Courageous

by Dina L. Sleiman

  “Promise us that you shall join the church, and we will allow you to stay in our home and heal,” Father had said.

  “Otherwise?” Randel had pressed a hand to his bandaged and throbbing head.

  “Otherwise we shall disown you. You shall be a man without a family.”

  Nineteen had felt far too young to be a man disowned. Willing to do anything in that desperate moment to be accepted back into the fold, Randel had agreed. The bitter recollection stabbed him in the gut yet again.

  Only later, after he recovered, had they struck this bargain for him to go on crusade and join the Templars as a monk—if, of course, they would have him. He supposed he could yet resort to the Knights Hospitaller or the Teutonic Knights, both religious orders as well, but the Templars with their reputation for military excellence had always been his preference.

  So here he was, thousands of miles from his family in order to keep his family. Sometimes life made little sense at all. But at least his parents were satisfied, and he felt a sense of honor in this new path.

  Until he glanced to Father Andrew and experienced the wash of guilt he always did in the man’s presence.

  Randel shook off the troublesome thoughts. Finally the oarsmen fought their way to the shallow waters near a patch of sand. Likewise, the retinue from the city was just reaching the beach.

  Lord Haverland stepped out into the Mediterranean first, and then carefully, one by one, the many knights in ivory crusader surcoats, trimmed in crimson and covered with a black cross, followed suit. The warm frothing waters welcomed Randel, tumbling over his calves, soaking his boots and leggings and skimming the bottom of his long tunic, as they all made their way to the shore.

  Again Lord Haverland took the lead. “Greetings,” he said heartily, in impeccable French. “We come in peace from the area of North Britannia in England.”

  “Welcome, Englishmen.” A middle-aged man in bright silk robes with an eye patch stepped forward. “I wondered what excitement might be looming along my coast and simply had to come and take a look. Allow me to introduce myself. Bohemond the fourth, Count of Tripoli.”

  An exotic-looking young man, bedecked in loose pantaloons and a tunic, stood at his elbow. “Might I add, formerly—and given any bit of justice, soon to be again—the Prince of Antioch as well.”

  Bohemond frowned. “Yes, but not at the present time.”

  The crusader states, including Tripoli, had been established by the crusaders in the Holy Land a century ago, and these French feudal lords had been rulers in this region for generations, but Randel still did not understand the intricacies of their politics.

  “We are pleased to make your acquaintance.” Lord Haverland offered a small polite bow.

  “Do not be too pleased just yet.” Bohemond planted his feet wide in the ground and adjusted his belt and long curving sword. “We are not looking to stir up trouble with our Saracen neighbors, for we have only recently regained stability after the last well-meaning group of crusaders tramped through our region.”

  He brushed something from the sleeve of his robe. “Perhaps you should continue south to our current crusader capital of Acre. I imagine you would be better received there. Or perhaps to Egypt, where soldiers are desperately needed.”

  Lord Haverland inclined his head. “I understand your hesitation. But would you meet with us and allow us to plead our case?”

  “My people care not about your case. They only wish to live in peace and rebuild our city and our trade.”

  The muscles in Randel’s neck tightened. Would they be turned away so soon? This Bohemond both looked and sounded more like a native of this land than a French lord. Randel had not expected that.

  Nor the astonishing group surrounding him dressed mostly in Eastern garb, in some cases even wearing the Saracen kaffiyeh wraps around their heads. Their skin tones were varied, spanning from pale European shades to that of a tall man with an open vest and a sculpted ebony chest peeking through.

  “I am Lord Haverland, and this is Lord Rumsford and the Lady Honoria. I promise that we do not wish any harm upon your city or your people.”

  “Then give me one good reason why I should allow you to stay,” Bohemond said.

  “That I can do. Have you heard of the children’s crusades in Europe?”

  Bohemond’s good eye flashed with interest. “The failed children’s crusades. A pretty legend, that, but it proved ineffective.”

