Chapter 138: Chapter 138: The Tidings of Death and Life
Jerusalem, November 8, 1180
The air in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was still and cold that morning. Candles flickered along the altar, casting tall, wavering shadows upon the stone walls. Baldwin IV knelt before the crucifix, hands clasped, head bowed. He had not moved in nearly an hour. It was not merely prayer that held him there—it was mourning.
The quiet creak of a door broke the silence. Brother Thomas stepped inside with slow, deliberate steps, holding a sealed letter with the unmistakable red cross of the Templar Order. Baldwin rose stiffly, the stiffness of travel and disease settling deep in his joints, and accepted the parchment without a word.
He broke the seal and scanned the message, his brow furrowing.
To His Majesty, Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem,We report with solemn hearts that Brother Odo de St. Amand, Grand Master of the Temple, passed away in the night. He died peacefully in sleep, in the presence of his brethren.After consultation among the senior knights, and with respect to the King’s guidance and unity of command, Brother Gérard de Ridefort has been elected as Grand Master of the Order. May he serve with the same steadfast faith.In Christ,Hugo de Ballon, Seneschal of the Temple
Baldwin lowered the letter, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he turned back toward the altar, eyes fixed on the figure of Christ on the cross.
"Odo..." he murmured, the name heavy on his tongue.
Odo de St. Amand had been more than a commander—he had been a compass. Stern and unbending, yes, but unwavering in his loyalty and faith. He had opposed compromise, refused bribes, and insisted on discipline. More than once, he had drawn Baldwin back from the edge of despair with his hard counsel. There were few men left in the kingdom that Baldwin trusted completely.
Now there was one fewer.
He stayed in the chapel for a long time after Brother Thomas had departed, kneeling once more before the altar, lips moving soundlessly.
A Deliberate Choice
Later that morning, the King summoned his inner circle to the Hall of Olives. Balian of Ibelin, the Justiciar Roland, Hugh of Jaffa, the Chancellor Brother Thomas and a few senior knights of the Temple stood in the circle as the news was read aloud.
"Grand Master Odo has gone to his reward," Baldwin said simply. "He served this kingdom and our Lord with every breath. Let us pray that his soul finds peace."
All bowed their heads, and a moment of silence followed.
When they looked up, Baldwin continued, "The Templars have named Gérard de Ridefort to succeed him."
There was a faint ripple among the assembled men—murmurs, a raised brow here and there—but no dissent.
"Arnold of Torroja was also considered," Hugh of Jaffa said aloud, as if voicing the thought of many. "A man of age and balance."
"But not a man with my trust," Baldwin answered flatly. "Nor one who understands the changes we are building."
Balian nodded. "Gérard has stood by your reforms. He kept the roads clear during the Syrian campaign and lent us aid at Homs. He’s young for a Grand Master, but eager."
"Loyal," Baldwin added. "And pragmatic."
There was no argument. Gérard de Ridefort had risen swiftly through the Order and had the King’s personal favor. His election was not accidental; it was purposeful. The Templars, often unruly and driven by their own code, would now move in closer alignment with the crown.
Still, Baldwin’s expression remained somber. "I grieve for Odo. He was harsh, but he loved this kingdom."
A Physician’s Return
That afternoon, the royal physician returned from the north. Brother Gérard of the Hospital—once Baldwin’s personal healer, now director of a leper hospice in Jerusalem—entered the King’s private audience chamber with a deep bow.
He was older now, with more white in his beard, and his hands carried the smell of vinegar and herbs.
"I heard you were back in the city," Baldwin said, sitting beside the open window. The wind stirred the curtain behind him. "And that you’ve been busy."
Gérard smiled. "I’ve seen over two hundred lepers since we last met. Many in the northern quarters, and dozens more from the Syrian frontier."
"You’re charting the effects of the penicillin?"
"We are," the Hospitaller replied, drawing out his satchel. "With mixed results."
He unrolled a scroll and pointed to a few columns of notes written in Latin.
"Some patients—those in early stages—have responded well. Their sores close faster, their strength returns more quickly. We can slow the progress. But..." He hesitated. "In more advanced cases, it is less effective. The medicine stabilizes, but it does not cure."
Baldwin was quiet, studying him. "And me?"
"You are improved," Gérard admitted, "but not healed. You have not worsened since your return to Jerusalem, which is a blessing. No new lesions. No fever. But Your Majesty’s extremities remain vulnerable. You are gaining back some sensation in your fingers and toes."
The King glanced down at his gloved hand. He flexed it slowly, noting the stiffness in his joints.
"So the disease is held at bay, not beaten."
"Yes," the physician said quietly. "It is like water behind a dam. The structure holds—for now."
Baldwin gave a slight nod, eyes hardening. "How long before the dam breaks?"
"We cannot say. Months, perhaps years. The penicillin gives time—but not certainty."
Gérard hesitated, then added, "There was something else, Your Majesty. One of our patients—a leper in his mid-twenties, in the third stage—was recently married. His wife conceived in spring. She gave birth last week. A healthy son."
Baldwin blinked, slowly processing.
"He... fathered a child?"
"Yes," Gérard said. "His condition is no secret, and yet, with the precautions we’ve implemented, the child has shown no signs of infection. We are monitoring both mother and infant. Both are healthy. It appears that the disease—at least in its current, stabilized form—need not bar procreation."
Baldwin was silent for a long time, the implications dawning on him like a sunrise.
"You’re saying I could... I could marry. I could have children."
Gérard nodded. "The risk is not gone, but it is no longer certain doom. If you were to marry and under the right conditions, a legitimate heir is possible."
He had long resigned himself to the idea that he would leave no heir. That the crown would pass to his nephew from Sybilla. But now... something stirred.
Now, perhaps there could be another.
A child. His blood. His son—or daughter.
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, the weight of the day shifting.
Evening Reflections
That night, as the sun dipped below the Mount of Olives, Baldwin stood alone at the high window of the Tower of David. Below, Jerusalem shimmered with lamps and the murmur of life. Priests sang vespers. Merchants locked their stalls. Children laughed in alleyways.
A child.
His child.
He leaned against the sill, letting the cool wind run through his hair. The words of the physician echoed in his thoughts—not healed, but held at bay. His time was no longer counted in days. He had bought years, perhaps. Years to rule. To build. To father.
Odo was gone. Another grave for the history books. But Gérard de Ridefort stood ready. And so did the kingdom.
He looked down at the city below—his city—and whispered, "I’m not done yet."
And for the first time in many months, Baldwin of Jerusalem allowed himself a quiet, guarded smile.