Chapter 139: Chapter 139: Seeds of the Future
Jerusalem, November 10, 1180
The Council Chamber in the Tower of David was lit only by the morning sun streaming through a high-arched window, casting long slants of gold across the tiled floor. Maps and scrolls lay strewn across the polished table, but today they were not the focus.
King Baldwin IV stood by the hearth, dressed in a dark green cloak trimmed with silver thread, his gloved hands folded behind his back. His face was pale and thin as ever, but the tightness in his jaw hinted at something weighing deeply upon him.
Balian of Ibelin entered first, offering a respectful bow before setting aside his sword and cloak. Not far behind came Brother Gérard of the Hospital, the physician-priest whose quiet arrival was marked by the faint jingle of his satchel and the scrolls it held within.
"Close the doors," Baldwin said without turning. "And bar them."
The two men exchanged a glance but obeyed. When the chamber was secure, Baldwin faced them, his expression grave but alert.
"We speak today of what must remain between us," he began. "Not even the Justiciar or Patriarch must know. Not yet."
Both men nodded.
"What has changed?" Balian asked. "I can see it in your bearing. You’ve returned from Damascus sharper, with clearer purpose."
"It’s not Damascus," Baldwin replied. "It’s what Gérard told me two days ago."
He turned his eyes to the Hospitaller, who bowed his head slightly.
"You may repeat it," Baldwin instructed.
Brother Gérard clasped his hands. "One of our leprous patients, a man of roughly the King’s age, has fathered a child with his wife. The child was born healthy. No signs of the disease in either the mother or the infant. It is early yet, but the outcome is... promising."
Balian’s brow rose sharply. "Are you certain?"
"There was no confusion in the paternity. The man has the same stage of the disease His Majesty does. They lived apart for weeks prior to her pregnancy. The household confirms it."
The silence that followed was thick with realization. Balian leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the table.
"So... it is possible."
Baldwin nodded. "Yes. It is."
There it was. The unspoken desire that had long been buried beneath layers of duty, illness, and resignation—hope of a legacy not merely of battles and reforms, but of blood.
"I had given up the notion long ago," Baldwin said, voice quieter now. "There seemed no point. Even if I wed, I believed the risk to any child would be too great. And no noble house would wed their daughter to a man believed barren or cursed. Now... that has changed."
He walked to the table, placing a hand on one of the maps. His finger drifted northward, toward the lands beyond Tripoli and Antioch.
"Let us speak plainly. If I wed and father a child, and if that child is legitimate and healthy, then the succession becomes far more stable. We end the risk of conflict between Sibylla and Raymond of Tripoli. We create a true royal line."
"And the High Court?" Balian asked. "They would demand to see the child themselves. They will test its health, and many will whisper rumors of illegitimacy."
"They always will," Baldwin replied. "But if I marry a woman of standing—royal or near to it—they will not be able to gainsay it. We must be strategic."
Gérard stepped forward. "Forgive me, Majesty, but while the birth of the child is promising, we must not forget the risks. There are still unknowns. Transmission, latent symptoms, longer-term effects..."
"I understand," Baldwin said with a wave of his hand. "But if God gives us an opportunity to continue the crown line, we must explore it."
He looked back at Balian. "Let us discuss the politics."
Balian drew a scroll from the case near the wall and unrolled it across the table. It was a hand-illustrated genealogical chart, tracing the royal and noble houses of Europe and the Levant.
"Jerusalem still commands prestige in the Christian world," Balian said. "Even battered and divided, this kingdom is the eastern shield of Christendom. A match to a reigning house—Castile, Sicily, Hungary—would bring alliances, ships, and legitimacy."
Baldwin tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the edge of the scroll.
"Sicily has long courted an alliance," he mused. "Their fleet harbors at Tyre even now. And King William’s Aunt—Constance—is unmarried."
"She’s of age," Balian agreed. "Of noble Sicilian blood. But also headstrong. Her dowry would be vast... and it would bind the ports of Outremer to the Sicilian navy permanently."
"Or Hungary," Gérard offered. "The Arpads are related to the house of Anjou. Their king is young, but his sisters are of marriageable age."
"True," Baldwin said. "But Hungary’s distance may make them less useful in war."
"There is also Byzantium," Balian added carefully. "The emperor has nieces and cousins aplenty."
Baldwin’s face soured slightly. "I do not trust the Greeks. And I will not bind my son’s future to a throne that claims Antioch by right."
He looked down at the scroll again. "Sicily is most useful. They’re close, powerful, and we already cooperate. It would be seen as a strong marriage."
"Would they agree to such a match?" Gérard asked. "Given your... condition?"
"They might," Balian said. "If it was framed properly—as a noble act of Christian solidarity. And if they believed an heir could result."
"They would send their own physician to confirm my health," Baldwin noted. "Let him. I have nothing to hide."
The conversation turned more somber as Gérard laid out the medical concerns once more.
"Even if a child is conceived, the pregnancy would need to be carefully monitored. We would have to restrict exposure, regulate contact—"
"And keep it secret," Baldwin interrupted. "Until the child is born and shown to be whole."
Gérard hesitated, then asked softly, "Do you want this only for the kingdom?"
Baldwin looked at him, a long, cool look that said more than words. "No."
And there it was—the truth laid bare.
Not just duty. Not just survival of the crown. But longing. The desire of a man not yet twenty to know love. To hold a child of his own blood. To see his line continue. To be remembered not only as the Leper King, but as Baldwin the Father.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside, the bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre rang out for the midday hour.
The king returned to the table and sat, resting his gloved hands on the edge.
"Do not mistake me," he said. "I do not dream of romance. I’ve seen my body. I’ve felt the creeping numbness. The wedding bed would be symbolic—an act of will and duty, not love."
"And yet..." Balian hesitated. "You’ve never spoken of this desire before. Has something changed?"
Baldwin looked down for a long moment.
"Victory," he said finally. "We’ve won. Damascus is ours. Aleppo is behind us. The Kingdom is whole, for the first time in generations. And yet..."
He looked up.
"I do not want to die and leave it to uncertainty. I want to leave something of myself. Not just a name carved in stone, or a seal pressed into law—but life."
Neither Gérard nor Balian responded for several moments. There was nothing to say. It was a longing deeper than politics or duty—too human to be judged, too fragile to be indulged carelessly.
"We are not yet decided," Baldwin said, almost to himself. "Let that be clear. I will not rush into anything. I wish only to explore what might be possible."
Balian nodded. "Then we shall explore. Quietly."
"I will speak with my brethren," Gérard added, "and gather more examples. Discreetly. If this is not the only case, it strengthens your position."
Baldwin pushed back from the table and rose.
"I want no letters sent yet. No inquiries made. Not until we understand the medical truth—and the political landscape."
"And when you are ready?" Balian asked.
"Then we will act," Baldwin said. "And not before."