  “Our crusade has similarly been inspired by the vision of a pure young maiden. Lady Honoria’s sister, Sapphira. Based upon that vision, our goal is unique. We hope to set captives free from Saracen prisons.”

  The young exotic fellow nudged Bohemond with an elbow.

  “If God wills it,” added Father Andrew, “perhaps even the man who would rightfully be our duke.”

  Count Bohemond pulled at his beard. “I am intrigued. But what has this to do with the children’s crusades?”

  “The Lady Sapphira is a mere thirteen years of age. And we have brought along a group of children to support us in prayer, and women as well,” Honoria said.

  “How fun!” An even younger man with the smooth skin of a child and typical Western attire pushed his way to the front of the Tripolian retinue. “I should like to meet them. We never have visitors from Europe, Papa. Please let them stay, at least for dinner.”

  Bohemond took a deep breath and let it out with a low grumble. “Philippe is too quick to speak his mind, but he is correct. I think my new young wife and the rest of my family would enjoy meeting you. Sup with us tonight, be our guests and enjoy our famous Outremer hospitality. We shall discuss logistics later.”

  “All of us?” Rumsford asked with surprise.

  “Those of you gathered here, and the children you mentioned. Are there many ladies among the group?”

  “Almost two dozen women, several of them titled,” Honoria said.

  “Well, choose a handful and meet us back here. And change out of those tedious crusader tunics into something more festive. We shall feast at sunset!”

  With that proclamation, Bohemond and his contingent departed up the hill. Randel scratched his head at this odd turn of events. Already this land was proving a surprising and exotic place.

  “I hate this stupid kirtle,” Sadie complained, tugging at Issobelle’s finely woven gown in lilac, which the girls had stuffed her into back on the ship. “And I have no idea how to behave at a feast.”

  “That is not true,” Rosalind corrected her. “You have eaten in the great hall at Sir Allen’s castle many a time.”

  Rosalind clung to Randel’s strong arm as she attempted to climb up the uneven stones in her dainty slippers. At least the oarsman had dragged the boat safely to the sand and saved them from getting drenched.

  “Perhaps, but never as an honored guest,” Sadie persisted. “And never dressed like this.”

  “Just stick close by me,” said Sapphira, who walked nearly hip to hip with her new friend Sadie. The two were an odd yet fitting pair. Sapphira wove her elbow through Sadie’s. “We can do this together. You shall be tough for me, and I shall be mannerly for you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  They crested the rocky hillside and stepped onto the dusty streets of the exotic city of Tripoli. Rosalind attempted to note every detail as they made their way past spiky trees and an ornate fountain trickling water into a thick-stone basin, sending a spray of cool mist their way. Many of the flat, multi-storied stone dwellings featured odd pointed windows, the likes of which she had never seen before.

  Randel had spoken true when he told them all of the varied peoples he had spied. Even during their brief trip she had spotted women covered from head to toe in white cloth, with only their eyes and hands peeking out; a dark-skinned African; and what appeared to be the typical tan-skinned natives with their black hair, thick beards, and colorful attire.

  She was thankful she had chosen her most festive gown, a pink castaway from Gwendolyn, which Rosalind had adjusted lo
ng ago to fit her slighter frame.

  After months at sea, she had grown accustomed to the subtle shifts of the ship, and now on solid ground she felt strangely disoriented, as if the land moved beneath her feet, although she knew it did not.

  “What is that strange creature?” Sadie whispered, as if it might hear her. She pointed to the golden creature, similar to a large horse but with a squarish jaw and a huge hump upon its back.

  “I think it might be a camel,” Sapphira answered.

  “It is most definitely a camel,” Jervais said with authority. “My tutor showed me a drawing in a book one time.”

  “Is it, Papa?” Garrett asked Sir Ademar, who walked just ahead of them.

  “It is indeed, son, and just one of many wonders you will find in this place.”

