Chapter 181: Chapter 181 - Talks about the Future
September 18th, 1181 - Jerusalem
At last Baldwin and Constance were alone. She stood a few paces away, her veil removed, her dark hair unbound to fall loosely about her shoulders. She was watching him—watching the way he walked across the chamber without stumbling, without leaning on a servant, without trembling in his hands.
"Baldwin," she whispered, wonder thick in her voice. "It is as though I see you for the first time."
He reached her and took her hand. For years his fingers had been wrapped in bandages, calloused and raw, sensation dulled by the disease. Now he felt her skin as it was—warm, smooth, alive. The touch made his breath catch.
"And I feel you for the first time," he said softly.
Together they left the council chamber. Outside, guards straightened as their king passed, but their eyes followed him with awe. Word had already begun to spread. The king walked strong, his stride even, his back unbowed. It was as if the Resurrection itself had touched Jerusalem.
The chamber prepared for them was filled with the fragrance of myrtle and rose petals. Beeswax candles burned in tall stands, throwing warm golden light against the carved stone walls. A canopy bed draped in crimson and gold dominated the center, its silken sheets smooth as water.
Constance paused at the threshold, her hand tightening on Baldwin’s. For all her poise in court, she was still a young woman, a bride who had chosen a husband she expected to nurse, perhaps to bury young. Yet now she looked at him—not the dying king, not the leper monarch carried on litters, but a man reborn.
"You are trembling," Baldwin murmured, brushing his thumb along her hand.
"As any bride might," she whispered back. "But you—Baldwin, you are not trembling at all."
He smiled faintly. "For the first time in years, I feel no pain. No weight. No shadow." He drew her into the room. "And tonight, Constance, I will not think of death. Only of life."
The door closed behind them with a solid thud. The world outside—the council, the murmuring nobles, the city alive with rumor—faded into nothing.
Baldwin’s heart pounded, not with fear, but with a heady rush of anticipation. For years he had told himself this moment might never come—that no woman would lie with him willingly, that no embrace would ever be his. But Constance had chosen him, not out of fear or duty, but with eyes steady and sure. And God had given him back his body.
When they kissed, there was no hesitation. Her lips were soft, yielding yet eager, tasting of spiced wine. His arms wrapped around her, strong now, muscles no longer wasted. She gasped softly at the firmness of his embrace, and when she pulled back to look at him, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"You are strong," she whispered. "Stronger than I dreamed."
"And you are mine," he breathed.
The layers of finery were shed slowly, deliberately, not with haste but with reverence. For each clasp and veil and ribbon he loosened, Baldwin pressed a kiss to her skin. For each bandage or linen he had once hidden beneath, Constance touched him boldly, marveling at the smoothness where scars had been, at the warmth where once there had been cold numbness.
When they lay at last upon the bed, their bodies joined not in frailty but in passion, Baldwin knew with certainty that God had not only given him back life, but had given him her. Every sigh, every shiver, every desperate whisper was a hymn of its own, consecrating their union more surely than any priest’s blessing.
The chamber prepared for them was filled with the fragrance of myrtle and rose petals. Beeswax candles burned in tall stands, throwing warm golden light against the carved stone walls. A canopy bed draped in crimson and gold dominated the center, its silken sheets smooth as water.
Constance paused at the threshold, her hand tightening on Baldwin’s. For all her poise in court, she was still a young woman, a bride who had chosen a husband she expected to nurse, perhaps to bury young. Yet now she looked at him—not the dying king, not the leper monarch carried on litters, but a man reborn.
"You are trembling," Baldwin murmured, brushing his thumb along her hand.
"As any bride might," she whispered back. "But you—Baldwin, you are not trembling at all."
He smiled faintly. "For the first time in years, I feel no pain. No weight. No shadow." He drew her into the room. "And tonight, Constance, I will not think of death. Only of life."
The door closed behind them with a solid thud. The world outside—the council, the murmuring nobles, the city alive with rumor—faded into nothing.
Baldwin’s heart pounded, not with fear, but with a heady rush of anticipation. For years he had told himself this moment might never come—that no woman would lie with him willingly, that no embrace would ever be his. But Constance had chosen him, not out of fear or duty, but with eyes steady and sure. And God had given him back his body.
