CHAPTER 92 - 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.

Brother Thomas stepped aside, bowing, as Balian of Ibelin entered. He was still in his armor, though the breastplate was scratched and flecked with blood. His face was worn, his beard dark with dust, and his eyes showed the wear of a man who had buried too many brothers. Yet when he saw Baldwin sitting upright, the smallest breath of relief passed his lips.

"You look like hell, but you live," Balian said.

Baldwin offered a thin smile. "Praise God for both."

Balian sank into the stool across from him, resting his sword across his knees. For a long moment, neither man spoke. They listened instead—to the sounds of life stirring outside the pavilion, to the soft rustle of canvas in the breeze.

Then Baldwin exhaled slowly.

"Bohemond."

Balian lowered his head.

"I saw his body," he said. "He was... beyond saving."

"He waited, just as I asked," Baldwin murmured. "He waited until Saladin's right was fully committed. Then he charged. Broke the flank. Rolled them up. He played his part in the trap perfectly... and died."

Balian swallowed hard.

"He died a prince," he said. "Better than most ever get."

Baldwin nodded slowly, his fingers curling slightly on the edge of the bench.

"But that leaves Antioch without a ruler," he said. "And an eight-year-old boy as heir."

"Raymond IV," Balian said. "Too young to rule. But old enough to be shaped."

The king's eyes met his, sharp despite the weariness.

"Which is why I'm naming myself his regent."

Balian's brow lifted slightly. "You mean to claim authority over Antioch?"

"I mean to protect Antioch," Baldwin said. "Bohemond left no formal regent. No council. His death was swift, unprepared. The court will tear itself apart without guidance—and the Byzantines will use the chaos to press their old claims."

Balian leaned forward, voice low.

"You know they'll oppose this. You're not of the House of Poitiers. Antioch is still technically an imperial fief in their eyes."

"I know," Baldwin said. "Which is why I've already begun crafting my response."

He reached beneath the bench and pulled out a sealed scrollcase, which he handed to Balian.

Inside was a draft letter, penned in Latin and Greek, addressed to Emperor Alexios II's regents in Constantinople.

"I'll send envoys to the Byzantine court," Baldwin said. "With gifts. Designs for war engines I've had made—counterweight trebuchets, improved mangonels, crossbow schematics. Tools of war. Let them see what we've built here, what we know."

Balian's eyes moved across the script. It was careful, diplomatic—but beneath it pulsed subtle threats and offers of alliance.

"You intend to bribe them with machines?"

"I intend to make them understand the truth," Baldwin said, voice hardening. "They are losing ground to the Sultanate of Rum every year. The Anatolian plateau shrinks before the Seljuk advance. They can't afford a war in the Levant. They can't even hold Cilicia without our support."

Balian's expression darkened. "And if they say no? If they send their own man to Antioch?"

"They won't," Baldwin said calmly. "Not if we move quickly. The boy, Raymond—he will be placed under my protection here in Aleppo. We'll say it's for his safety. The war is not over, after all. The roads are dangerous. The Sultan may still attack. We'll present it as a temporary custody."

"And then?"

"Then we wait. I marry him—when he's old enough—to my half-sister Isabella. She's still only eight herself. A match made in time. That will bind Antioch to the crown. Blood and alliance both."

Balian sat back, digesting it all.

"You'd unify Jerusalem, Tripoli, and Antioch under one banner."

Baldwin nodded.

"And it must happen now. We may never again break Saladin as we did yesterday. If he dies of that wound, the Muslim world may fracture. But if he lives... he will come back with vengeance."

Balian crossed his arms.

"You've thought this through."

"Years ago," Baldwin said quietly. "Bohemond's death merely opened the path."

A silence fell between them again, heavier now. The sounds outside faded into background noise.

At last, Balian said, "The others won't like it. The barons of Antioch. The Greeks. Maybe even the Hospitallers."

"They can dislike it all they want," Baldwin said. "But it will happen."

He gripped the arm of the bench tightly, his voice low.

"This is my kingdom, Balian. I do not know how long I'll live. But while I draw breath, I will not leave it fractured and weak. When I am gone, it must be strong enough to stand against Egypt and Rum both."

Balian stared at him for a long moment, then slowly inclined his head.

"Then I will stand with you," he said. "As I always have."

Baldwin gave a wan smile.

"I know."

Brother Thomas returned with a cloth soaked in lavender-scented water and gently wiped the king's brow.

"You must rest now," the monk said. "You've done enough for one day."

Baldwin didn't protest. He was already sinking deeper into the bench, weariness claiming his limbs like slow-rolling tides.

Balian stood and bowed once more.

"I'll begin arrangements for the regency," he said. "And for the boy's transfer."

As he turned to leave, Baldwin called softly after him.

"And Balian—speak to Maria. Make her understand the marriage is necessary. Isabella may not grasp it yet, but her union will secure peace. She must be prepared."

Balian nodded solemnly.

"I'll make her see."

The King's fingers, wrapped in white silk to cover his wounded flesh, turned as Richard of Poitou entered the tent—mail half-unfastened, a lion carved into the leather of his sword belt. The young duke was flushed with life, taller than most, and already a firebrand among the men. Unlike Bohemond, Richard demanded no respect. He earned it.

"You summoned me, Your Grace," Richard said, bowing with soldierly efficiency.

"I did," Baldwin replied, voice thin but steady. "Come closer."

They stood over a large table map held down by iron weights—one of the new prints, marked in fresh ink, with each hill and ford rendered clearly. Many small towns were circled in red—places that had been bypassed during the rapid advance to Aleppo: Zardana, Sarmada, Maarrat Misrin, and others clinging to the fringes of Zengid authority.

"These towns supplied the garrisons we defeated," Baldwin said. "They were spared because time did not permit us to sweep the hills. That ends now."

Richard leaned over the map, eyes narrowing. "You want me to take them."

"I want you to conquer them," Baldwin said. "Bohemond's former liegemen now lack a proper commander. I will place them under you—for now. Their loyalty may falter, but they respect strength. Show them that strength, Richard. Bring order to these hills."

Richard paused, then nodded. "And if they resist?"

"They will," Baldwin said flatly. "Take what you must. Spare the innocent. Install our banners, send word of allegiance from each town. Let no Zengid agent remain behind our lines. And—" he lowered his voice, "—if you find any emir attempting to rally local revolt, hang him. Publicly."

A long silence stretched between them.

"I'm not doing this for land," Richard finally said. "I am the son of a king and Duke of Aquitaine. I need no titles here. But I will take your cross and fly your banner—if it means glory, and victory."

Baldwin allowed the ghost of a smile. "Then ride, Iron Flame. Burn a path of certainty across this land."

The tent flap closed behind him.

Baldwin leaned back, his eyes half-closed now, his body aching but his mind sharp as ever. The battle had been won—but the war for the future had only just begun.

And it would be won, not with swords, but with names, marriages, ink, and the long patience of kings.