“Of course, my lady.” Father Andrew wore the syrupy smile he always did, although Randel had often wondered what deeper sort of emotions must hide behind it. His gaze slid to Randel, causing a fleeting sense of discomfort to wash over him. But surely it was only his own guilt over his failures. Father Andrew knew far too much of the occurrences at Gravensworth from Randel’s time spent in the confessional.
Lady Honoria eyed her men keenly. “There have been too many failures in the Holy Land. Let us remain righteous and honorable. North Britannia shall lead the way to a new era.”
Randel drew from her strength. How he longed to live up to her esteemed expectations. Once he had proven himself on the battlefield, he would feel confident to pursue his dream of becoming a well-trained warrior monk with the famed Templars, and joining them in their quest of protecting pilgrims to the Holy Land.
Rosalind adjusted Lillian’s hold on the bow by just a hair. “There, do you see? The slightest shift makes a difference, especially when the arrows are aflame.”
“Yes, I think I am finally getting this.” Lillian let the arrow fly. It whooshed through the air straight and sure and planted itself in the center of the target. “I did it! I did it!”
“Three out of four. Excellent work.” Rosalind gave her shoulder a pat.
“Me next!” Issobelle hopped excitedly with her red curls bouncing about her in the breeze.
Rosalind smiled to see these girls finally growing so confident in their archery. Today she worked extra with Lillian, Issobelle, and Brigitte while Sadie and Sapphira practiced at advanced swordplay incorporating tumbling maneuvers with Randel and the boys.
All of the girls now wore practical tunics and leggings on a regular basis and had adjusted to the weight of their sturdy protective boots. Rosalind had turned her considerable skills acquired while sewing gowns for a noblewoman to the task of helping these girls to dress in a way more suited to defending themselves. Though a part of her missed delicate needlework and creative design, truly, she had never put her expertise to such good use before.
They were becoming a real troop. And just in time. Soon they would trade these simple tunics for the crusader ones adorned with crosses in crimson, ivory, and black. Already their ship had slowed its course, and the others were moving closer for this afternoon’s meeting.
Issobelle took her turn and hit the target with no assistance whatsoever from Rosalind. Yes, they were ready.
What would Rosalind’s dear mother think? All that time spent teaching Rosalind to tend a noblewoman, to create her elaborate hairstyles and paint her face. Rosalind had loved the artistic aspects of her duties, yet they had never quite fulfilled her in the way training these children did.
The pack of she-wolves sauntered past. Jocelyn swiped at her shoulder, as if their hard work and determination might be catching if she walked too close. As she continued in Randel’s direction, Jocelyn swayed her hips so violently that Rosalind feared she might displace them. What a pity that would be. She repressed a giggle. But as usual, Randel paid Jocelyn no heed.
“Rosalind, could you please join us for a moment?” Randel called over to her.
“Of course. Issobelle, make sure Brigitte properly positions her elbow.” Sometimes it still felt odd not to put Lady in front of their names, but they had chosen expediency over propriety early in this voyage.
“What is it?” she asked Randel.
“We are holding a bit of a tournament. It seems our Sadie needs more challenge than the younger boys can offer her. But perhaps less than Humphrey or I can. How about a battle between the two of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Rosalind felt shy of a sudden. Swordplay had never been her forte, and although she had been learning the tumbling maneuvers that could be adapted to battle, she had not yet tried them in a real fight.
“Come, Rosalind. Are you afraid of a little girl?” Sadie crouched into a battle stance and prepared her blunted practice sword.
Rosalind’s stature was above average, and indeed Sadie stood inches shorter, but Sadie had a tough, compact form and an intimidating demeanor. At thirteen, she might be close to her full height already. A determined girl with simple but pleasing features and light brown hair pulled tight.
“Ros-a-lind. Ros-a-lind,” the children began to chant.
The archers abandoned their bows and came to join the group.
“You can do it, Rosalind! Take her down once and for all,” called Issobelle, who never lasted more than a minute against Sadie.
