CHAPTER 180: CHAPTER 180 - THE AFTERMATH

September 18th, 1181 - Jerusalem

The bells of Jerusalem tolled through the streets long after the ceremony at the Holy Sepulchre had ended. Word had already spread among the common people that something extraordinary had taken place—though none could quite put words to it. Some said the King and his bride had been caught in a blaze of heavenly fire. Others whispered of angels descending. Still others swore that time itself had halted, that they themselves had stood frozen like statues, powerless even to blink, until suddenly the world had resumed and their sovereigns stood transfigured before them.

Within the church itself, silence lingered where once there had been chanting. The clergy still knelt, unsure whether to weep or to rejoice, their eyes fixed on Baldwin and Constance as though afraid to look away. But Baldwin himself scarcely heard them. He had fallen into a world of new sensation—his body, which for years had been a prison of pain, now felt light, supple, whole. For the first time since his boyhood he stood straight without fear of collapse. His chest rose and fell without struggle, his lungs no longer raw and constricted. When he flexed his hands beneath the linen gloves, there was no stabbing fire, no loss of feeling.

He removed his gloves, and he looked at his hands. The sores that had so long marred him were gone. Smooth, healthy flesh replaced them. He could feel warmth in his fingertips where before there had only been numbness.

Constance clutched his arm, her eyes wide, her lips parted but speechless. She too felt the miracle, though in a different way—through awe, and through the unmistakable conviction that her life had been bound to something far beyond her own imagining. She was no longer merely the daughter of Sicily, nor merely a consort married into Jerusalem.

The Patriarch finally found his voice. "Deo gratias," he whispered, and his words spread like wildfire through the clergy and knights, until the church echoed with a chorus of trembling voices: "Deo gratias! Deo gratias!"

The congregation spilled out of the Holy Sepulchre in a rush, unable to contain themselves. Some ran through the streets crying aloud, "The king is healed! The king is made whole by God!" Others rushed to the Tower of David, to the markets, to the city gates. Bells began to ring, first from the church itself, then from others across Jerusalem.

By evening, the entire city knew. Pilgrims from across Europe wept in joy. Greek merchants in the bazaar crossed themselves and declared they had seen saints walk. Armenians lit candles in their quarters. Even the Muslim inhabitants of the city, though wary, whispered that the Nazarene God had worked a wonder unlike any seen in generations.

Crowds gathered before the royal palace, calling out blessings, chanting psalms in a dozen tongues. "Baldwin the Blessed! Baldwin the Healed! God’s Anointed King!"

When Baldwin and Constance returned to the royal palace, they were met with both reverence and astonishment. The court was in disarray: servants, guards, and nobles alike crowded the corridors, bowing deeply or pressing forward to catch a glimpse of the King. Some knelt outright, as if unwilling to stand in the presence of one so obviously touched by Heaven.

But Baldwin raised his hand. "Rise, my lords. Rise. God has wrought this work, not I."

Still, the wonder in their eyes did not fade.

In the King’s private chamber, a council was swiftly gathered: Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron, the Patriarch Heraclius, and above all, Brother Gerard, brother of the Hospitallers. Gerard, though stern and practical by nature, entered the chamber with a face already pale with expectation. He had tended Baldwin since his youth, monitored the sores, the wasting flesh, the pain that sapped his strength. If any man alive knew the toll leprosy had taken upon the King, it was Gerard.

"Majesty," Gerard said carefully, his voice hushed as if in a holy place, "may I... examine you?"

Baldwin nodded. For the first time in years, he was not ashamed to bare his hands.

Gerard knelt before him, his surgeon’s kit forgotten at his side. He reached out, almost reverently, and took Baldwin’s hand between his own. His fingers traced the skin. He pressed at the flesh, searching for the telltale looseness, the numbness, the necrosis he had long recorded. Instead, he found warmth, vitality, sensation. Baldwin flinched slightly—not from pain, but from ticklishness.

The physician drew a deep breath, steadying his trembling hands. First, he touched Baldwin’s forearm, running his fingers across the skin. Once, Baldwin had felt nothing from such touches — the nerves long deadened. But now Baldwin flinched and laughed lightly, almost giddy.

Gerard froze. Slowly, his gaze lifted to Baldwin’s. "You feel that?"

"Yes," Baldwin said, his voice trembling with joy. "Every touch. Every finger. No fire, no stabbing pain. I feel as any man should."

Gerard’s mind rebelled. He had studied leprosy all his life; he knew its cruelty, its permanence. Never once had he seen it reversed.

"Impossible," he whispered under his breath. Yet the truth was undeniable.

"Take off the wrappings," Baldwin urged. "All of them. Let them see."