When they kissed, there was no hesitation. Her lips were soft, yielding yet eager, tasting of spiced wine. His arms wrapped around her, strong now, muscles no longer wasted. She gasped softly at the firmness of his embrace, and when she pulled back to look at him, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"You are strong," she whispered. "Stronger than I dreamed."
"And you are mine," he breathed.
The layers of finery were shed slowly, deliberately, not with haste but with reverence. For each clasp and veil and ribbon he loosened, Baldwin pressed a kiss to her skin. For each bandage or linen he had once hidden beneath, Constance touched him boldly, marveling at the smoothness where scars had been, at the warmth where once there had been cold numbness.
When they lay at last upon the bed, their bodies joined not in frailty but in passion, Baldwin knew with certainty that God had not only given him back life, but had given him her. Every sigh, every shiver, every desperate whisper was a hymn of its own, consecrating their union more surely than any priest’s blessing.
Later, when the fire had dimmed to glowing embers and the bedclothes were tangled about them, Baldwin lay on his back, his chest rising and falling steadily. Constance lay curled against him, her head upon his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest. Her hand rested upon his, their fingers interlaced.
For a long time, they said nothing, only breathing, only listening to the distant murmur of Jerusalem beyond the palace walls.
At last Constance stirred. Her voice was quiet, but intent. "Baldwin... what is your other name?"
He stilled. The question pierced deeper than any touch, any caress. Slowly, he turned to look at her.
"My other name?"
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his. "When the light surrounded us, when the voice spoke... it called you chosen, bearer of knowledge not of this age. I felt it. You are more than only Baldwin. What is your other name?"
For a moment, he considered silence. But the warmth of her body against his, the steady pressure of her hand in his, dissolved the walls he had built. For the first time since awakening in this century, he felt he could be known.
He smiled faintly, his lips brushing her hair. "Ethan. That is the name I was born with... not in this time, but in another. A world eight centuries after the days we now live."
Constance’s eyes widened. She lifted her head, studying him. "Eight centuries? The Lord told us you were sent. But what manner of world could that be? Tell me... what is it like?"
His breath caught. No one had ever asked. No one had ever known. The secret that weighed upon him like iron now longed to be spoken aloud. He exhaled slowly, eyes closing.
"Lie close to me," he murmured. "And I will tell you."
Constance nestled against him, listening, her heart pounding with both fear and wonder. Baldwin—Ethan—stared up at the canopy above, gathering words, memories, a thousand years of history pressing on his lips. For the first time, he would share the truth.
He turned slightly so he could see her more clearly. "If not for God’s intervention, if I had not been placed here, history would have unfolded differently. The Kingdom of Jerusalem—our kingdom—would not endure. In truth, not many years from now, it would fall."
Her lips parted, brows furrowing. "Fall? To whom? Salāh ad-Dīn?"
"Yes." Ethan nodded grimly. "To Saladin. In the world I came from, he gathered his strength, defeated the Franks in a great battle at a place called Hattin, and captured Jerusalem in the year 1187."
Constance drew in a sharp breath, her hand tightening against his chest. "But... that is only seven years from now."
"I know." His voice was heavy. "That is why God brought me here. To change it."
He described it for her—the burning heat on the Horns of Hattin, the Frankish army thirsting, surrounded, crushed by Saladin’s numbers. The True Cross captured. The king taken prisoner. Jerusalem left vulnerable.
Constance listened in silence, her eyes wide, her lips pressing into a line as she imagined it. She had seen Baldwin’s banners fly over Damascus, Aleppo, Baalbek; she had watched him turn defeat into triumph. Yet to imagine the holy city in chains made her stomach knot.
"And then?" she asked softly.
"Saladin entered Jerusalem. He allowed the people to ransom themselves. The churches were stripped, though the Holy Sepulchre was spared. The kingdom shrank to the coast. A great crusade came from the West—the kings of France and England themselves—but they could not retake the city."
Constance’s throat tightened. "So Christendom lost the Holy City..."
"Yes. For centuries." Ethan’s voice dropped low, almost hoarse. "Jerusalem was never recovered, not truly. The dream of our kingdom—the Cross planted here, a beacon to East and West—faded. We became a tale of loss, a memory."
He paused, his hand absently stroking her shoulder, grounding himself in her presence before he spoke again.
