Chapter 136: Chapter 136: The Price of Reform
November 3, 1180 – Jerusalem, Palace of the Latin Kings
The court chamber was too warm despite the season. Thick tapestries muffled the echoes, but they could not soften the tension that simmered like steam under the vaulted ceiling.
Baldwin IV sat upon his high-backed chair of carved cedar, not wearing his crown, but wrapped in a simple mantle of deep blue lined with silver thread. His hands rested calmly on the arms of the throne, but his pale face was hidden under a silver mask.
Below him, the lords and barons of the realm stood in small knots—some cloaked in silence, others whispering sharply among themselves. The mood was sour.
At the far end of the chamber, Balian of Ibelin approached and bowed slightly. Baldwin raised one gloved hand.
"Let us begin."
The Latin Chancellor, Brother Thomas of Acre, cleared his throat and opened the day’s proceedings with a list of appointments and grants. As the names were read—Frankish stewards assigned to Syrian towns, newly appointed royal justiciars installed in Tripoli, inspectors sent north to survey taxation records—murmurs rippled through the assembly.
Finally, the Archbishop of Tyre stepped forward, his gold cope shimmering under the lanterns.
"Sire," he said evenly, "many among the barons express concern. These new appointments, these stewards drawn from among your knights rather than from the old nobility—there is fear you are... replacing feudal loyalty with royal imposition."
Baldwin regarded the Archbishop steadily. "And are you among them, my lord?"
"I serve the Church, not factions," the Archbishop replied, not unkindly. "But voices whisper that you would reduce the High Court to formality—consultation without power."
"I seek to end the chaos that ruled this land before," Baldwin said coolly. "What we do now is not tyranny. It is order. When cities fall under the banner of Jerusalem, should we leave them in the hands of local chieftains and guilds again? That is how we lost Edessa. That is how Antioch nearly fell into ruin. That will not be Syria’s fate."
From the rear, Lord Renier of Sidon called out, "And what of our rights, Your Grace? Will we be taxed like common merchants? My port sends more goods now than ever, but I see no compensation for the burdens we bear."
"You will be compensated in coin, land, and peace," Baldwin answered sharply. "And you will serve the kingdom as lords, not pirates. This is no longer a patchwork of city-forts clinging to coastal cliffs. This is a kingdom, and a kingdom must have rule."
There was silence after that. Heavy and cold.
After the session closed, Balian joined Baldwin in the cloistered hall behind the throne room. The stone corridor opened onto a shaded terrace overlooking the gardens—modest, but fragrant with basil and olive.
"You made few friends in that room," Balian said dryly.
"I am not here to make friends," Baldwin replied. "Let them grumble. They’ll adapt. They always do."
"They fear what they do not control," Balian said. "The High Court once had the final word in all things. Now they are summoned to be informed."
"They lost that right when they hid behind their walls while we bled for Syria," Baldwin murmured, his gaze distant. "They came too late. They sacrificed nothing. And now they want to dictate how we rule?"
Balian folded his arms. "Some of them are not wrong to be wary. You’ve changed more in five months than most kings in five years. Every port is taxed, every post appointed by the crown. There’s a Royal Exchequer now—some even say you’ll start weighing coin rather than counting it."
"Let them say what they will," Baldwin said. "I have no time to placate old men drunk on tradition. The world has changed. We must keep pace or be broken by it."
They paused at the end of the terrace, where a thin view of the hills beyond Jerusalem stretched into the haze of afternoon. Baldwin turned toward Balian, lowering his voice.
"How goes the militia preparation in Syria?"
"We’ve laid the groundwork," Balian replied. "Just as in Jerusalem, we’ll rotate the training. One group trains in each city per month—Damascus, Baalbek, Homs, Aleppo. They drill, patrol, learn formations, and basic archery. At month’s end, they rotate back to their fields and another group takes their place."
Baldwin nodded approvingly. "And the trainers?"
"Drawn from your household knights and volunteers from the Templars. It’s slow, but disciplined. The locals see that we’re not raising a Frankish army to oppress them. We’re teaching them to defend their homes—under your banner."
"Good," Baldwin said. "That is how we build loyalty. Not by feasts and titles, but by trust and shared blood."
"There is one problem," Balian added. "We need more bows. Enough for thousands of levies if the system holds. If the forges deliver what was promised—crossbows, bolts, blades—we can begin arming the next wave by spring."
"They will deliver," Baldwin said.
A wind stirred the garden trees. For a moment, neither man spoke.
Finally, Baldwin turned to go. "The court will mutter and plot, but they will follow. They always do when the kingdom grows stronger."
"And if they don’t?" Balian asked.
"Then we will remind them who won Syria."