Courageous

by Dina L. Sleiman

  He chuckled. “Did you not just reprimand Issobelle for a similar gesture?”

  She bumped him with her hip. “We are not foolish children.” They had both done far too much living for their ages. “I know not what I would do without your friendship aboard this ship.”

  “We shall make it, you and I. Never fear.”

  She turned her face back out to the sea. To the salty mist and the slight scent of fish. To the haze of land at the distance. Having skirted varying coasts along their journey to insure safer passage, they would next follow the shoreline down to Tripoli, and there the true adventure would begin.

  As she turned to look back toward the bow of the boat, an odd sight met her eyes. Shadowy blotches upon the horizon. She had yet to see anything like it along their voyage. Pointing that way, she said, “Randel, quickly. What is that?”

  He jerked to alert. Shielding his eyes, he studied the anomaly. “Ships. A fleet of them, I would guess. Moving this way on a course to overtake us. And look, that one is approaching even more quickly than the others.”

  “What in the world? Why has the lookout not alerted us?”

  “He is probably asleep on the job again. We have had little enough action along the way.” Randel hurried up to the higher, defensive deck over the cabins and took it upon himself to shout the warning. “Invaders! To the northwest!”

  Sailors and soldiers alike began to dash about as the word spread.

  And that is when the situation fully registered. Rosalind’s stomach tied into a hundred small knots. Her shoulders tensed.

  She rushed up to join him and catch a better view. “Pirates?”

  Randel’s hand instinctively went to his sword. “Let us hope not. The threat of excommunication has kept most of them from attacking crusaders, but I do not like the speed with which they approach.” Something flashed through his dark eyes, not quite fear, but certainly great apprehension.

  As the ships approached—at least seven vessels to their four—Rosalind could better make out the distinctive sails. Soon the ship leading the way would be near enough for them to read its flag. “We must be prepared for anything.”

  “I agree,” Randel said. “Move all the ladies and children to the armory below deck, and place two guards outside the door. All the men will be needed above deck for a show of strength.”

  “The Lady Honoria will never hear of hiding away, but I shall do my best with the others.”

  “Of course. And, Rosalind . . .” Something about the way he said her name broke through her haze of fear and tugged at her heart as if it were a string.

  “Yes.”

  “Take a care for yourself as well.”

  Heading off to gather the children, she smiled reassuringly but made no promises. So many crusaders were thwarted along their paths. She was not so important, and would gladly offer her life if it meant the others might reach the Holy Land safely. Some might consider that courage, but she was not so sure.

  “Come! All of you.” She gathered the frightened youngsters like a mother hen, and they huddled about her.

  Randel would offer his life if needed as well. She knew that, but as she considered the possibility, the string at her heart pulled tight once again.

  Randel located Lady Honoria and her fellow commanders. She, along with the two earls and her chief knight, conferred on the doubly raised castle deck at the stern of the ship. The lady stood with her feet wide and braced. Her firmly set shoulders and the tilt of her head bespoke a natural-born leader, although once in the Holy Land, Lord Haverland would be the official spokesperson of the group, and Sir Ademar, a seasoned crusader, would make most of the military decisions.

  “What do you think?” Randel nodded to the ships as he approached.

  Lady Honoria took a deep breath. “For now we wait. Are the children secured?”

  “Yes, I sent them to the armory as we previously discussed. And your ladies?”

  “They should be there as well, although no doubt some of them shall dawdle to fetch their jewels and trinkets.”

  Lady Honoria wore only her crusader surcoat over a simple tunic and black leggings. Her thick brown hair was pulled into a severe twist at the nape of her neck. This woman would never be distracted by trinkets.

  ’Twas for the best, he supposed, to give an appearance of the men being in charge. Especially since Sir Ademar assured them that the Saracens were even more determined to keep females in their place than their Western counterparts. While Randel would be willing to follow Lady Honoria, most of the soldiers would not tolerate a female at the helm.