With careful hands, Gerard unwound the linen bindings from Baldwin’s arms and legs. The court craned forward, whispering in anticipation. One by one, the bandages fell away, revealing unblemished skin beneath. Where bone and sinew had once seemed wasted, now there was firm strength. Baldwin flexed his fingers into fists, then opened them wide, marveling at the sensation.

Gerard tested further — pressing a pin gently into Baldwin’s palm, a test he had performed countless times before. Once, Baldwin would not have noticed until blood appeared. Now the king hissed softly at the sting and pulled back.

"You feel that?" Gerard asked hoarsely.

"Every point," Baldwin replied, wonder in his voice.

At last Gerard stepped back, tears forming unbidden in his eyes. He fell to his knees before the King. "It is a miracle. My lords, by Saint John, it is a miracle! The King is whole. Leprosy has no hold upon him."

A murmur went through the council chamber, swelling into cries of amazement. Balian crossed himself, then sank to one knee. Humphrey of Toron stared as though witnessing the Resurrection itself. Even Patriarch Heraclius, who had often wavered in loyalty to Baldwin, now bowed low with tears running down his cheeks.

Gerard withdrew a few paces, mind reeling. He had spent decades studying the frailty of the human body, resigning himself to its limits. He had told Baldwin in frank honesty that there was no cure, that leprosy was a death sentence prolonged only by God’s mercy. And now — before his very eyes — the impossible stood living.

His thoughts churned with questions. Was this the hand of God alone? Or had heaven touched Baldwin for a purpose yet hidden? Would physicians one day recall this moment as a singular wonder, or as the dawn of a new age when sickness itself might be conquered?

"Have I been blind all these years?" Gerard murmured to himself. "Studying flesh when the soul commands it?" Yet even as doubt gnawed, awe silenced him. He could only bow low to the ground.

Baldwin sat back upon his chair, but not out of weakness. He sat because he was overwhelmed. He clenched and unclenched his fists, relishing the sensation. He stood again, pacing, marveling at the steadiness of his step, the lightness in his stride. He no longer shuffled like an invalid, leaning on a cane. He moved as a young king in the prime of life.

All his years he had carried the knowledge that his reign would be short, his strength dwindling, his kingdom threatened by his infirmity. Now—now God Himself had chosen otherwise.

"Do you understand what this means?" Baldwin said softly, his voice carrying the weight of revelation. "I was dying. Each year weaker, each day more bound by pain. Yet God has given me back my body. He has made me whole. He has declared before all men that this kingdom is His, and that I am His servant."

Constance, standing near, placed a hand over her heart. "And I His handmaid," she whispered. Her eyes shone as she gazed at Baldwin—not only as her husband but as a man transformed.

"My King," Balian said, rising, "there can be no doubt. This is a sign. No greater favor could God show to you or to Jerusalem. The people will see it, the lords will see it. They will know you are chosen."

Patriarch Heraclius nodded vigorously. "It is beyond dispute. Heaven has set its seal upon your reign. None may gainsay you now."

Gerard, his expression still grave despite his tears. "Majesty, forgive me. I doubted. For years I thought the disease would conquer you, as it conquers all men. I never thought..." His voice broke. "But now I see. You are the most blessed of kings. And I will proclaim it with all the Order at my back."

Baldwin drew Constance forward so that she stood beside him before the gathered lords. He clasped her hand and raised it for all to see.

"God has not blessed me alone," he declared. "He has given me a partner, a queen to stand beside me. He has set His favor upon our union, that together we might build not merely a kingdom, but a realm of peace and justice that shall endure. What God has joined, let no man put asunder."

The words rang in the chamber, and none dared gainsay them.

Brother Gerard repeated his findings in painstaking detail, explaining each test he had made, each symptom that had vanished. "It is not remission," he insisted. "It is not deception. He is healed, as though he had never been touched."

The nobles listened in silence, torn between joy and unease.

"It cannot be denied," said Balian, his voice steady but awed. "The king has been chosen. God Himself has sealed him."

A silence fell, heavy with the weight of destiny.

At length Baldwin dismissed the council, though the lords went forth stunned, eager to spread the news. Within hours the word would reach every corner of Jerusalem: the King was healed, the Queen was blessed, and Heaven itself had shone upon their marriage.

When at last they were alone, Baldwin and Constance stood by the window overlooking the city. The night was alight with torches, for the people had poured into the streets in celebration. Songs rose, mingled with shouts of "Deus vult!" and "Long live the King and Queen!"

Baldwin turned to Constance. "I scarcely know how to be whole. For so long I have lived with chains upon my flesh. Now they are gone. And I feel... as though I have been reborn."

Constance’s hand caressed his cheek. "Then let us begin anew together. You, reborn as king. I, blessed as queen. We will make Jerusalem a jewel to outshine all others. And no man will doubt we were chosen."

Baldwin bent his forehead to hers. For the first time in his memory, he felt not merely hope but certainty. The path was before him, and it gleamed with divine light.