© 2016 by Dina Sleiman
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3010-2
Unless noted, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Epigraph Scripture quotation is from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Paul Higdon
Cover model photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
Author represented by The Steve Laube Agency
To my readers:
My prayer is that you will be strong and courageous. Follow the path God has laid before you, wherever that might lead. Be a doctor, a lawyer, a professional athlete, a wife, a mother, or even a president.
Chase after your dreams, and if a handsome knight in shining armor should happen to come alongside you, headed in the same direction, and you should happen to fall in love . . . then join together and become partners in your quest.
But please remember—you are complete, you are beautiful, and you are dearly loved by God just the way you are.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Epilogue
Historical Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Dina Sleiman
Back Ads
Back Cover
But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
—2 Corinthians 12:9–10 NIV
Prologue
I commission thee, Rosalind of Ipsworth,
Defender of the Holy Cross
And crusader of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Soon I will hear those sacred words, and there will be no turning back. My mind swirls with possibilities. I can barely focus on the grand Cathedral of Edendale as I file down the center aisle behind a stream of knights in armor, glinting with an array of colorful lights from the many stained-glass windows surrounding us.
Arched ceilings seem to tremble and radiate high over my head. Walls painted with biblical scenes take on a special sort of glow this day. The marble floor whispers up holy echoes with each step I take toward the altar. Incense wafts over and all around me, flooding my senses with divine presence and keen delight.
With both great honor and the utmost humility, I wear my surcoat emblazoned with crosses in the North Britannian colors of black, ivory, and crimson. Perhaps with more humility than most, for of this crowd, I alone know my greatest sin.
The one for which I am desperate to atone.
At that thought the waves crash over me, as they always do. Waves of pain, of loneliness, of regret—yet followed by a new wash of warmth. The warmth that came with this decision to travel to the Holy Land. The warmth offering a hope that somehow I might find redemption, and that this crusade might open the way.
As I reach the front, I dip a knee before our esteemed duchess, Adela DeMontfort. She smiles at me with warm familiarity. Then I likewise bow before her cousins, the Lady Honoria and the young Lady Sapphira. Sapphira, whose eyes shimmer like the gems for which she is named, with some otherworldly light. With a sense of passion and intensity that has brought us all to this place.
Indeed, that special light inside Sapphira has sparked this crusade. And soon hundreds of men and dozens of women—along with a handful of specially chosen children—will sail away to the Holy Land inspired by Sapphira’s divine vision, Honoria’s stalwart leadership, and Adela’s funding and support.
A true woman’s crusade to surpass even Eleanor of Aquitaine’s.
Only, ours shall be far more successful, or so we all believe. And unlike the doomed children’s crusades of not long ago, this one will match sacred passion and visionary guidance with sound reason and proper planning.
As I join the ranks of crusaders lining the front of the cathedral, my heart speeds, tingles ripple up and down my arms, and my knees quiver as if they might give way. The glow, the radiance, the power of this moment threatens to engulf me. Then the bishop presses his hand in a downward motion, and I thankfully lower myself to my knees along with the many others. The cold, smooth floor is solid beneath me, and I anchor my hands to it until I catch my bearings.
“We are brought here today,” says the bishop with holy fire crackling through his voice, “by the direction of God himself. For He has spoken through the pure, young Lady Sapphira, giving her a vision to inspire us all. A vision of the Holy Land, and a clear call to set the captives free—captives like Lord Richard DeMontfort, the duchess’s beloved brother, with the hope that he might be returned safely home to us as our rightful Duke of North Britannia.”
As the bishop continues in his inspiring tones, I glance about for my friends and partners in this endeavor. I search out my beloved mistress, the Lady Gwendolyn. She had been just behind me. I feel certain of it. And yet I find her nowhere. My chest tightens. I turn to look for her husband, Sir Allen of Ellsworth, but he is missing from the ranks of those being commissioned as well.
I attempt to maintain subtlety as I peek over my shoulders, but I do not spot them in the throng beyond. Nor my mother. Nor my siblings. Although they are my reason for living and breathing, for working, and even a large part of my reason for pursuing this crusade, I did not invite them this day. The sight of their faces yet brings back too many haunting memories.
I continue to scan the crowd. Of course I see many I know. Knights in the duchess’s service, a handful of barons, several ladies of renown—all of whom I met during my time at the grand castle serving Lady Gwendolyn. The duchess herself, who shares my feisty nature and sharp wit and always brings such joy. But I do not spy the two people who matter
most to me.