  Even in North Britannia, many still grumbled over the widowed Duchess Adela holding too much power. Thus the citizens had been more than happy to fund this crusade that might bring her brother, Lord Richard DeMontfort, back to serve as their rightful duke.

  Lady Honoria laid a hand to the hilt of her sword, much as Randel himself had upon first spotting the vessels. “If they are pirates, we can fight. But the more subtle threat could lie in crusaders from hostile lands, or a fleet from Rome, which might try to deter us.”

  The truth was, North Britannians had little respect for the corrupt politics of Rome and disagreed with the official church on several issues of doctrine. But rarely were such sentiments spoken aloud.

  “Perhaps we should have stopped for the Pope’s blessing after all,” Sir Ademar said, rational and calm as always.

  “We do not take orders from Rome!” A fiery young lord, the Earl of Rumsford, spat the words toward the ships. He shot a glare Randel’s way, for the two had never much liked each other. Although Randel could not recall what had begun the offense.

  Lady Honoria held up her hand to halt any further tirades. “I believe we made the right decision. The Pope would have tried to send us to Egypt to join the crusaders there, and the duchess did send word of our intentions.”

  The man offered a slight bow of respect, as the lady’s very demeanor demanded. Lady Honoria had earned her strength. She had ruled her region for the past six years in the absence of her husband, who had been lost on crusade. Her only child had died years earlier of the pox. The one joy now left in her life was her orphaned young sister, the Lady Sapphira.

  “They are coming upon us fast.” Concern etched across Lady Honoria’s austere features.

  “No doubt the new Genoan taridas we’ve been hearing about, elsewise they could never outrun us.” Ademar rubbed his bearded chin. He looked much like his beloved son, Garrett, only taller, older, and beginning to grey.

  “But our ships are huge and sturdy. And full of soldiers and weapons,” Honoria said. “We will manage.”

  Randel turned back to ascertain that the children had been safely stowed away and spotted Rosalind running toward him. Much like Honoria, she wore a simple tunic slit over leggings. But she did not belong here.

  He jogged to meet her and caught her shoulders in his hands. “Rosalind, what are you doing? I wished you to stay and watch the children.”

  “They are settled with the women and their guards. I will return to them once we have assessed the threat.”

  Randel looked to the safety of the hull, to Rosalind, and back again. Truly, he wished to see her tucked away below deck, but her reasoning made much sense. “Fine, but if they are enemies . . .”

  “I shall run like the wind. You have my word.”

  For a brief moment her bright smile chased everything away. But problems like invaders bearing down upon them could not be forgotten long. Realizing he still gripped her shoulders, he finally let go. “Soon we shall know what we face.”

  As the ships approached, his senses spiked to high alert, as they so often did during a battle.

  A flash of sword. A splash of blood. A body crumpled against the battlement . . .

  Rosalind clasped his wrist and gave it a tug, pulling him out of that dark place.

  He blinked the impressions away. He could not afford to dwell in the past. There would be enough trouble to face this day.

/>   Chapter 3

  Mama!

  A scared little voice called out from somewhere inside Sapphira as she stood in the dark and shadowy hull surrounded by whimpers and anxious murmurs. But her mother was long gone, along with her father and so many others she had loved. And her sister, Honoria, who had cared for her these past years, was needed elsewhere. Sapphira must do the right thing despite her churning emotions. She must be brave, on her own, as she so often seemed to be.

  There was only one thing to do at a time like this. Unwilling to be overcome by doubt, she turned toward the corner of the armory to shut out the others, to block away their fear for at least a few moments. She knelt and clutched her crucifix tight, lifting it to her lips for the briefest kiss.

  Pressing her eyes closed, Sapphira sought out that inner kingdom, that peaceful place deep within that she had visited so many times. Likewise, she shut her ears to the sobs and whispers. She must pray. Not merely hurl worried requests at her heavenly Father, but truly seek His guidance and His face.

