Courageous

by Dina L. Sleiman

“That is rather unfair.”

  “And yet a glimpse into the minds of a very different sort of people.”

  “My goodness, they must think we are the infidels.”

  “Yes!” he said, and pumped his fist to the sky. “One of these crusaders finally gets it. That is precisely what they call us, in their own Arabic language, of course.”

  “But do they believe in Jesus? In the Ten Commandments?”

  “They share many of our biblical stories. But they believe Jesus was merely a good man and a prophet, and they have their own five pillars instead of our commandments.”

  “Interesting.” She tested one of the dates, which proved soft and incredibly sweet. “Tell me something else about them.”

  “Hmm . . . They are forbidden to eat pork or drink alcohol.”

  “No.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. While she seemed to recall that Jews did not eat pork, wine was a common drink throughout Europe. Although, having watched Gwendolyn’s mother almost destroy herself with drink, Rosalind could see the wisdom in refraining.

  “Yes, they think us quite dissolute for enjoying them. If I had ever felt pulled toward my mother’s faith, that alone would have dissuaded me.”

  She giggled, thoroughly enjoying his company now. “Are you trying to tell me that the allowance of multiple wives would not balance that out? Have you not felt drawn to the Moslem ways at all?”

  “I have not.” He raked his hair away from his dark eyes. “All joking aside, they can be ruthless when crossed. And they have no Savior. No assurance of heaven, no matter how hard they work to please Allah.”

  “How sad,” she said, but Rosalind was struck with the realization that she had spent the last year trying to please her God and earn her own redemption. Perhaps she had never quite believed the fires of hell awaited her, but she surely did not feel worthy of His forgiveness nor His love.

  “It is indeed sad.” He rested back upon his elbow. “Although, they are promised paradise if they die in a holy war.”

  “No wonder they fight so fiercely.”

  A servant slowly circulating the room passed by, waving a palm branch to battle the sticky heat, and Leo’s wavy locks danced in the cool breeze.

  Rosalind turned away from the charming sight to try a fig and was surprised by the rough texture of it, although she enjoyed the taste. “Delicious. This is all so amazing.”

  “You know, Rosalind,” he said, placing his hand over hers and gazing deep into her eyes. “Many crusaders grow to love it here. Some decide to never go home. Perhaps before this is over, I shall convince you to remain with me as my wife.”

  She tugged her hand away and pressed it to her chest. “Leo! We have only just met. Do not be ridiculous. Is this part of your Oriental ways as well?”

  “We never know what the future might bring. When we want something, we go after it straightaway. I have always dreamed of marrying a fine European lady with snapping blue eyes.” He grinned indolently at her, not in the least perturbed by her resistance.

  She understood seizing the moment. Even back home in England an entire village could be taken out by a pox or a band of marauders with no notice. Or one’s father might pass away, changing the entire course of one’s life. But though Leo’s point was well taken, his reasoning was yet skewed. “You have misunderstood. I am not a lady, but a mere lady’s maid. I am attendant to the young Lady Sapphira.”

  “I do understand. It is you who fail to see that you are so much more. I am certain Lady Honoria brought you along for a reason. Why, look at you.” He trailed a finger down her long silken sleeve. “Fit to dine with princes. And as I mentioned, I am not of the purest stock myself. But my uncle, the King of Cyprus, adores me, and has set me up quite well with land and a position as liaison to Bohemond.”

  She did not know whether to respond to his compliments or to this new discovery that he served as a governmental liaison. And so she held her silence and took a handful of fresh grapes, popping them into her mouth one by one as she collected her thoughts.

  “I have overwhelmed you,” he said. “I apologize.”

  “You have only been honest and welcoming and quite complimentary, but, yes, in the short time I have been here nearly everything has overwhelmed me.”

  “So might I hold out some hope . . .”