"And it did not end there. The Byzantines, too, who even now sit in Constantinople... their empire endured another two hundred and seventy years, but at last it too fell. In the year 1453, the city was taken by the Turks. The Hagia Sophia, their greatest church, was turned into a mosque."
Constance sat up a little, eyes flashing with shock. "No... Constantinople? The second Rome?"
He nodded slowly. "Gone. And from its ashes rose the Ottomans, a mighty empire that ruled much of the East and pressed into Europe itself. For centuries they were the terror of Christendom."
Her face paled; her hand flew to her lips. "So much is lost..."
"Yes. But it need not be. That is why I was brought here. To alter the pattern, to give this kingdom strength enough not only to endure, but to flourish. To create a peace that the world has never known."
Constance’s gaze softened. She reached for his hand. "You said you come from far beyond. Tell me—what is this world you left? Is it all war and loss? Or are there other things?"
"It is... difficult to explain," he began, staring up at the stone ceiling. "Your world—our world now—knows swords, bows, horses, and sails. But in my world... men discovered ways to bend fire, iron, and even the air itself to their will."
Constance’s fingers stilled on his chest. "What do you mean?"
Ethan smiled faintly, a smile touched with wonder. "There are many things, Constance. More than you can imagine. For though kingdoms rose and fell, mankind... mankind learned, discovered, created. The world I knew was filled with marvels."
She tilted her head, curiosity shining through her solemnity. "Tell me of them."
"First, weapons," Baldwin said. "In my time, armies no longer fight with crossbows or catapults. They wield thunder in their hands. Small tubes of iron, called guns, where fire and powder are packed within. A spark sets them alight, and a metal ball flies forth faster than an arrow, strong enough to pierce armor. In time, these guns grow smaller, swifter, until a man can fire many shots in the space of a breath. Whole ranks of men wield them together, and the noise of their volleys is like a storm of thunder."
Constance drew back slightly, eyes wide with awe. "Thunder... wielded by men? How could any knight stand against such a weapon?"
"They could not," Baldwin said gravely. "Armor vanishes, castles crumble before fire that grows hotter than any forge. Great guns—cannon—smash through walls that no trebuchet could ever touch. The art of war changes utterly. The knightly charge, the walls of mighty cities—one by one, they are undone."
She shivered and whispered, "And does this make men more merciful, or more cruel?"
Baldwin’s gaze darkened. "Both. The power of such weapons brings terror, yet also order. But cruelty... cruelty does not vanish. Men will always seek dominion."
He smiled faintly, almost boyishly now that he had begun to speak. "Ships, Constance. You know the galleys of Venice, with their oars and sails. In my time, men build ships as large as fortresses, driven not by wind nor by oar, but by fire harnessed in great furnaces. Steam drives wheels and blades, pushing them faster than the swiftest galley. Later still, men master engines—machines of iron that burn oil from the earth—and with them, ships cross oceans in weeks rather than months. They no longer fear storms as you do, for their power drives them even against the wind."
Her lips parted. "Then the seas are no barrier at all?"
"None," Baldwin said. "Men of my time travel across the world as easily as we ride from Jerusalem to Acre. And not only ships. Chariots of iron, with wheels but no horses, carry men and goods on land. They are called cars. And above the earth, men learn to fly. They build great wings of wood, and later of metal, with engines that lift them into the skies. Thousands of men soar across continents in a single day."
At this, Constance gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. "Men... fly?"
"Yes," Baldwin said, voice low with reverence. "Like birds. But greater than any bird. Machines that can carry hundreds of souls at once across oceans, across deserts, across mountains. The world becomes small, Constance. Distance ceases to matter."
She shook her head slowly, unable to contain her wonder. "It is as though you speak of angels’ powers, yet given to men."
Baldwin nodded. "That is what it seemed to me as a boy, hearing of such things. And yet they are real. But more wondrous still is knowledge. In my time, men invent the printing press, which makes books cheap and plentiful. Every man, not only lords and clerics, may learn to read. Knowledge spreads like wildfire. And later still, men build machines of thought—tools of logic and lightning—called computers. With them, a man may hold in his hand more knowledge than all the libraries of the world combined."
"Baldwin—Ethan," she said softly, testing his hidden name upon her lips. "You have told me much of the world to come. Of great machines and powers I can scarcely imagine. But tell me—what of me? In that other life, the one you say would have unfolded had God not brought you here—what became of me?"