  Though she knew herself to still be a foolish child and a failure in so many ways, this one thing she could properly do. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” she whispered under her breath for a while, focusing both her heart and her mind upon her Savior—until all the sounds around her melted away. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, she felt herself sinking into that place, that holy sphere.

  The swirls . . . the lights . . . soft heavenly strains surrounded her. Astounding music from some ethereal place. She relaxed herself into God’s almighty arms.

  Gazing into His ever-loving, all-consuming eyes, she awaited her instructions, knowing not how much time passed. Indeed, she suspected time did not exist in eternity.

  Finally they came. Three simple words whispered to a place deep within.

  Strength in unity.

  Nothing specific. Nothing detailed. His messages rarely were. Yet as the words penetrated her heart, she understood what to do.

  Opening her eyes, Sapphira stood and scanned the small dim room, fortified in the hull of the ship. Honoria’s ladies also prayed, except for a few of the flightier young ones who huddled together near the stockpile of swords.

  Humphrey held Issobelle tightly under one arm and Brigitte beneath the other. In normal circumstances, Sapphira would suspect he was enjoying the moment far too much, but his clenched knuckles and the terror in his eyes suggested otherwise.

  Lillian and her twin brothers curled into their mother, for their whole family had come together. Not surprising on this trip that was as much about religious pilgrimage as it was about warfare. Several of the others had fathers along, but they would be among the knights or soldiers, preparing to ward off this threat.

  Only Sadie, Jervais, and Garrett stood with swords in their hands blocking the others from the doorway.

  Would they all die along the trip as thousands of other children and countless crusaders had?

  From the very beginning, fear that her vision might not be true had tormented Sapphira. Had she made a tragic error? She had not dared even to speak of the calling until her sister, Honoria, knowing her far too well, had dragged the weighty secret from her.

  She could not help but wonder. What if it had not been God at all? What if the infamous boys who had led the children’s crusades on the continent a few years ago had been tricked by the devil, luring hordes of pure young souls to their demise? And what if she had followed in their footsteps?

  Peace. She heard the whisper in her heart. I am with you. Then again, strength in unity.

  Pushing aside her fears and doubts, she grabbed a sword from the stockpile. She was not yet skilled with the weapon. But anything she attempted, she did with her whole heart and with all of her might. At least the children had been training in swordsmanship, unlike most of the women who had focused on healing and manning the launch weapons from a distance.

  Striding across the room, she took her place next to Garrett, whom she had recently passed in height by several inches. Never had she seen her timid friend so determined, but he always had been one to put others before himself.

  As she was left-handed, yet another of her many odd and scary quirks, she linked her right hand to Garrett’s free one. He looked down, surprised, but then gripped it tightly. Noticing their joint stance, Sadie clasped Garrett’s sword hand by the wrist, then Jervais did the same to her.

  Together they formed a wall of protection. The four brave thirteen-year-olds, side by side.

  No one would pass this way unchallenged.

  At once Sapphira felt the energy of the room shift. The sniffles and whispers ceased. Again following the prompting of her heart, she began quoting the Lord’s Prayer aloud, and other voices joined her one by one, until they all prayed in unison. Yes, joint prayer. That was their mission. These women and children were brought along to battle primarily in prayer, and now was their chance to train, just as they trained to protect themselves with weapons.

  A thud and swish met her ears from beyond the ship’s hull. The clatter of men climbing up the sides.

  They started their prayer anew. “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thine name.” But no screams sounded above them throughout the entire recitation. They repeated it once more as Sapphira clutched yet tighter to her sword. Only words, whispers through the boards of the deck, made it their way as they prayed again and again. And again, time lost all meaning.

  Until footsteps approached.

  But she knew several guards stood in the passageway beyond, and she heard no struggle, no grunts or clangs of battle.

  Finally, the door opened and Rosalind stepped through. She smiled as she registered their unified front.

  “Sapphira, please join us above deck. You are needed.”

