited him, inspecting a rack of swords. "Sire," Balian said, bowing, "the army assembles outside the city. Five hundred knights, two thousand foot, and the Templars and Hospitallers, as you ordered. We march at dawn."
Ethan nodded, his bandaged hands flexing instinctively. "The valley at Montgisard—ensure the scouts mark every path. We'll draw Saladin in, then hit his flanks with the Templars. Speed is our weapon."
Balian's eyes glead with respect. "Your father's blood runs true, sire. The n are inspired by your resolve."
Ethan wished he felt as confident as he sounded. Baldwin's mories gave him the plan, but the act of leading—riding into battle, rallying n, facing death—was uncharted territory. He lifted a sword, its weight heavier than expected, and practiced a few swings, wincing as his joints protested. The squires adjusted his armor, ensuring it didn't chafe his lesions. The neem paste had helped, but he'd need every ounce of strength for the march.
As he left the armory, Sibylla appeared, her expression a mask of concern. "Brother, you risk too much," she said, her voice low. "Leading the army yourself, with your health... Let Raymond take command."
Ethan's instincts, sharpened by Baldwin's mories, caught the undercurrent. Sibylla wasn't just worried—she was testing him, probing for weakness. "The kingdom needs its king," he said firmly. "I ride to Montgisard. Raymond will follow my orders."
Her eyes narrowed, but she smiled. "Of course, Baldwin. May God guide your sword."
As she left, Ethan's mind churned. Sibylla's ambition was a growing shadow, but he had bigger battles to fight. He returned to his chambers, where a small wooden model of a waterwheel sat on the table, a prototype built by Anselm's carpenters. He spun it with a finger, imagining fields irrigated, mills turning, trebuchets hurling stones. These were his weapons as much as swords—tools to secure Jerusalem's future.
He sat, sipping willow bark tea, and reviewed the trebuchet sketch. It was crude, but feasible. If he could demonstrate its power, the barons would have to listen. And irrigation could an surplus crops, freeing n for the army. These weren't just innovations; they were lifelines for a kingdom under siege.
As night fell, Ethan donned his mask and knelt by his bed, not in prayer but in focus. Tomorrow, he'd march to Montgisard, leading an army with Baldwin's genius and Ethan's ingenuity. The irrigation channel was flowing, the waterwheel was taking shape, and the trebuchet model was underway. His body was holding, for now. But as he closed his eyes, the weight of two lives pressed on him—Baldwin's duty, Ethan's hope. Montgisard would test them both.
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