The camp nestled in the hills above Montgisard was shrouded in an uneasy quiet, broken only by the clink of armor, the low murmur of prayers, and the occasional whinny of a horse. The night air was cool, but Ethan felt a feverish heat beneath his silver mask, his leprosy-stricken body protesting the long march. The neem-turmeric paste and frankincense oil had kept his lesions from worsening, and the willow bark tea dulled the pain enough to keep him upright, but every movement was a reminder of his fragility. Tomorrow, he would lead an outnumbered army against Saladin's host, and the weight of that truth pressed harder than his chainmail.
Ethan stood at the edge of the camp, overlooking the dark expanse of the valley below. Baldwin's memories painted the terrain in vivid detail: the narrow defile where Saladin's army would pass, the rocky slopes perfect for concealing knights, the flat plain where the Templars' charge could break the enemy's lines. The plan was sound—Baldwin had won this battle in history, a miraculous victory against overwhelming odds. But Ethan wasn't Baldwin, not entirely, and doubt gnawed at him. Could he inspire men to follow a dying king? Could he outwit Saladin, a commander whose name echoed through centuries?
A rustle behind him drew his attention. Balian of Ibelin approached, his face etched with concern in the moonlight. "Sire, the men are restless," he said quietly. "The scouts report Saladin's army is vast—perhaps twelve thousand, with cavalry and archers. Our numbers are a third of theirs. The barons question the wisdom of facing them here."
Ethan's stomach tightened, but Baldwin's instincts steadied his voice. "They question because they fear," he said. "We choose the ground, Balian. The valley will choke their numbers, and our knights will strike like a hammer. Have the Templars and Hospitallers prepared their positions?"
Balian nodded. "They're in place, sire, hidden on the eastern slopes. But Odo de St. Amand chafes at your orders. He speaks of charging at dawn, regardless of your plan, to 'cleanse the infidel in God's name.'"
Ethan's jaw clenched beneath the mask. The Templars' zeal was a double-edged sword—their ferocity could win the day, but their recklessness could ruin it. Baldwin's memories warned of Odo's pride, a man more loyal to the Cross than the crown. "Summon him," Ethan said. "I'll speak to him myself."
As Balian left, Ethan's gaze returned to the valley. Torches flickered in the distance—Saladin's camp, a sprawling mass of tents and fires. The sight sent a chill through him. This wasn't a game or a history book. Men would die tomorrow, and his decisions would determine how many. His modern mind screamed for alternatives—diplomacy, retreat—but Baldwin's resolve anchored him. Jerusalem could not afford to yield.
Odo de St. Amand arrived, his white surcoat stark against the night, the red Templar cross bold on his chest. "My lord," he said, bowing stiffly, his tone laced with impatience. "The Templars are ready to strike. Why delay? God wills a swift victory."
Ethan met Odo's fervent gaze, channeling Baldwin's authority. "God wills our victory, Odo, but only through discipline. You'll charge when I command, not before. We draw Saladin into the valley, then hit his flanks. Disobey, and you hand him the day."
Odo's eyes flashed, but he bowed again, deeper this time. "As you command, sire," he said, though his tone suggested grudging compliance. As he departed, Ethan caught a glance from Raymond of Tripoli, lingering nearby with Joscelin de Courtenay. The regent's expression was unreadable, but Joscelin's smirk hinted at trouble. Baldwin's memories confirmed their ambitions: Raymond coveted influence, Joscelin schemed for Sibylla's future. If the battle faltered, they'd pounce on any sign of weakness.
Ethan returned to his tent, where Brother Gerard awaited with a fresh batch of neem paste and a report. "Sire, the lesions on your legs show less redness," he said, applying the mixture with care. "The frankincense seems to soothe the skin, though the neem's smell draws complaints from the squires."
Ethan managed a faint smile. "Let them complain. It's working." The treatments were a lifeline, but he needed more than salves to survive. His thoughts drifted to his technological projects, a flicker of hope amid the tension. The irrigation channel was watering a test field, and Anselm's latest report described the waterwheel prototype spinning smoothly, grinding grain twice as fast as hand-mills. The counterweight trebuchet model had hurled a stone seventy paces in its latest test, promising a weapon to bolster Jerusalem's defenses. These innovations could secure the kingdom's future—if he lived to implement them.
He dismissed Gerard and sat at a small table, studying a parchment map of Montgisard. Baldwin's memories supplied every detail: the angle of the slopes, the depth of the stream, the likely formation of Saladin's cavalry. Ethan traced the plan, his modern mind adding a twist—positioning archers on the western ridge to harass Saladin's rear, a tactic inspired by a strategy game he'd played. It wasn't in Baldwin's playbook, but it could tip the scales.
A commotion outside broke his focus. Raised voices echoed through the camp, and Ethan stepped out to find Raymond and Joscelin arguing near the Templar tents. Balian was there, trying to mediate, but the tension was palpable.
"What's this?" Ethan demanded, his voice cutting through the night.
Raymond turned, his face a mask of restraint. "Sire, Joscelin questions the battle plan. He says the men doubt a… frail king can lead them to victory."
Joscelin paled but held his ground. "I speak for the barons, sire. Your health is known. If you fall in battle, the kingdom falls with you. Let Raymond lead, and preserve yourself for Jerusalem."
The words stung, but Baldwin's memories armed Ethan with a response. He stepped closer, his masked face inches from Joscelin's. "My health is God's concern, not yours. I led this kingdom at thirteen, and I'll lead it tomorrow. Question me again, and you'll answer to the court."
The camp fell silent, all eyes on the confrontation. Joscelin bowed, muttering an apology, but his eyes burned with resentment. Raymond said nothing, his silence louder than words. Ethan turned away, his heart racing. The political vipers were circling, and a single misstep in battle could embolden them.
As he returned to his tent, the distant drums of Saladin's camp grew louder, a rhythmic pulse of impending doom. Ethan checked his armor, adjusted his mask, and sipped the last of his willow bark tea. The army was fractious, the odds were dire, and his body was a fragile vessel. Yet Baldwin's strategies burned in his mind, and his modern ideas—archers on the ridge, the promise of trebuchets and waterwheels—gave him purpose.
He knelt, not in prayer but in resolve. Tomorrow, Montgisard would test him as king, as Ethan, as a man out of time. The valley awaited, and with it, the clash that could save or doom Jerusalem. The drums beat on, and Ethan's hand tightened on his sword. Dawn would bring blood, and he would face it masked but unyielding.