  Rosalind gripped tightly to Sapphira’s hand as she led her across the deck to the clergymen from Rome. The group dressed in ornate gilded robes scowled at them as they approached. Only the man in a simple brown flaxen cloak with a rope for a belt gazed at them in a welcoming manner.

  Brother Francis, the bishop had called him. Honoria seemed to know the name, but Rosalind had never heard of him.

  “So this is the girl who has stirred up so much trouble,” the bishop snarled from beneath his tall, pointed cap.

  Pulling Sapphira tighter to her side, Rosalind wrapped an arm around her. Initially Rosalind had been relieved to see the papal flag rippling in the breeze—rather than some enemy country or no flag at all, denoting pirates—but Lady Honoria had remained wary.

  Lady Honoria had been right.

  Though Honoria had tried to explain their mission and their calling when the churchmen first came aboard, this bishop clearly did not believe a word. He insisted that all decisions must go through Rome, and that they had been remiss not to stop for the Pope’s blessing. If only their group had left England a few days earlier . . . or later. They would not have come across this random contingent miles off the coast of Europe heading toward Egypt.

  The poorly dressed Brother Francis took a step forward. His soft brown hair fell appealingly from his tonsured scalp to match his well-trimmed beard and warm brown eyes, which brought to mind the kindly monks at the monastery near Rosalind’s home village. Her shoulders unclenched for the first time since she had first spotted the shadows upon the horizon.

  “Perhaps you will allow me to question the young lady. I know a thing or two of visions,” said Brother Francis with a wink. Though he hailed from Italy, his French was flawless, suggesting he had enjoyed a privileged upbringing despite his simple attire.

  “Of course.” Fortunately Rosalind’s own French had improved significantly from spending so much time with nobles these last years. She loosened her hold, and Sapphira met the man halfway.

  He held out his two hands, and Sapphira took them with no hesitation.

  “My Lady Sapphira, I am Brother Francis of Assisi.”

  Sapphira gasped. Clearly she had heard of him as well. “Good brother, I am honored.” She curtseyed
before him, though no one had suggested he might have noble blood. “I too dream of someday giving up all worldly pleasures and joining a convent like your Poor Clares. You are an inspiration throughout Europe.”

  He smiled warmly. “And it seems you are an inspiration throughout North Britannia.”

  Sapphira fluttered her whitish lashes and bit her lip, but she held her silence.

  “I am sure you have heard of the visions of the young shepherd boys on the mainland, Nicholas of Cologne and Stephan of Cloyes, who inspired the children’s crusades not long ago.”

  Everyone knew of the stories. Hordes of youngsters streaming toward the shore, inspired by holy visions, longing to bring a new fervor to the crusades. Yet they had failed so desperately. To Rosalind’s knowledge, not a one of them had even reached the Holy Land.

  Brother Francis said, “We know such visions can occur. I have seen a few myself. But could you please describe your experiences for me.”

  “Of course.” Sapphira swallowed.

  Rosalind longed to run to her but instead clasped her hands tightly together, moved closer to the North Britannian contingency, and whispered up a petition for the child.

  If appearances counted for anything, Sapphira just might convince them, for she appeared every inch the angel with her ethereal white-gold hair, pale skin, and delicate features. “I was praying in the garden outside my sister’s castle. I oft go there in the afternoons, as I feel ever so close to God in nature.”

  He nodded for her to continue, while the bishop and other clergymen looked skeptically on.

  “I had sunken into that holy sphere deep within, but still my eyes remained open to the beauty and colors of God’s creation. Of a sudden, came a sharp flash of light. And then the world went dark and shadowy, as if I were watching some other place layered over top it.”

  “Describe this place, please.”

  Sapphira’s face took on an ethereal look. “It was nighttime, and I flew through the sky to a destination far, far away. I soared across the sea and to the area north of Jerusalem. I am not quite sure how I knew that, and yet I did. Then I saw it as a shadow against a fiery backdrop. Tall buildings and a spire I had only ever seen before in the pictures of Moslem mosques, with the shape of the moon at the top.”