Chapter 92: The Regent of Antioch
May 25, 1180 – Aleppo, the morning after the Battle of Al-Sarha
The tent flap stirred in the morning breeze, letting in a shaft of white sun and the faint scent of crushed grass, ash, and blood. Outside, the camp murmured with the sounds of recovery: soldiers dragging bodies for burial, horses being watered, priests chanting over the dead. But inside Baldwin's pavilion, it was quiet—save for the soft grind of mortar and pestle and the low hum of a monk's prayer.
Brother Thomas, the Hospitaller who had treated him many times before, leaned over a small table beside the cot, carefully scraping a thin yellow-green smear from a dish lined with fermented rye bread and mold. He drew the paste into a wooden salve cup, then turned to the king, who sat on a padded bench, shirtless, shoulders rigid with fatigue.
"You've overtaxed yourself again, Your Majesty," the monk said without judgment, but with firm authority. "You need rest. Not more battles."
"I've had worse days," Baldwin rasped, attempting a smile. It faltered almost instantly.
Brother Thomas said nothing. He set to work with practiced care, dabbing the penicillin-rich mold paste on Baldwin's shoulders, back, and upper neck—where the skin was red, discolored, and raw from days of armor and strain. The smell was faintly sour, but the cool touch dulled the worst of the pain. A linen wrap followed, bound snug but not tight.
"It's holding for now," the monk said. "No fresh lesions. But your strength is dwindling. The fevers will come if you do not slow down."
Baldwin gave a quiet, brittle chuckle.
"The day after the greatest victory of my reign, and I'm told to sit in bed like an invalid."
Brother Thomas met his gaze squarely. "You are an invalid. But a stubborn one."
Baldwin didn't argue. The fatigue had soaked deep into his bones. Every muscle ached from the strain of battle and long days in the saddle. He could barely lift his right arm. When the tent flap shifted again, he didn't bother turning.
"Let him in," Baldwin said.