Chapter Text
Ascalon, 22 November 1177
In truth, he wanted to laugh.
He wanted to throw his head back in wild abandon and let out the maniacal cackle of utter helplessness until he had no breath left to give. But Baldwin bit down hard, stifling the urge as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.
They were outnumbered. They were greatly outnumbered. The blood drained from Baldwin’s face at the realization.
How could he even think they could withstand this assault? How could they fight a battle with such immense odds stacked against them?
It was absolute lunacy to have ever believed in such a possible victory.
As the pieces moved in Baldwin's mind, every strategy he created led to the same inescapable outcome.
They were doomed.
Across the field, saffron banners waved in the wind, and Salah ad-Din’s thirty thousand disciplined warriors stood proud and defiant. The Sultan seemed content to let them make the first move, his confidence in victory plain to Baldwin’s very eyes.
Jerusalem’s meager force appeared but insects before the true might of the Ayyubid dynasty.
It would be easy to give the signal, to march into battle, to face certain death. Perhaps the bravest thing was to accept your demise and keep moving. To not waver from the course you were set on, even as you walked blindly into oblivion.
But as Baldwin surveyed his tense, restless soldiers astride their mounts, he could not bring himself to call them to advance against such impossible odds.
There had been minor skirmishes, with Baldwin's front line using their experience fighting the Saracens to lure and probe, trying to glean what they could about their opponents' strength. But these were mere tests, resulting in little harm to either side.
Now they were at a standstill, a game of bluff that Baldwin dared not call. One misstep could see his entire army wiped out. His mind worked, formulating a plan. What would cause the least loss for his people?
As the afternoon dragged on, Saracen archers launched a few experimental arrows, but any injuries were only superficial. Saladin seemed content to wait, letting the Franks know that they were trapped and could do little else other than watch and pray.
And Baldwin's men were growing restless, their spirits wavering as the minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly. They did not want to ride out to their deaths, but they could see that the more time they wasted, the weaker they became.
Saladin knew this. And so he waited until his enemies would be worn thin and weak, waiting until they broke in their minds. Then his seasoned riders would charge the shattered Crusaders, slaughtering every last man on the field.
But Baldwin could not let this happen.
As daylight began to fade, the king raised his hand to summon his council. They retreated to the rear, just beyond the reach of the Saracen scouts, remaining mounted in case of any sudden developments.
“They know our numbers are low,” Baldwin declared quietly, a dark frown etching his features. “They mean to tire us before charging. But we cannot engage them when we are so outnumbered. We must fall back into Ascalon.”
Joscelin grimly agreed, “Aye, son. As much as it pains me to concede, to fight them head-on now would be suicide.”
Even Raynald nodded, his brow furrowed as he studied the Saracen formations across the field. “We should wait until sundown to withdraw. With Saladin's forces still out here, his supplies and troops will have to camp in place. This is our chance to escape with the majority of our soldiers alive.”
Baldwin forced himself to remain outwardly composed, though inwardly he was wracked with dread. “I agree with Lord Raynald. This is our best option. But we must withdraw swiftly and silently. We cannot give away our plans.”
Baldwin's mind was haunted by the terrifying tales of past sieges, where cities were turned into graveyards. Tens of thousands of helpless civilians, children, women, and the elderly slaughtered as soldiers scaled the walls, smashed down the gates with battering rams, and flooded into the streets. The worst horrors imaginable would unfold—rape, mutilation, looting, arson, entire neighborhoods reduced to cinders with the occupants still inside, their corpses strewn throughout the streets.
But even a siege would be a better fate than having to charge headfirst against a superior force. At least with a siege, they would have a fighting chance.
“When night falls, have the men retreat in small groups,” Baldwin instructed gravely, “Small enough that our movements won't be noticed by the Saracen scouts patrolling the perimeter. Tell them to take their time and keep a sharp eye out.”
Ascalon, 23 November 1177
Baldwin had not slept all night.
After their retreat into the city, he had immediately set about delegating orders to prepare for a siege. Scouts were dispatched, messengers discreetly sent to alert the other towns of Saladin's presence. Soldiers inspected the ancient walls and secured the gates, while others frantically inspected the cisterns and wells, ensuring they had enough water to withstand a protracted assault.
