CHAPTER 25 - 25: RIDERS AND ROOTS

The morning drills had drawn a crowd. Not of nobles or soldiers, but townspeople—men in aprons, children in wool cloaks, a few women watching from beneath tightly wrapped veils. They gathered along the low stone wall outside Jerusalem's eastern field, murmuring to one another as they watched the test riders gallop in formation.

Ethan stood beneath an olive tree, his silver mask gleaming dully in the half-light. Balian d'Ibelin stood beside him, arms crossed, squinting as the fourth rider in a borrowed lamellar cuirass loosed a short, curved arrow from horseback. It struck the hanging straw man in the shoulder—not center mass, but close.

"Better than yesterday," Balian said.

"Still flinching at release," Ethan replied. "He pulls back rather than forward."

They watched in silence as the rider wheeled around in a wide arc, his horse kicking dust, then galloped again—this time drawing from a quiver strapped under his left thigh, not across the back.

"The new saddle helps," Balian noted. "Eastern style. High front and cantle. Holds the rider firmer."

Ethan nodded. "And the stirrups?"

"Lower. Wider. Easier on the knees. Less knightly, but better for long rides."

Ethan smiled behind his mask. "That's the idea."

These weren't knights. Not in the Frankish sense. The dozen men riding today wore no chainmail, no surcoats bearing lion or cross. Their armor was a patchwork—lamellar taken from captured Saracen stores, wool vests reinforced with boiled leather. Some wore shemaghs to keep the dust out. They looked like mercenaries. Nomads. Border scouts.

That was intentional.

"Give it two months," Ethan said. "Then we double their number."

"With whom?" Balian asked. "We're short already."

"We recruit from the fringes. Sons of border farmers. Orphaned squires. Bedouin tribesmen we've granted amnesty. Even former prisoners—if they swear loyalty and pass muster."

Balian gave him a wary look. "That will anger the barons."

"So will losing every patrol to ambush."

A gust of wind sent a spiral of dust across the training field. One of the riders sneezed and lost control of his bow—dropping it as the horse trotted back to the line. Laughter rippled through the townspeople.

Ethan didn't smile. "We don't need gallant. We need fast. Light. Smart."

"Mounted archers," Balian said. "Like the Turks."

"Exactly. But trained under our discipline. No reckless charges. Precision. Control."

"And loyalty?"

Ethan turned to him. "That's the hardest part."

Later that day, in the vaulted council chamber below the citadel, Ethan unrolled a different kind of map.

Not military. Agricultural.

He had summoned Father Raynald of Bethlehem, a learned and practical priest who had catalogued village populations across Judea. Alongside him stood Sir Tancred of Ibelin, in charge of logistics, and Anselm, parchment ink still drying on his fingers.

The map showed not trade routes, but parishes. Fields. Abandoned homesteads. Burned churches. Roads where pilgrims once walked, now overtaken by brush.

"Thirty-seven villages," Ethan said, tapping the parchment. "All within two days of Jerusalem. Most are half-empty. Some completely deserted."

Father Raynald nodded. "Disease. Raids. Tax flight. Many fled to Acre or north to Tyre."

Ethan's eyes scanned the map. "We bring them back. Or we find others."

Tancred raised a brow. "From where?"

"From Europe," Ethan said. "Italy. Provence. Flanders. Even the Rhineland. We speak to the merchants. The abbots. Offer land—real land—with three years' grace. No tithes. No forced levies. Free churches, free markets. Let them build."

"Build what?" Anselm asked.

"New villages," Ethan said simply. "Stone granaries. Communal mills. Roads to Jerusalem. Trade with Acre. A generation from now, those villages feed the cities."

Raynald hesitated. "Will they come? The sea is long. The dangers—"

"They will," Ethan interrupted. "Because Europe has too many mouths and not enough land. We offer land. And faith. Let them believe they build God's kingdom."

Tancred frowned. "We'll need walls. Barracks. At least a watchtower per settlement."

"And a chapel," Raynald added. "No settler will trust soil unblessed."

Ethan nodded. "That's the plan. Five settlements to start. Around Jerusalem first. Then Jaffa. Then Galilee."

Anselm leaned in. "And who governs them?"

"Local reeves," Ethan replied. "Elected, but with oversight from the crown. They answer to the seneschal and the local bishop. Simple laws. Fair rents. Equal protection."

The room went quiet.

This was something foreign. Not Roman. Not Frankish. A different model—part monastic, part modern. The kind of system built not for glory, but for resilience.

"They'll call it naive," Tancred said.

"They already do," Ethan said. "But if it works, it becomes law."

That evening, Ethan walked the battlements alone, accompanied only by the rustle of dry wind and the creak of old hinges on the southern tower door.

Below, the field had emptied. The riders had dismounted and returned to the stables near Zion Gate. The straw targets stood riddled with arrows.

He looked down at his hand. Flexed it. The skin was firm now, pink and dry. He could almost forget what it had looked like a month ago.

Gerard called it mercy. Ethan called it time.

And he intended to spend it carefully.

A cavalry corps trained in mobility, precision, and loyalty—not lineage. Settlements seeded not by conquest, but by promise. Roads built not for kings, but for wheat and wool and walking.

It wouldn't be fast.

But it would last.

He turned toward the church bells echoing from the Holy Sepulchre.

The kingdom could survive.

Maybe, if they did this right, it could even live.