Sir Randel Penigree catches my gaze and grins reassuringly, as if noticing my frenzied search. Sir Randel, so good-natured and calm. A faithful friend to both Gwendolyn and Allen.
“Where are they?” I mouth Randel’s way.
“Never fear,” he mouths back with a wink. “All is well.”
And somehow I believe him.
Just then the ladies around me stand to their feet and move toward the bishop. I follow suit. One by one they kneel before the duchess. Then the moment is upon me. The one I have so desperately dreamed of during this past year of regret and despair.
I fall to my knees before the duchess, who is flanked by the bishop, Honoria, and Sapphira. She taps the flat edge of her sword to my right shoulder and then my left. Heat radiates down my body. I imagine it burning away the darkness. Burning away my sin. “I commission thee, Rosalind of Ipsworth, defender of the holy cross, and crusader of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The wonder of it sends my thoughts reeling once again.
Then the bishop swipes my forehead with holy oil in the shape of the cross. It seeps into my skin, into my very mind, settling deep into my heart. “I anoint you for this task in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
As I stand to return to my place, a lightness, a cleanness, swirls about me. I feel as if I just might float away.
After the ceremony I stand in a sea of well-wishers, still searching out my mistress. At last, I squeeze through hugs and pats of congratulations to Sir Randel, a typical-looking soldier with his short-cropped dark hair and crusader surcoat. Though not as broad as some of the knights, he is well muscled, and easy to spot due to his attractive crooked grin.
“Where are they? What do you know?” I scan the crowded cathedral yet again.
He lifts my hand and presses a quick kiss upon it.
Although I no longer relish flirtatious attention from men, have in fact avoided it this past year, the chivalrous and sincere gesture heartens me.
“As I mentioned, all is well,” he says. “Come. They await you outside in the courtyard.”
His dark eyes sparkle with a secret knowledge as he tucks me under his arm and fights his way through the crowd. This day has left me in a daze. Although I am well trained and able to defend myself with weapons aplenty, for once I am happy to let a knight in shining armor come to my rescue.
As I step from the shadowy cathedral into the bright winter sunshine glaring off the snow, all goes dark for a moment, but Randel continues leading me forward. Soon this snow will melt, and we shall set off across the sea.
When my eyes clear, I spot Gwendolyn waving to me with her handsome husband at her side. Both wearing everyday attire.
“There you . . . but . . . what . . .” I stutter, aware that I am making no sort of sense at all.
Sir Allen wraps his arm about Gwendolyn in her woolen cloak of dark blue.
My young mistress’s bright smile nearly outshines the shimmering snow. Though now a married lady, she is a mere seventeen years of age, same as me. “We did not want to tell you before the ceremony, but Allen and I shall not be going on crusade this time, for a very good reason.”
What reason could possibly keep the bold and daring Lady Gwendolyn from this grand adventure?
Allen presses a hand to Gwendolyn’s flat abdomen. “It seems we are about to undertake our own crusade of epic proportions, especially if our little one has the spunk of its mother.”
“Oh!” Gwendolyn swats his chest.
A child! How had I failed to guess? But my mistress’s cycles always have been irregular, perhaps due to her strenuous training at the warrior arts. Still, this was Gwendolyn’s dream long before it was mine. To go on crusade. To fight for the innocent. “But we discussed this possibility. You said you wished to go no matter what.”
Gwendolyn shakes her head in a beatific sort of wonder. “I know, but motherhood does such odd things to a person. Strange particles seem to flow through my blood. As soon as I realized my condition, all my instincts turned to protecting this tiny creature.” She encircles her belly with her hands. “I cannot put him . . . or her in danger. Perhaps if we had already started along our way . . . but we have not.”
“And I shall stay with her and oversee the palace guard.” Allen pulls Gwendolyn tighter to his side. “I do not want to miss the big event. And the duchess needs good warriors here with so many leaving.”
“Precisely,” Gwendolyn says, “and I shall attend the duchess until the babe is born.”
I struggle to collect my thoughts. So much has happened this day. A baby . . . Of course I am happy for them, and yet, it stirs such memories. . . .
“Well, I for one congratulate you. And I think you have made a most excellent choice,” Sir Randel says, rousing me from my speechless stupor.
I glance from him to my friends and back again. “Of course. Congratulations to you both. But I still do not understand. Why did you not tell me?”
“Because if we had, you would have insisted upon staying here. And I know this crusade means the world to you.” Something in Gwendolyn’s gaze suggests she suspects more than I might wish her to, yet she speaks with compassion and understanding.
