CHAPTER 90 - 90: THE NIGHT BEFORE

(Flashback)

Night draped the plains in a cloak of silence, broken only by the soft hiss of wind through dry grass and the distant clang of armor. Baldwin IV stood alone in his tent, bent over a table of rough pine planks, studying a hand-drawn map by the flickering light of a bronze oil lamp. Candles burned low around him, the wax long melted into messy pools.

The scent of ink, tallow, and the faint medicinal tang of camphor clung to the air.

Outside, the camp was quiet—too quiet. The silence of soldiers who knew battle was near.

A knock at the tent flap stirred him from his thoughts.

"Enter," Baldwin said without looking up.

The flap parted. It was Sir Gerard of Ridefort, helmet tucked beneath his arm, his face still streaked with dust from riding. In his hand was a sealed parchment bearing the crest of Antioch.

Baldwin straightened, instantly alert.

"A message," Gerard said. "From Prince Bohemond."

He handed it over, bowed, and withdrew without another word.

Baldwin cracked the wax and unfolded the page. The prince's hand was bold and slanted, and there was dust on the paper, as if it had ridden fast and far. He read in silence, lips tight.

My Lord King,

We ride now from the southern hills—eight hundred cavalry, armored and eager. We will reach the field by midday on the morrow. The enemy has not yet sighted us.

Where shall we strike? Command, and it shall be done.

—Bohemond

Baldwin let the letter rest on the table. Eight hundred heavy cavalry.

Enough to change a battle. Enough to turn disaster into triumph.

He exhaled slowly.

Across the tent, the map of the field beckoned again. He moved toward it, running a gloved finger over the charcoal markings—his camp east of Aleppo, the rising ridge behind it, the open killing ground where Saladin would likely commit his strength.

He already knew Saladin would attack. The probing strikes earlier today had been deliberate, testing. But the Sultan had underestimated the strength of Baldwin's position once before—at Jacob's Ford—and paid the price. He would not fall for the same mistake twice. Not unless Baldwin gave him a reason to believe he could win.

Not unless Baldwin invited him in.

That thought lodged like a spear in Baldwin's mind.

Yes.

His eyes shifted from the map to a blank piece of parchment. His strategy had always depended on Saladin believing the center was the threat. But what if he made the left appear weak—exposed, even inviting?

He could draw Saladin into attacking it with force.

Then, once committed, Baldwin would reinforce the center and hold the right. If Bohemond's cavalry struck at that moment—sweeping around to crash into Saladin's exposed right flank—the Sultan's entire line might collapse inward.

It would be risky. The left would have to hold long enough to bait the enemy in—but not break.

If it worked, it would break Saladin's army. Not just defeat it. Shatter

it.

He reached for a quill.

He began writing, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his gaunt, hollow-cheeked face.

To Prince Bohemond of Antioch,

I have received your letter and thank God for your timing. Eight hundred horse is no small blade to wield, and it may yet be the hammer that breaks the Crescent.

Here is my design:

Tomorrow, I shall weaken the left flank, pulling men from it to bolster the center. The Sultan, seeing the thinning line, will think me stretched and reckless. He will strike there with force. That is the bait.

Once his right flank is committed against our left, I ask you to ride not at once—but wait for my banner to shift. I shall send a white pennon above the center standard when the moment is right.

When that signal rises, fall upon his right with full fury. Drive it inward. I shall advance the center at that same moment. The Lord willing, we will break them between hammer and anvil.

No glory without danger. But this is the moment, Bohemond. The time to strike the lion's throat, not his paw.

Your brother in arms,

—Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem

He sanded the letter, sealed it, and handed it to a waiting rider with strict instructions.

As the messenger galloped into the night, Baldwin turned back to the map. He began shifting counters—small wooden tokens for each division. Two from the left were moved to the center. One from the center shifted slightly forward. The right flank held firm. A pocket, a curve. A deception.

Then he stepped back and studied the whole board. Alone.

An hour later, Baldwin stood outside his tent, watching the night sky. The stars glittered cold and distant above the black silhouette of Aleppo's walls. In the quiet, he could almost feel the eyes of Saladin across the plain, somewhere in the dark, drawing his own plans.

Would he take the bait?

He must.

Baldwin knew the man by now. He admired him—respected him, even. Saladin was bold, calculating, but he had a weakness shared by many great commanders: pride.

Pride in his men. Pride in his command. And pride wounded at Jacob's Ford, then again at Aleppo's fall. That pride would push him to strike when the Franks appeared vulnerable. It would not let him wait.

And Baldwin would make sure he saw weakness.

A gap. A sag in the shield wall. Fewer banners fluttering on the left. Whispers would spread. Decoys would feint withdrawal.

A perfect storm of illusion.

He turned as a voice approached.

"My lord," said Hugh of Ibelin, armored even now, his helm tucked under one arm. "The captains are assembled. They await your word."

"Tell them the field is set," Baldwin said softly. "Tomorrow we fight. Tomorrow we finish this."

Hugh hesitated. "And if the bait fails?"

Baldwin met his eyes. "Then we hold. And bleed. And buy Bohemond time. But it won't fail."

He turned and stepped back into the tent, toward the battle map.

Toward the storm he had invited.

At midnight, Baldwin knelt alone before the small altar in the rear of his command tent. The gold cross gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He prayed not for victory—not directly—but for clarity, for courage, and for the lives of the men who trusted him.

His skin burned beneath the wrappings on his face and arms. The leprosy gnawed at him, stronger than ever after days in the saddle. But tomorrow, he would ride again. He would not be the leper-king in a litter. He would be what they needed—a sword, not a relic.

He crossed himself, rose, and blew out the candles.

As sleep claimed him at last, the map remained in place, tokens arranged in their fatal pattern—one false weakness to draw the storm.

And a white pennon that would signal doom.