"You truly wish to hear it?" he asked.
She nodded. "I would know all. Even if it frightens me. Even if it grieves me. For if God has spared us both, I would know what He has spared us from."
Ethan shifted slightly so he could see her face more clearly in the lamplight. He thought for a moment, then began.
"In that other path—the one I knew before—your life did not remain here with me. You were wed, instead, to Henry of Hohenstaufen, son of the Holy Roman Emperor."
Constance’s brow furrowed. "The Germans?"
"Yes," Ethan said. "It was a marriage of dynasties, uniting Sicily with the empire. You were much older than Henry when you wed—over thirty. In that history, your uncle, King William of Sicily, died without a direct heir. You became the sole legitimate heir to the Sicilian throne. But the lords of Sicily distrusted you—because of your age, because you had been sheltered, and because they feared German domination. They tried to pass the crown to another: Tancred, a bastard of the royal line."
"Tancred," she whispered, repeating the name with distaste. "So the kingdom fell to him?"
"For a time," Ethan said. "He seized the throne, and you—after your marriage to Henry—were taken captive by Tancred’s forces when you tried to press your claim. You were paraded through the streets, mocked, even imprisoned. Yet fate turned again. Henry marched south with his armies, and after Tancred’s death, you and Henry seized Sicily. You became queen—ruling with him, and later, when he died, ruling for your son."
Her eyes widened slightly. "I... I was queen?"
"You were," Ethan said. "And your son, Frederick, would one day be emperor—one of the most famous of all rulers in Europe. A man of great power, feared and admired."
Constance was silent for a time, digesting this. Her hand still rested against his chest, but her fingers were no longer tracing patterns—they were still, almost tense.
"And yet," she said at last, "that was not my path. That was not the life God has now given me."
"No," Ethan said. He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently. "Now you are here. With me. And the kingdom you help rule will not be torn apart by quarrels of succession. Sicily will be our ally, not your prison. And you will not be paraded in chains."
She clung to him, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. "And Sicily? What becomes of it?"
He sighed. "Sicily becomes strong under your son, but in time, empires rise and fall. The Normans vanish, the Hohenstaufen come, then the Spanish kings, and later still other rulers. No crown endures forever... save perhaps the one God has now set upon us both."
For a long while, she was silent, simply pressing her face into his chest. He stroked her hair, letting her absorb the weight of what he had revealed.
At last, she lifted her head, eyes shining with determination. "Then let us build a crown that does endure. If God has blessed us, if He has healed you and called us to guide mankind, then let us use this knowledge, Ethan. Let us make this Jerusalem not only a kingdom, but the heart of a new age."
He kissed her brow softly, his heart swelling. "That is why I was sent. And with you beside me, we shall make it so."
"Tell me more," she whispered. "You spoke of weapons—guns, you called them. Of flying machines. My mind can scarcely believe it. But you said the future holds more still. What else lies ahead in the ages to come? Tell me... everything."
Ethan drew in a slow breath. He felt both exhilarated and strangely vulnerable. This was the first time he had ever spoken of these things aloud to anyone in this century. The secrets pressed within him, like a dam ready to break.
"All right," he said softly. "But you must understand, Constance. Much of it will sound like sorcery, though it is not sorcery at all. It is knowledge—built piece by piece, over centuries of questioning, testing, and building upon the discoveries of those before."
"I will try to understand," she replied. "You are my husband now, and if God Himself sent you here, then I must trust what you say is true."
"Let me begin with medicine," Ethan said. "For you have seen what sickness does to men, to kingdoms. Leprosy nearly claimed me, until God chose to heal me. But in the future, physicians learn to fight disease in ways that would seem impossible now."
"How so?" she asked, brow furrowing.
"They discover that much sickness comes not from curses or foul humors in the blood, but from tiny creatures too small to be seen with the eye—’germs,’ they are called. Invisible enemies that enter the body, causing fever, sores, death. When people learn to wash their hands, to boil water, to keep wounds clean—disease begins to fade. Later, they even make medicines that kill these creatures, potions called ’antibiotics,’ which can save a man from a cut that would otherwise fester and kill him."
Constance shivered slightly. "Invisible creatures... it sounds frightening. And yet, to think they might be defeated by something as simple as washing."