  “Oh . . . that.” Finally she managed to untangle the many thoughts running through her mind. She did not deserve to wed this roguish man and take off on exotic adventures. Not when her tiny child lay in a cold grave in England. And even if she ever forgave herself enough to marry, he would not be her type. “I hate to disappoint you, but I have an understanding with one of the knights in our group. Now is not the time for romance, but if we both make it safely home, we intend to pursue a relationship.”

  “Which one?” He frowned and scanned the room. “The fellow you were standing next to when you arrived?”

  “Precisely. Sir Randel.”

  “Ah, well, I am sorry to hear it. But as nothing is yet settled, I will not let that stand in my way.”

  He tossed a date into the air and caught it in his mouth—much as he no doubt intended to catch Rosalind.

  Chapter 10

  Since Sapphira still was not certain what she thought of the pleasant-looking blond lad beside her, she focused upon her food instead, taking another bite of the fresh, colorful medley of raw vegetables Philippe had called salade. That, she knew for certain she liked.

  However, the excess and extravagance surrounding her were not to her personal liking. Especially not when they were supposed to be on a religious crusade. How she wished to trade her elaborate blue gown for one of her utilitarian tunics.

  She took a piece of soft flat bread and dipped it into a tan mushy substance, which was surprisingly tasty. The food in Tripoli nearly burst upon her palate with bright and bold flavors. Not to mention the rich, aromatic spices sprinkled across the chicken and rice. Perhaps she was just tired of dried meat and hard bread, but she suspected even the best English food would taste bland next to this decadent spread.

  Her curiosity got the best of her, and she spoke to Philippe once again. “What did you say this was called?” She nodded to the mush.

  “Hummus.”

  “What is in it?”

  “Um . . . it is made of a small tannish bean, which we also call hummus, but I am not certain what else is in it,” he said. The sun had set as they supped, and torchlight now flickered across his pronounced cheekbones.

  “What is that bright, sour sort of flavor that I noticed in so much of the food?”

  “That would be lemon. After dinner, I shall take you to the orchard and show you a lemon tree, if you like.”

  Sapphira decided she would indeed like that, although she did not wish to be alone with this boy. “Perhaps we can all go.”

  She grasped at Sadie’s sleeve to the other side of her and then nodded down the table toward the rest of the children. Philippe’s younger brother entertained the twins, Garrett, and Jervais.

  Meanwhile Humphrey sat across from Philippe’s sister and stared at her wistfully with his chin in his palm as she chatted with Issobelle. Good thing Brigitte and Lillian were at the next table with one of the cousins.

  “So are you your father’s heir?” Sapphira asked.

  “No, my older brother, also named Bohemond, is in Cyprus right now.”

  “I see.” Sapphira nodded. “We long to learn more about your land.”

  Philippe chuckled.

  “What is so funny about that?” Sadie asked. She seemed uncomfortable in this elegant setting and had spoken little all night.

  “Please do not be offended.” Philippe pressed a hand to his heart. “It is just that I want nothing more than to hear stories of Europe. I have been begging my father to let me visit our relatives in France for years.”

  Sapphira had noted that he was the only member of Bohemond’s family dressed in purely European attire. “I am afraid you would find it quite drab and boring.”


  “Never! That reminds me. I have a surprise for you.” He scrambled to his feet and took off toward the musicians in the corner.

  In a moment he was back, and the music transitioned to a familiar European carole. Philippe held out his hand to her. “My lady, might I have this dance?”

  “Oh.” Sapphira sank deeper into her cushion. “I am not really much of a dancer.”

  His face twisted in concern. “But you have learned the carole, have you not? Or are we desperately behind the times?”

  She offered him a smile. “The carole is a classic, although there are many variations. I hope to join a convent someday, but my sister still insists I learn to comport myself as a proper lady.”

  He sighed. “Good. Then humor me with a dance, if you will.”

  Compassion stirred in Sapphira’s heart. She did not wish to disappoint this kind boy, who so badly wished to be European, though the night had proven that clearly he was not. “I suppose.”

