Chapter 133: Chapter 133: The Crown and the Court
The Hall of the Holy Cross had never been so full.
Barons, bishops, knights, and scribes stood shoulder to shoulder beneath its ribbed vaults and painted domes. The banners of every great house of Jerusalem—Montferrat, Sidon, Ibelin and Lusignan—hung above them. Outside, horns sounded from the Tower of David, announcing the formal session of the royal court.
At the head of the hall, on a raised dais beneath a blue canopy embroidered with golden crosses, Baldwin IV sat in his throne. He wore no crown—only a circlet of silver, light enough for his illness—but his presence commanded silence. His hands gripped the arms of his throne as his voice rang out, strong and unwavering.
"Lords of Jerusalem. Prelates of the Church. Knights of the Cross," he began, "you stand now not in the court of a feudal kingdom divided, but in the court of a sovereign realm—united in arms, law, and justice. Let all who have ears hear this: from this day, the Kingdom of Jerusalem shall be governed anew. And as it has been reforged in war, so now shall it be reforged in peace."
Murmurs stirred across the room.
Baldwin gestured to Brother Thomas, who stepped forward with a scroll in his arms. The royal seal of Jerusalem hung from it, blood-red and cracked in the midday heat. Thomas unrolled it.
"I hereby declare the establishment of a permanent Royal Chancery, governed by a Chancellor, to oversee the laws and decrees of this kingdom. The Assizes of Jerusalem, though noble in origin, have grown tangled with contradiction and custom. They shall be amended and replaced with a code of royal law, administered by men appointed not by blood, but by merit."
He paused to let the weight of it settle.
"Second," Baldwin continued, "a Justiciar shall oversee justice throughout the realm. This officer shall represent the King in all legal matters and sit in judgment over royal courts, dispatching circuit justices from the sea to the Orontes."
There was a rustle among the northern lords.
"Third," Baldwin said, lifting a second scroll, "a Treasurer shall preside over the new Royal Exchequer, seated in Jerusalem. All revenues—whether from port tolls, jizya, market taxes, or land rents—shall be recorded, audited, and rendered unto the crown."
At that, the murmuring turned to quiet unrest.
"Is this not a council, not a monarchy?" muttered Guy of Beirut, too loud to be missed.
Baldwin’s eyes did not flicker. "It is a monarchy, Lord Guy. A Christian monarchy, founded on law and anointed by the Church. But I do not rule as a tyrant—I govern as a king. And that means rule by order, not by barter."
He rose, slowly, steadied by Thoams at his side.
"These are not mere titles," Baldwin said. "They are offices of trust, meant to endure beyond my reign. The age of war has passed. The age of building begins."
He lifted his hand.
"Let the following appointments be made known to all present:"
Chancellor of the Kingdom of Jerusalem: Brother Thomas of Acre, servant of the Church, master of letters and law.
Gasps greeted the announcement. A mere scribe elevated above lords? Thomas bowed deeply, red-faced but composed.
Justiciar: Sir Godfrey of Ibelin, known for his fairness and discipline, and a man of the sword as well as the seal.
Godfrey stepped forward, eyes cool, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Applause followed—but not from all quarters.
Treasurer: Martin of Palermo, a Sicilian clerk trained in the Exchequer of King William, known for his fluency in Arabic, Greek, and Latin.
"A foreigner?" came a sharp voice from the left. It was Gerard of Sidon. "You would entrust our gold to a man not even born of the soil?"
"I would entrust it," Baldwin said evenly, "to the man most capable of protecting it. Your birthright does not earn you immunity from royal audit, Lord Gerard."
That silenced him—but his scowl remained.
The First Grumblings
When the ceremony ended, the nobles broke into private knots of murmuring voices. Baldwin remained seated, watching. He saw Amalric de Lusignan standing apart, unreadable. Raynald of Sidon, his brows furrowed, whispering to the Count of Jaffa. Even Bohemond’s messengers, in their northern silks, looked uncertain.
Thomas returned, speaking low. "They grumble, as you knew they would. Some say this is a Frankish kingdom no longer—that you favor Sicilians, priests, and parchment over the sword."
Baldwin’s expression did not change.
"And what do you say, Thomas?"
"I say it was bound to happen. But let them grumble. If their power depended on chaos, then it was never meant to last."
The king leaned back against his throne. "Let them test these new institutions. Let them bring their disputes to the Justiciar, their revenues to the Exchequer, their appeals to the Chancery. They will learn—sooner or later—that the days of private justice and petty exemption are done."
A Quiet Warning
Later that evening, in the solar lit by golden lamps, Amalric de Lusignan entered without ceremony.
"You’ve declared war," Amalric said softly, "not on the Saracens—but on the feudal order that gave you this kingdom."
Baldwin looked up from his writing table.
"Not war," he replied. "Reform."
Amalric stepped closer. "Reform is a dagger in the ribs of men who lived by old rights. You may not feel it yet—but you’ve drawn blood."
"I don’t need their love," Baldwin said. "Only their submission to law."
Amalric sighed. "Then you will get both... in time. Or neither, and a kingdom that falls apart the moment you die."
A Kingdom Reinvented
Two days later, paper copies of the new royal ordinances were dispatched to every city, port, and stronghold of the realm. The seal bore its traditional inscription:
✠ Kingdom of Jerusalem ✠By the Will of Christ and the Sword of the CrossOne Crown, One Law, One Realm
In Acre, Antioch, Aleppo, Homs, and Jerusalem, criers read the edicts aloud.
Some cheered.
Others spat.
But none could deny that the Kingdom had changed.
And that it now stood upon foundations not merely of conquest—but of law.