"Yes," Ethan smiled faintly. "And even greater marvels—they learn how to cut open the body and mend it, sewing broken parts together. They can take out sickness within, replace a limb with one made of metal that moves as if alive, even replace a failing heart."
Her eyes widened, her lips parting slightly. "To open a man’s body and not kill him...? That is wondrous beyond belief. Why, with such knowledge, no king need fear dying from a wound or fever."
Ethan grew thoughtful. "That is true—and yet, power like that can be dangerous. For if rulers believe they are invincible, wars may never cease. But still—imagine a kingdom where fewer children die of plague, where women no longer perish in childbirth, where the sick can be cured instead of cast out. That, Constance, is the power of medicine."
Her hand tightened around his. "If such knowledge could be brought here, how many lives might be saved? Even the peasants, the poorest of our people... the kingdom would flourish."
"And then," Ethan whispered, almost as if sharing a forbidden secret, "there is power itself. A force called electricity."
"Electricity?" Constance tilted her head. "What is it?"
"It is... the spark you see when metal strikes metal. The shock you feel when touching certain things. In the future, men learn to harness it, to command it as a servant. They make lights brighter than a hundred candles, banishing darkness at the press of a switch. They carry voices across wires so that a man in Jerusalem might speak with another in Rome instantly. They even harness it to drive machines, to move great carriages without horses."
She gasped softly, lifting her head from his chest. "Light without flame? Voices sent across kingdoms? It sounds like miracles."
Ethan chuckled quietly. "Yes. To you, it would be a miracle. But it is knowledge—knowledge of how the world is made, of the laws God set in place from the beginning."
Her expression was torn between awe and unease. "If such things became common... what need would men have of torches, of scribes, of messengers on horseback? It would change all life."
"Exactly," Ethan said. "Every discovery reshapes the world. That is why God charged me to use knowledge for justice, not for vanity."
Ethan paused, then went on. "Another thing—the stars. In your time, men believe the earth is the center of creation, with sun and stars circling it. But in truth, the earth itself turns, and it circles the sun."
Constance blinked. "What? That cannot be. The Scriptures—"
"The Scriptures speak truth," Ethan said gently. "But truth must be understood. God made the heavens vast beyond measure. The earth is but one world among many stars, and those stars are suns themselves, with their own worlds circling them. The universe is far greater than any man in this time can imagine."
She stared at him, eyes widening slowly. "So... we are not at the center? The heavens do not revolve around us?"
"No," Ethan said softly. "And that knowledge humbles mankind. We are not the crown of creation, but part of a vast tapestry. Yet it also exalts us—for to understand such things is to touch the mind of God."
She shivered and pressed closer to him. "It is almost too great to bear. To think of endless stars, endless worlds... it makes me feel small."
He kissed the top of her hair. "We are small, yes. But also chosen—for God gave us minds to grasp His creation."
"And finally," Ethan continued, "exploration. In your time, men know Europe, parts of Africa, Asia. But across the sea, beyond the horizon, lies a world unknown. Great continents—lands vast as all of Christendom—filled with people, cities, riches, forests, rivers."
Her eyes lit. "Truly? Lands beyond the sea?"
"Yes. In the future, ships cross the ocean, discovering lands called the Americas. There are empires there—Aztecs, Incas—rich in gold, in wonders beyond imagining. And beyond them, still further, is a land called China, a kingdom older and greater than any in the West."
Constance was silent for a long time, her breath caught. Then she said softly, "If our kingdom could reach such lands, if Jerusalem could be the first to send ships across the ocean..."
Ethan smiled faintly. "That is why God placed me here, I think. To make this kingdom not only a fortress of faith, but a beacon of knowledge, a bridge between worlds."
Constance lifted her head fully, looking into his eyes. "It frightens me," she admitted. "All these marvels—the power to heal, to print, to command light, to sail beyond the world we know. It is beautiful, but it is frightening. What if men misuse it? What if these things cause only war and pride?"
Ethan’s gaze softened. "That is always the danger. Knowledge without wisdom is destruction. That is why God charged us—both of us—to guide these things rightly. To be shepherds, not tyrants. To ensure that light serves life, not death."
She studied him for a long moment, then nestled once more against his chest. "Then I will trust you. And I will walk beside you in this destiny, as your wife, as your queen. Even if the world itself changes."