  He led her to an open space, and before long other couples joined their circle as they moved through the patterns and steps. She spied Issobelle bouncing prettily next to one of the nephews. Rosalind danced with an exotic-looking fellow, although she kept glancing over to Randel where he sat engrossed in an animated conversation with some of the young Tripolian men. And it appeared that Humphrey had gotten his fondest wish, for he now danced with Philippe’s pale, sylph-like sister.

  While Sapphira attempted to keep the dance light and friendly, Philippe stared at her in a way that filled her with buoyant little bubbles. For some reason she did not find him a pest, as she did the boys on the ship. Mayhap because he was several years older than her. When she settled her hand into his once again, she noted the way they fit so nicely together.

  Odd thoughts for a future nun. She was not at all certain that she liked them.

  For a moment she considered cutting the dance short. But having been trained as a noblewoman, Sapphira understood the value of currying favor with one’s allies. She must not offend Philippe or his powerful father. And so she stiffened her spine and attempted to complete the steps without falling back under this boy’s confusing influence.

  After the carole, the music shifted again to the more Oriental tones. Philippe taught her a repetitive stomping dance native to the area, and most of the children joined in. They seemed to enjoy the driving romp about the room far more than Sapphira did.

  When the second dance finished, she rushed toward her seat at the table but was stopped short.

  “Lady Sapphira,” boomed Count Bohemond from the front of the room.

  “Yes, my lord.” She turned and curtseyed, once again using her best manners to please her sister and win favor with their host.

  “Come and speak with me.”

  “Of course.”

  Philippe followed her to his father’s table.

  Upon a mere nod of Bohemond’s head, several people left the table with a bow. Sapphira and Philippe took the seats across from the count.

  “Looks as if the two of you are getting along quite well.” Bohemond winked at Sapphira.

  “Your son has been taking very good care of me. There is so much to learn here.”

  As they spoke, the room quieted, and all eyes turned their way.

  “Ah, you can see my people are as curious about you as I am. If you would indulge an old man, please share with us about this vision of yours.”

  Sapphira sucked in a sharp breath. Everything was happening far too quickly. The dinner, the disconcerting dance, and now this. She glanced to Honoria, who nodded calmly her way and then to Father Andrew, who smiled his support.

  Yes, she must gather herself together and do this thing. In an odd turn of events, she had become a spokesperson for their crusade. She must show courage, even when she did not feel it.

  Standing to her feet, she sought to find that wellspring of strength that resided deep within, attempting to allow the words to flow from her spirit, not merely her carnal mind. Much as she had done on the ship with Brother Francis, she recounted her vision.

  But the result was quite different this time.

  “Set the captives free,” Count Bohemond scoffed with a swipe of his hand. “I know what I would wish to free. My captive princedom, which my detestable nephew, whose name we do not speak in this place, has stolen. Can you assist me with that?”

  A pit formed in the center of Sapphira’s stomach. Oh, how she hated to fail at anything, but she could never bear failing at this mission, especially not after bringing so many people all this way. Under her breath, she began to whisper prayers heavenward.

  The exotic-looking fellow Rosalind had been dancing with spoke up. “Good count, if you will allow me to speak.”

  The count nodded his assent.

  “This cause is different than that of most crusaders. I think we should hear them out.”

  Philippe rose beside Sapphira and took her arm in a show of support. “I, for one, am quite moved by the Lady Sapphira’s holy vision.”

  Sapphira looked up at the tall boy with grudging respect, for he did not seem in the least intimidated by her odd spiritual gift.

  “Of course you are impressed, Philippe.” Bohemond chuckled. “I believe that is apparent to us all.”

  Bohemond’s young wife patted his arm. “Now, dearest, do not embarrass the boy.”

  But Philippe did not appear disturbed. Rather, he grinned impishly at Sapphira, filling her with that bubbly sensation again. “Allow me to support the Englishmen, Father, even if you will not.”