It was a mad, frantic scramble to fortify their defenses, for none of them could be certain that the reinforcements would even arrive in time. Not with Jerusalem itself in the direct path of Saladin's army, ripe for pillaging and conquest. They could not afford to wait. They had to hold Ascalon, no matter the cost.
“Damn it!” Baldwin cursed aloud, rubbing his temples vigorously as a splitting headache threatened to cleave his skull in two. He had already vomited three times, his throat burned raw from the stress that weighed upon him. He was struggling to maintain his composure; he paced back and forth and absently raked his fingers through his hair.
He knew he needed to be strong. Needed to stay calm and collected. But he felt as though his nerves were on the verge of shattering from the pressure. It was a struggle to even breathe. To even remain standing as panic continued to surge through his veins.
His father had always stayed calm even under the threat of disaster; but how had he ever done so?
Baldwin didn't understand. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could remain so calm in the face of calamity.
He wished his father was here now.
But there was no time to dwell on these matters. He needed to pull himself together. His kingdom, his people depended on him.
She depended on him.
Just then, the study door flew open with a bang. Anselm burst through, eyes wild in panic and chest heaving, “Your Majesty!” he gasped between ragged breaths. “You must see this at once!”
Without awaiting a response, the flustered squire seized Baldwin's arm in a tight grip and practically dragged the young king from the chamber, their boots pounding heavily over the flagstones.
They clambered up the stairs to the battlements, Anselm's panicked babbling fading into an indistinct drone. As they reached the towering wall overlooking the field, Baldwin's words withered in his dry mouth.
“What in God’s Holy name…?”
The plain before Ascalon's gates had been trampled into a muddy mess by the passage of Saladin's army. But the great horde itself was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, a smaller contingent—perhaps a few hundred men at most—had made camp directly outside the city walls, little more than a bowshot away. Crimson tents spread out across the battered hills before Ascalon's mighty gates, the saffron fabric of billowing Ayyubid banners vivid against the rocky landscape.
It was a strange and unsettling disposition. If Saladin knew their forces were few and ripe for conquest, why had he only left a small portion of his troops to maintain the siege? Why deploy a mere handful of men when the full, unstoppable mass of his army could simply crash against Ascalon's walls without mercy?
Then, like a sickening blow to the gut, the realization struck Baldwin.
This was a chevauchée.
The War Council Chamber, Ascalon, 24 November 1177
“The Saracens have divided their armies and are striking down the rest of the coastal cities before heading for Jerusalem,” The young king said, glaring angrily at the figures gathered before him in the war room. They stood around the great wooden table, looking at various maps and charts that lay strewn across its surface.
Such a devastating blow would cripple Outremer, allowing Salah ad-Din to lay waste to their entire realm. In spite of his resolve to hold onto composure and appear strong in the face of this daunting threat, Baldwin could not conceal the raw distress from his voice.
He wanted to vomit again. His stomach churned and twisted as he considered the possibility that hundreds or thousands of his subjects might be killed by the advancing Saracens, their towns razed to the ground, and all traces of their civilization annihilated from this land.
Had God not only cursed him with the ravages of leprosy but doomed the entire Holy Land to destruction by his hand? Would he be the catalyst of their utter ruin?
Raynald de Chatillon's fist thundered against the table, his voice booming with rage, “They have us cooped up like chickens, cowering behind our city walls like f*cking cowards!” He spat, contemptuous. “While the bastards pillage, murder, and plunder! I say we ride out and face them. By God, I will kill those whor*sons myself, all thirty f*cking thousand of them!”
Only fourteen of Outremer's cities and fortified towns possessed sturdy walls. But lesser settlements like Ramlah and Nablus were guarded by little more than small castles, their garrisons stripped bare by Baldwin's urgent call to arms. These undefended towns would be easy pickings for the Saracen invaders.
Tales of unspeakable horrors trickled in with each refugee they welcomed into Ascalon’s gates. Over the past day, men had staggered in from the surrounding villages—Ramlah, Ibelin, Mirabel—their homes reduced to smoldering ruins. Any Franks unable to flee were captured or met their demise at Saracen blades. The streets were now littered with the mangled corpses of pigs and dogs. The invaders had plundered every last scrap of cattle, horses, grain, leaving utter desolation in their wake.
With a grave expression, Joscelin mused, “Let us pray they'll be appeased by pillaging the countryside... Though I fear the worst.”