“You are going, my friend,” says Sir Allen, reaching out to give my shoulder a shake with a lordly sort of authority. “You have been officially commissioned. And do not make excuses of your family. We shall care for them well, precisely as we promised.”
“But I was to attend you, m’lady. What shall my role be now?”
“You shall be attendant to the young Lady Sapphira. She is the heart of this mission, and the duchess wishes her to be well protected.”
Sir Allen nods to me. “We all know that after my wife’s training, you have ample skills to watch over her.”
“That was to have been . . .” I cannot even finish the statement. That was to have been the Lady Gwendolyn’s own role. A great honor. One I doubt I deserve, yet I will do my utmost to live up to it. I will protect Lady Sapphira—body, mind, and spirit—and I shall aspire to be an admirable role model who shall in no way lead her astray.
“Yes, you shall go in my stead.” Gwendolyn hugs me tightly to her chest with her strong arms. Not so long ago, Gwendolyn nearly beat her champion husband, Sir Allen, in a tournament—although to this day, few know that secret. “And it has been decided that young Sadie of the Farthingale ghosts shall go along on crusade to fill the emptied slot. You will need to watch after her as well. Once we get home, we shall show you the cottage and plot of land we have chosen for you and your family. We want to make sure you have good incentive to return to us well and whole.”
I cling to her woolen cloak to keep from stumbling as I breathe in her comforting scent of wild herbs and imagine my own cottage upon their lands. My family will be so happy there.
Perhaps Gwendolyn does understand me, more than I ever realized. How else would she guess that nothing would make me happier than my own home, which might safeguard me from having to marry?
Marriage. A dream I gave up on a disastrous night over a year ago. A dream I will no longer suffer myself to indulge.
This crusade does indeed mean the world to me. Despite Gwendolyn’s wish that I return home safely, in truth, nothing would please me more than to offer my life in God’s service—and prove myself worthy of His almighty love once again.
Chapter 1
May 1219
Near the coast of the Holy Roman Empire
“Come, Garrett. Your turn next.” Randel beckoned the hesitant lad who reminded him so much of himself at that age.
Garrett pushed up from the deck of the huge sailing ship and reached to take the blunted practice sword from the hand of the much taller and far more arrogant Jervais. At the last moment possible, Jervais swiped back the sword and chuckled as Garrett missed it.
But he gave Garrett a friendly pat on the back when he finally handed it to him. Though the two boys were both thirteen years old and spent much time together
, Randel always marveled at the differences between them. Garrett’s even, young features turned bright pink beneath his wavy brown hair, but he pressed forward, determined despite his embarrassment.
As Garrett lunged before Randel and prepared his sword, a natural dexterity overtook the lad that belied his youthful awkwardness. If only Randel could help him find his confidence and his competitive drive, the boy might make a fine knight someday.
Randel bandied swords with Garrett, thrusting and parrying, dodging and striking. They both made proper adjustments for the slight to-and-fro sway of the ship. After two months at sea, it had become a second home.
He intentionally swung at Garrett from a weak angle to see if the boy would properly respond. Sure enough, the boy ducked low and came up to catch a blow against Randel’s side.
“Excellent!” Randel shouted, not bothering to correct the lack of thrust behind the strike. Garrett was strong enough for his small stature, but he hated to inflict pain.
Again, Randel empathized with the young fellow. He had once been small and timid, had hated to hurt a soul. Thus his parents had trained him for the church. Yet a desire for battle had always burned somewhere deep inside of him. So he had snuck off as oft as possible to train with his friends Hugh and Gerald and their sister, Gwendolyn, in secret. And in the end, he had achieved the knighthood he desired.
They continued their match, Randel testing and baiting more than actually fighting. If faced with a true enemy, with true danger, all of this skill and technique would come back to Garrett, and he would do what he must. This Randel knew, for though only nineteen, he himself had already faced the situation many times.
He turned his sword arm to an incorrect position, and surely enough, Garrett took the opportunity to swipe Randel’s sword from his hand. It flew through the air and clattered upon the wooden deck.
“Ho! Huzzah! Garrett wins again!” he cheered.
Garrett let a shy, crooked smile slip forth. Although the boy often retreated into a still and stoic sort of mode, not unlike a tortoise in its shell, Randel loved to bring out Garrett’s enthusiasm. Each of these children needed a special sort of touch. Some put in their place and taught a healthy bit of fear, and others, like Garrett, needed the encouragement of a win and a heaping dose of praise.
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