“Yeah, show her she’s not so tough,” Jervais shouted.
Sadie raised her brows as a challenge and tested the weight of her small sword.
Finally, Rosalind saw her advantage. “I will do it. But give me a real sword, not one of those little girlish ones.” She raised her brows back at Sadie and smirked.
Randel grinned and handed her the longer, heavier practice sword he and some of the larger boys used. Gwendolyn had never allowed Rosalind any quarter, and had always demanded they train with the same swords the men used.
“Fine then. I was just trying to play fair with the others.” Sadie tossed her sword to Randel, and he exchanged it for a larger one as well.
“Yes!” said Humphrey. “A girl fight.”
Randel reached over and thumped him on the head.
Meanwhile, Rosalind and Sadie squared off. They both crouched low and began to circle one another. Rosalind thrust a few times, testing the weight of her sword. Then, out of nowhere, Sadie surged at her so quickly that she stumbled backward.
Rosalind’s training took over. With little thought, her body responded in a backward shoulder roll, returning her neatly to her feet with sword at the ready. Delight overtook her as she executed the new skill. But Sadie would not allow her to enjoy it long.
The fight began in earnest. Thrusting and parrying, dodging and striking. Just as Rosalind thought she would land a blow, Sadie flipped to the side, evading her. She struck again and again, but Sadie fended off every attack. They clashed and tangled to the elbows. Rosalind, being the larger of the two, managed to shove Sadie away.
Sadie stumbled now and fell to her back, but in an instant she flung her legs over her head and in one neat move sprang to standing, an impressive trick Rosalind had not yet learned.
They continued their battle. Sweat now coursed down Rosalind’s face. She hoped she would never truly have to fight like this, but if so, she must be prepared.
She pulled back a few steps to assess Sadie. To search out any weakness. To use her head as much as her arm. Then she saw her moment. If only it would work. As Sadie briefly adjusted her sword to her side at an odd angle, Rosalind tumbled her way and kicked at the sword, a trick Sadie herself had taught them.
But apparently Sadie had not expected Rosalind to attempt it, for as if by magic the sword flew from her hand and sailed through the air to clatter back to the deck ten feet away. Rosalind swung back around and lightly pressed her practice sword to Sadie’s chest. Sadie lifted her hands in surrender.
The children went wild.
“I did it! I did it!” Rosalind cried, jumping and cheering and doing a little jig. No amount of flair with the needle could compare with Rosalind’s newfound confidence at the warrior arts. The ability to defend one’s self was truly priceless.
Randel cleared his throat. “Um, Rosalind, warriors do not dance about like so.”
“And why not?” came a sturdy voice from behind them. Lady Honoria. “That was an excellent job. Both of you. It shows you what a woman can do when she challenges herself.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” Rosalind curtseyed, and Sadie followed her lead.
Rumsford, standing at Honoria’s side, just smirked. Rosalind already knew he did not approve of women fighting, and she paused to wonder how he felt about treating Honoria as an equal in leading this crusade. “Come, Lady Honoria. Father Andrew awaits us.”
They walked off to join Father Andrew just as he rang the bell.
The time had arrived.
After Father Andrew finished a stirring service and every last member of their company was administered the Lord’s Supper, Honoria took the center of the deck once again. The heady taste of the body and blood of her Lord yet tingled upon Sapphira’s lips. The soothing warmth of His presence still traveled through her veins.
She hoped her sister was not about to switch to matters of logistics, for she was not yet ready to wrap her mind around practical issues.
In inspiring tones, Honoria began to address the crowd aboard her own vessel as well as the three other ships gathered closely around. She exuded such confidence. Far more confidence than Sapphira felt. Of course she had spoken nothing but truth to Brother Francis. She believed her vision was from God.
Yet typical of Honoria’s battering-ram nature, her sister had taken the initial call and run with it, turning it into something far larger and grander than Sapphira had ever imagined. Women, children, a fleet of ships. The dear sister she needed much more than she admitted locked away over battle strategies each and every night.