“You know that murderous filth shall never be sated,” Raynald spat, fury twisting his face at this affront to their lands. “Those godless dogs are bereft of mercy! Mark my words, Joscelin, they shall lay waste to every town and castle between here and Jerusalem. All in the name of their f*cking Jihad.”
At this declaration, Baldwin felt his blood run cold, the ominous portends of impending doom flashing before his eyes. The haunting vision more horrific than his darkest dreams: thousands of souls—men, women, and children alike, be they Christian, Jewish, or Muslim—their sacred grounds defiled by the Saracen hordes. His people enslaved or slain. The entire population of Outremer left to burn along the path to Jerusalem, slaughtered like lambs.
His thoughts turned to his mother, his stepmother, his sisters...to Luceria. Would she live to see the dawn of another day if the Saracens ravaged the land? Would he ever be able to keep his promise and return to her?
“We cannot allow that atrocity to come to pass,” Baldwin stated firmly, his icy gaze boring into Raynald, whose green eyes blazed with fervent conviction. "Even if we risk annihilation, we cannot surrender our Holy City to the Saracens, or the Kingdom shall be no more. Every last one of our citizens is depending on us to protect them." The young king's jaw was set with grim determination.
The other men nodded solemnly, their expressions mirroring the grave resolve etched upon Baldwin's features. They shared an unspoken understanding, deeply rooted in the marrow of their beings. If they failed to halt Saladin's invasion here, Jerusalem would soon face the full, unrelenting brunt of his wrath.
“Gaza lies a mere eight miles away. And if Saladin has left behind a fraction of his force there, just as he did here, it may grant the Templars a chance to escape with their lives,” Baldwin said, his eyes studying the map before him intently. “Have a scout send word to Master Odo. They can take the safer path to Jerusalem by cutting underneath the Saracens toward Hebron. But...” His eyes raised slowly to meet Lord Balian’s.
Balian of Ibelin spoke loud and clear, “We know this place better than Saladin," He gestured to the marshes that formed around the valley when the rains came each winter, "The marshes of this region are deadly. We shall lure the Saracens there.”
Unlike Lord Raynald, bred on the fields of France, Balian was a true son of the Levant. Like the other Poulain lords, every ditch, stream, and rocky outcrop held secrets known only to those born upon this ancient land. If providence favored them, the terrain itself would prove the greatest weapon.
“But, my lord, these marshes lie near Ibelin,” Baldwin cautioned, “Your lands will bear the brunt of this slaughter.”
Balian's head dipped in solemn resignation. “My lands are already ashes, Your Majesty. They can suffer no more.”
Even Lord Raynald could not muster a biting comment after that declaration. The nobleman's lands were desecrated along with the rest of this region. For these warriors, there was nothing left to lose.
The king's gaze swept across the assembled nobles, his voice low but resolute. “Prepare the army. We leave when night falls, no matter the cost. We will defend the Holy Land to our last man, to our dying breath.”
Raynald's eyes glinted with fierce determination as he spoke, his words dripping with fiery zeal. “Aye, that we shall. If our people must perish, let their sacrifices hold meaning. For the Lord's sake, we shall strike this infidel horde and show the beasts how we fight with honor and dignity. May God have mercy on their damned souls.”
The Tower of David, Jerusalem, 24 November 1177
Night had fallen.
The people had been led to the sanctuary of the Tower of David, huddling within its walls, seeking protection from the Saracen army that marched upon them. Jerusalem had not faced such a threat in decades, and her walls were in desperate need of reinforcing.
Inside the citadel, all was silent and still; save for the faint murmuring of prayers. Everyone was anxious, and nobody knew if their Kingdom would survive. If the city would persevere and emerge from the war unscathed. Luceria sat motionless, her head bowed in prayer and her hands clasped so tightly they were beginning to grow numb.
Even worse, a messenger arrived from Ascalon bearing the grim news that Saladin's forces had already ravaged Ramlah and Ibelin.
Lady Stephanie cleared her throat awkwardly, causing Luceria to look up from her prayers.
“Your father will come back safe,” Her stepmother said with a reassuring smile. But Luceria knew her well enough to see the worry in her eyes as the woman stroked Humphrey’s hair.
“I'm sure he will,” Luceria replied weakly, trying to sound convincing. But they both knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for the Crusaders to win over Saladin’s tremendous army.