  Rosalind’s mind still swirled with new sights and sounds as they made their way through the gates and across the courtyard. For a moment she thought things might have been about to seem more like home, but the instant they entered the castle with its tile floors like multi-colored artwork and swathes of bold silk draping the walls, she realized she had been mistaken.

  She clasped tighter to Randel’s arm and nodded to the children in encouragement, but her heart sped with anticipation. As they passed through an archway into an ornate room, she felt as if she had been transported back to some biblical scene. The tables in the room sat low to the floor and cushions piled about them.

  “Welcome to our home!” bellowed a man with an eye patch, who must be Count Bohemond, stretching his arms wide.

  Chapter 9

  The earls and Honoria greeted Count Bohemond as Rosalind and the others hung back. She gaped at the room with its huge marble pillars and large windows open to the fresh sea air and the low-streaming sunshine. Scents of exotic spices wafted through the air.

  “’Tis beautiful,” Rosalind whispered to Randel. “I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps something more rugged and utilitarian.”

  “I have heard that these crusader lords are more Oriental than European. I suppose it must be true.”

  As if to prove him correct, musicians began to play from the corner upon instruments that appeared similar to their European pipes and lutes yet had a distinctive melancholy wail.

  Bohemond spoke up again, drawing all attention to himself, and began to introduce his family. A young lady blushed prettily beside him. No doubt his second wife, based on the ages of Bohemond’s children, who appeared to range from about ten to fifteen. The count presented a few nieces and nephews, as well as relatives of his wife from Cyprus.

  Rosalind would never remember them all.

  At ease in this welcoming environment, Lady Honoria stepped forward to her rightful place as leader and introduced her own people, starting with the men and moving to the women.

  “And this is Rosalind of Ipsworth, one of the leaders of our children,” Lady Honoria said.

  Rosalind curtseyed. She was beyond honored to be included in this elite group. Most of the she-wolves and the devout Anna and Margaret had been left aboard the ship, as well as about half of the other women. Thank goodness for once she would not have to perform to keep Jocelyn at bay, although she continued to press close to Randel for the mere comfort of his presence.

  Finally, Lady Honoria introduced each of the children by name. Rosalind had not realized that she knew them all, for she had spent little time with them on shipboard.

  “Lady Sapphira, come forward, please,” Count Bohemond said.

  Sapphira did as bid, and the count took her two hands in his own. Considering the way he held court so grandly, Rosalind could picture him in his rightful place as Prince of all Antioch.

  “A pretty little thing, are you not? My son Philippe has been anxious to meet you. After dinner, I wish you to tell me of your vision. But first we must enjoy our meal.”

  The host family began mingling among the guests, leading them off to the surrounding tables. A young nobleman grasped Randel’s hand and began to discuss matters of politics in Europe. The count’s children dispersed among the English youngsters.

  Rosalind glanced about. She decided she should stick tight with the children to ensure their good behavior. But before she could follow them, a young man swept up her hand and bowed before her.

  “The fair Rosalind of Ipsworth.” He pressed his lips to her hand. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Though she was surprised he had recalled her name, she attempted to remain casual. “Indeed, and please remind me who you are, for there are so many people here tonight.”

  His smile lit his dark almond-shaped eyes, which contrasted strikingly with his tan skin. He pushed wavy brown hair away from a handsome face. “I am Leo of Cyprus, beloved cousin of Bohemond’s young wife. And by far the most entertaining member of the family.”

  Rosalind chuckled. “That must be quite a feat, for they are an interesting lot.”

  “Ah, but how many of them can claim an illegitimate ancestry and a Saracen mother.” He wiggled his heavy brows her way. “They are all from the same boring inbred European stock, but I can tell you tales of the desert and Arabian sheiks.”

  She believed him, for he looked as if he could be a young sheik himself, and she noted a trace of foreign accent to his French. “By all means. I did not come all this way to hear the same old legends of Europe. In fact, I have been curious about the Saracens’ religion.” She hoped her English accent was not too appalling, nor her French grammar too childish.