And who knew what the morrow might bring.
What if Sapphira had made a mistake? What if she had not seen a vision, but rather dozed off that day in the garden and experienced a dream? But she must believe. She must keep the faith and trust that deep inner sense of peace in her heart.
Something in her sister’s demeanor altered and caught Sapphira’s attention.
“And now I would like to invite the young woman who has sparked the flame of this crusade to come and address us.”
A surprised little gasp escaped Sapphira’s mouth. Her sister should have warned her. Then again, her sister knew her well and would have expected her to demur. Now she had no choice. She must be tough, as Honoria the esteemed battering ram demanded that she be. Over three hundred sets of eyes looked expectantly her way.
She reached to raise her skirts but realized such niceties were no longer required in her practical attire worthy of a soldier. Her surefooted boots allowed her to make the climb with ease, and her tight braid kept the wind from whipping her hair in her face.
Once in place next to her sister, Sapphira took a deep breath and surveyed the mass of faces. She planted her feet wide and noticed, not for the first time, how strong and connected her body felt. She was a warrior now.
A warrior for Christ. He had sent her a special message, and she would rise to that calling. A warm pressure stirred in her chest and rose up through her throat, and the words came.
“Six months ago, I had a vision, which I am sure you have all heard many times now. It has become a matter of legends and of rumors. But on this day, I charge each of you to search your own heart.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Allow God to speak to you of His plans for this crusade and of your place in it. None of us will leave the Holy Land unchanged. You can grow bitter and jaded. You can grow evil and opportunistic. Or you can remain righteous and develop an even deeper reliance upon God’s Holy Spirit.”
The words came from somewhere deep within Sapphira without fully forming in her rational mind. But as they felt true and right, and as all eyes remained focused upon her and glowed with a new-found fire, she continued.
“Along our way I had the pleasure of meeting the famed Brother Francis of Assisi. He reminded me that we must fight for hearts and minds, as that is the only way to bring true change. This land shall be full of captives.”
She gestured to the coast at a distance. “Captives of the body and captives of the spirit. Let us do our best to bring freedom wherever we set our feet. May God go with you all.”
Silence stretched out over the Mediterranean. Only the swish of waves and the cry of gulls met Sapphira’s ears.
And then the crowd burst into cheers. Men took hands and embraced. Tears streamed down faces.
But Sapphira’s fellow children gazed upon her as if they had seen a ghost.
As Honoria closed the meeting, Sapphira took her place beside the children once again, yet she felt further apart from them than ever before. Once they were dismissed, they all filed past her with eyes wide. Rosalind and Randel each offered her a gentle pat and a smile, but even they seemed to be a bit awestruck.
Garrett glimpsed at her and nodded abruptly. They had been so close at one time, but now they seemed always to be divided by their genders and the new shyness that had developed between them along with the budding curves upon her chest. He followed close at the heels of the others as they walked away.
Then Sapphira was left alone.
She dropped her gaze. She should not be surprised. Should not be disappointed. She had God, what need had she of men?
Then Sadie looked her way, and she turned back. The normally tough and undemonstrative girl reached out and took Sapphira’s hand. “You did well.”
“Thank you.” Despite the fact that she had longed for company, Sapphira now knew not what to say. She nodded to the other children. “I have scared them all away.”
“’Tis surprising to be reminded, I confess. But I’m not easily frightened.”
Sapphira grinned. “Yes, I rather admire that about you.”
“You’re the next best of the girls, you know.”
“But I shall never surpass you.”
“Probably not, but I’m made for warfare. You’re made for prayer.”
Sadie was always a girl of few words, but a depth of meaning and understanding flowed from her hazel eyes. Sapphira supposed she should not expect to be the best at everything, and it would be acceptable if Sadie continued to surpass her at swordplay and archery. She had earned the right through years of practice.
