Chapter 20: A Cure in the Pulp
August's first sunrise struck the limestone walls of Jerusalem in copper hues, drawing long shadows across the mill in the Kidron Valley. The waterwheel turned for the first time just before the bells of Lauds, creaking as the stream's narrow flow caught the scooped paddles. Apprentices cheered. The hammers, suspended by notched camshafts, began their rhythmic fall—thud, thud, thud—pulping soaked linen into a fibrous mash in a stone basin, where it would soak with lye and ash.
Ethan stood nearby, leaning against a cane Anselm had crafted for him. The cane's head was a simple bronze cross, more a counterweight than a symbol of power. His left arm, wrapped in a clean linen sleeve, throbbed less now. Gerard had applied a second solution—boiled from bark, mixed with wine and a paste of crushed citrus peel—and the strange mold patch on his skin seemed to stop spreading. Under the magnifier lens, the filaments twisted slowly around flecks of dead skin, forming a strange, translucent crust.
"Containment," Gerard said that morning. "It's no cure—but it fences the fire."
Ethan had nodded. It was enough for now.
Later that day, back within the old audience hall, Balian arrived with the man they had discussed: Sir Hugo de Blanchefort.
He was younger than Ethan expected—no more than twenty-five, with a lean, sinewy build from campaign life and sun-darkened skin that suggested long marches, not courtly feasts. His left hand bore a leather cap over two missing fingers. He wore no ornament—only a faded surcoat with the faint remains of his family's silver crane crest.
He knelt, silent, until Ethan gestured for him to rise.
"You served at Montgisard?" Ethan asked, voice low from fatigue.
"I did, Majesty. Under Sir Godfrey de Montferrat. I carried messages and held the line when he fell."
Balian spoke quietly behind Ethan. "He didn't retreat when the line broke. Pulled three men to safety before taking a javelin to the thigh."