Her blue-green eyes scanned the Great Hall. In the corner, Queen Maria tended to the distraught little Isabella, trying in vain to console the child and reassure her that all would be well.
Even the normally poised Agnes de Courtenay had her hands folded piously, eyes cast downward in prayer. Beside her, Sibylla's delicate mouth was turned down in an anxious frown, her hand absentmindedly stroking her swollen belly as she conversed in quiet whispers with her ladies-in-waiting, whose faces were all filled with worry.
Stephanie held her Humphrey close, the boy's cheeks stained with tears. Miriam offered them a bowl of warm broth, which they drank in silence. As though soup could calm their nerves.
“Do you remember our prayers, Humphrey?” Luceria asked gently, reaching out to take his hand.
“Yes,” he whispered, voice cracking from the effort.
“Then say them with me, please. Please pray with me,” Luceria begged softly, holding his trembling hand tight. Her words carried the weight of her anguish as she looked upon the tear-stained face of her stepbrother, fear filling her heart.
Humphrey nodded, taking a shaky breath, his voice barely audible as he began to recite their prayers. They were desperate pleas to the Lord for divine intervention, begging Him for mercy. Begging Him to save them.
Luceria murmured the familiar words along with her stepbrother, trying her best to maintain some semblance of calm.
Baldwin. Oh God, how could she cope if he didn't return? Luceria hoped beyond all hope that he would live. The very thought threatened to shatter her. She had to cling to faith, to the desperate plea that God would show them mercy.
All she could do now was wait—wait for news from the battle and pray that Baldwin would live to come home.
For if he did not...
Luceria feared she might break apart long before the Saracens ever reached Jerusalem's walls.
Outremer, 25 November 1177
The sun had not yet risen, but the desert sky was already bleeding red.
They had slipped from Ascalon's ancient gates cloaked in night's protective veil, the Crusader army moving like phantoms silent as the grave. For hours on end, they had pushed onward, riding for twenty wearying miles, but fatigue was a luxury they could not afford.
Every village along their path had been reduced to ruins—houses, marketplaces, all turned to piles of ash and rubble. The fields were razed, their crops trampled to dust. Livestock lay slaughtered where they fell, or carried off to a crueler fate. Outremer was utterly devoid of life.
Baldwin clutched the red velvet ribbon at his belt as he urged Asad forward. If he did not return from this day, would Luceria understand? Could he call himself worthy of her affections if he died a hero in defense of the Holy Land?
He wished he had told her the depths of what she meant to him. Perhaps then he could embrace his death with the peace of knowing she understood how much he cared for her.
How much he loved her.
“Your Majesty.” Raynald's gruff tone snapped Baldwin's attention towards him. The seasoned commander fixed him with an intense stare. “If the fight turns dire, you must retreat to the mountains.” His words carried the weight of a command.
Baldwin held the nobleman's gaze with steeled resolve. “I will not abandon my people to save my own skin, Lord Raynald.”
“You may think yourself ready for death, Your Majesty,” Raynald grinned, all teeth, “but I assure you, you have only seen but a fraction of it.”
Baldwin frowned, he had known he would die since he learned of his disease. Would dying amidst the chaos of battle truly be so different? At least now he clutched his sword's hilt, able to take control of his own fate. “I know I will meet God in battle this day, Lord Raynald,” He declared, “but I will never flee like a coward.”
Raynald chuckled, mirthless and hollow. “You're no coward, boy. A king, through and through.”
Baldwin gave a mute nod, fingers tightening around the velvet ribbon bound to his belt. “Your words honor me, sir.”
The seasoned commander appraised him with a critical eye. “Just don't go dying too soon, son. You've more than earned my respect.”
The young king exhaled a weighted sigh. “Lord Raynald, if...if we somehow survive this day...” He swallowed thickly against the lump constricting his throat. “Will you allow me the honor of marrying your daughter?”
To Baldwin's astonishment, the aging warrior laughed, full-bellied and genuine, a hearty roar that spilled from his lungs—the first Baldwin had ever heard from him. “Stay alive and find out for yourself, boy!” He chortled, clapping the young king on the back.
Just then, a scout broke through their ranks, rushing towards the front of the army with frantic urgency. “Your Majesty,” he called out, “We've found the Saracens. They lie but a few miles ahead, near Montgisard.”