  “Ah, it is quite complex. There are many different groups and factions. I confess, since my father took me into his home when I was five, I have been raised in the church like any good Christian. But perhaps I can tell you some stories of the Prophet Mohammed while we dine.” He held out his arm to her.

  Rosalind glanced about. Randel had settled in with a group of young men, and the children were already scattered about in clusters. This Leo seemed a fun sort, if a bit of a rake, so she threaded her arm through his and followed him deeper into the room.

  Leo took her hand and helped settle her onto a purple cushion, then sat beside her on a golden one.

  She adjusted her long skirts and flowing sleeves and took a deep breath. Her intention had been to come on crusade and offer her life in Christ’s service. Not to sup with attractive Arabian sheiks in a hall fit for a king while exotic music floated about them.

  Yet here she was, and the night was only starting.

  “Is this typical of your land?” Rosalind asked her charming escort, sweeping her hand to indicate the cushions spread about the cool marble tiles.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Some of the crusader lords still hold with European traditions, but most have settled in over the generations. We have never even seen our—as you might think of it—‘homeland.’ This is home to us. Much as England has become home to your own Norman nobles.”

  “And that accent I hear?”

  “Arabic. We all speak it, although I am one of the few who learned Arabic before French.”

  At that moment servants marched into the room carrying huge platters covered with food as colorful and varied as everything else in this land. Fruits, nuts, cheeses, and vegetables, but types and varieties she had never before seen.

  Once the first platters had been set before them, Rosalind noted Leo staring at her and jolted. “What?”

  “You are just so charming. Like a little child beholding all of our wonders.”

  She snickered. “Trust me. I am not a child, but I confess, this is all so new and overwhelming.”

  “Allow me. Olives,” he said pointing to a bowl of small black and green orbs. “Figs and dates. And this is a pomegranate.” Snatching up the larger red globe, he tossed it into the air and then broke it open, revealing white flesh and hundreds of juicy red seeds.

  “Might I try it?”

  “Of course.” He picked out a single seed and reached toward Rosalind’s mouth.

  Taken off guard, she opened her lips and was surprised by
the sweet tartness that met her tongue as she bit into the seed. “Mmm, delicious.”

  At that moment, Lord Rumsford caught her eye over Leo’s shoulder and shot her a disapproving glare, gesturing to Randel and then frowning her way. Then he shook his head and smiled to let her know he was only jesting. Thank goodness. It seemed he had finally given up his suit, although he did not seem opposed to having a bit of fun on her account.

  Rosalind turned her attention back to Leo and pointed to the orbs he had called olives. “These are fruits?”

  “I suppose, although they are not very sweet. Here, try one.”

  This time she held out her palm before he could attempt to feed her again. His wry grin said he noticed, but he capitulated and placed the moist olive in her hand. She examined it and took a whiff of its pungent scent before nibbling off a small bite, which she was not certain she enjoyed.

  “You shall get used to it,” he assured her, “for they grow everywhere here.”

  That is when it fully hit her. Rosalind of Ipsworth, born a simple peasant, had traveled halfway across the known world. This journey was more of an adventure than she ever dreamed.

  “So tell me something I do not know about the Moslems,” she said. “Other than their god and prophet and holy book, I understand very little. What are their values? What are their beliefs?”

  “They value family, hospitality, and purity. And they are a prideful people.” A hint of pain echoed in his voice, but she did not probe further.

  “That is not so terribly different. We Christians claim humility, but few truly live by it.”

  “Perhaps. You shall have to see for yourself.” He shrugged. “They believe in one God, Allah, and by their thinking we worship three, which they find greatly offensive.”

  “Three!” Rosalind had just taken a bite of cheese and nearly choked on it. “Why would they think a ridiculous thing like that?”

  “The trinity. Three in one. Or as they choose to see it, three gods.”