As if uncertain about whether to say more, Sadie pressed her lips together. Then finally she spoke again. “I have a young friend who sees angels. And I believe I witnessed God heal her when she almost died. Wren. Her name is Wren.”
A cascading warmth flowed through Sapphira, the likes of which she typically only experienced in prayer. “So I am not so odd to you.”
Sadie chuckled. Letting go of Sapphira’s hand, she gave her a playful shove. “Oh, you’re odd enough, but not for that reason.”
Bubbling laughter escaped Sapphira, catching her by surprise, as she did not laugh often. “Have you . . . ever seen . . . well, you know?”
Sadie grew serious. “Angels? Not quite, yet I became so accustomed to Wren seeing them that I began to sense a certain crackle and shimmer in the air when she did. ’Tis hard to describe.”
“I know precisely what you mean.”
Sadie linked her arm through Sapphira’s. “Come. Let us ready ourselves for supper.”
For the first time, Sapphira felt she had a true friend amongst the girls. And somehow that strengthened her for whatever they might face on the morrow.
Chapter 8
Randel looked back over his shoulder at the children pressed close to Rosalind along the rail of the mammoth wooden ship. A few of them waved and smiled hopefully. Rosalind blew him a kiss.
Though he did not catch it in the air, surrounded as he was by so many esteemed knights and noblemen crammed into the small rowboat, he mentally secured Rosalind’s sentiment to his heart. With Honoria at the bow and two sailors steadily propelling them forward through the crashing waves, they headed toward the rocky shoreline of Tripoli.
The beach itself could have been almost anywhere in England, but the water was a stunning crystal blue, and as he gazed beyond the rocky coast, he noted a city of beige stone buildings sprawling before him, accented by fanlike palm trees, colorful silken awnings, and even a domed building—as Sapphira had seen in her vision.
The landscape rose in terraced intervals, with a sturdy castle rising above it all. Though the surrounding hills were mostly arid and dusty, beyond them snowcapped mountains speckled with green trees grazed the sky.
As they fought the ebb and flow of the water, a noble-looking procession followed by a huge contingent of guards made its way down the hillside before them. No doub
t the watchmen at the castle had noted the arrival of their fleet, had likely been tracking their progress all day.
Honoria, flanked by Rumsford and Haverland, held high a banner featuring both the crusaders’ cross and the English Plantagenet coat of arms with its three golden lions. He hoped whomever they were about to meet would recognize the symbols and consider them friends. Although tensions often flared between the French and English back home, they should be welcomed as neighbors in this land so far away.
As the group on the hillside moved closer, Randel spotted their banner, red with a golden cross, which he assumed must denote the County of Tripoli. Near him someone expelled a whoosh of air as the unnamed fear that the native Saracen troops might have taken over this region since the time they last received word was dismissed by the Christian emblem.
But as Randel watched the banner swaying in the breeze, haunting memories washed over him. In an instant he was transported back to his shadowy castle at home in North Britannia.
“Do you see this crest?” his father, always stiff and meticulously groomed, had pointed to their family symbol of a mythical griffin holding three golden arrows in its claws over a background of dark blue.
“Yes, Father,” Randel, still recovering from his many wounds suffered at Gravensworth Castle, had mumbled weakly.
“If you wish for the Penigrees to remain your family, your heritage, you must play your role. Cease this foolish nonsense of battles and knighthood. We already have two knights in this family, both of whom far surpass you in skill. You have disappointed me for the last time, and I shall tolerate your arrogance and rebellion no longer.”
Though Father esteemed warriors high above clergymen, he had never believed Randel worthy of battle, and so had chosen him as the sacrificial lamb for the church.
Randel’s equally stiff and proper mother had shaken her head in despair. “I am so ashamed. You are the child I wished to dedicate to God’s service, yet you have followed your own path.”
He had swallowed down a lump in his throat, unable to bear his mother’s shame. It stabbed him in the gut with more ferocity than any blow he had suffered during his recent defeat.
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