  Bohemond sighed and rubbed at his temple as if vexed by them all. “Can we not talk about silk? We have the best looms in all the crusader states. Let us load your ships with fine fabrics. You can return home unscathed and we shall all be rich.”

  Lady Honoria stood as well now. “With all due respect, good count, you cannot expect us to be deterred from the call of God so easily.”

  “Sadly not.” He frowned. “You crusaders never are. But I fell for the persuasion of the Hungarians a few years back, and it nearly saw me destroyed. I will not make such a mistake again.”

  “What can it hurt to free a few prisoners?” The exotic fellow stepped forward to join Sapphira and Philippe. “Many of the prisons are not even well guarded.” He turned now to Honoria. “Do you know where your husband and your cousin, the rightful duke, might be held?”

  “We know only that they were taken by the Druze in the area that used to be part of the County of Tripoli.”

  “So perhaps in the Shouf Mountains or in Beirut,” Philippe said. “Father, I hear the mountain prison at Jezeer has only a small troop and one village nearby. They hold many of our own men as well. We should have attacked them long ago, except that we have been so busy rebuilding.”

  The exotic fellow, who she thought had been introduced as being from Cyprus, though she did not remember his name, stepped closer to the count. “My lord, I think it would be wise to join with the Englishmen, at least for a time. The Maronites have been asking for help to free their soldiers from Jezeer. They will join us. And if your wife agrees, we can lend you the support of the Cyprian forces as well.”

  Count Bohemond pulled at his beard, as if he were considering it.

  “I would be agreeable,” the count’s young wife said. “Although I defer to my husband’s judgement in such weighty matters.”

  “The Maronites have been your staunchest supporters,” Philippe added. “We should aid them in this.”

  Sapphira had no idea who the Maronites might be, but she would take any assistance offered. “So many languish.” She gripped her hands together in petition. “So many despair. My uncle and my rightful duke might well be among them. Please, allow us to pass peacefully through this land, even if you cannot join us in our quest.”

  Count Bohemond glanced at his family members who had come to Sapphira’s defense. “It seems you have won over my people with your impassioned speech, young lady. I admit that I am impressed.” He leaned
forward with a scowl. “And I am not easily impressed.”

  He sat back again and appraised Sapphira, then Honoria, then the English earls. “Yes, perhaps we should join together in an attack on Jezeer. Strength in numbers and all that. I suppose I shall have to face them eventually, with or without your help, although I had not planned to do so this soon.”

  Philippe possessively wrapped an arm around Sapphira’s shoulder and tugged her closer. “You shall not regret this, Father.”

  A part of her wished to pull away, but a different part liked having this bold young man at her side, while an even bigger share recalled that she could not risk offending any of them. Instead she forced a sweet smile at Count Bohemond. “Thank you, my lord. We welcome your support, and we shall not let you down.”

  “You had best not. I have been disappointed by crusaders too many times already. And”—he pointed to Philippe and the Cyprian who had dared to challenge him—“we shall only help with Jezeer. I am not risking my troops deeper into the Saracen-held territories.”

  “Yes, Father,” said Philippe.

  “As you wish.” The Cyprian bowed.

  “Enough talk of politics for now.” The count clapped his hands. “Let us enjoy some sweet treats. I promise that you have never tasted anything like our sugar cane.”

  And just like that the most powerful man in the region declared their fate and returned to his meal. Sapphira pressed her lips tight and turned them into another false smile, although she feared smoke might be escaping from her ears and nostrils.

  Philippe took her arm and led her back to the table.

  Once they were seated again, he leaned close and whispered. “You are angry.”

  “I am trying not to be. I hope your father did not notice.”

  “Father notices little, unless it fills his pockets with denarii or adds to his power.”

  “Oh.”

  “It is just his way. I am afraid the religious fervor of the crusades holds little appeal for him.”

  But the man was the head of a crusader state. His sole purpose should have been to promote the cause of Christ, not to fill his pockets or his belly. And most certainly not to promote his own agenda of power. Sapphira’s righteous indignation continued to burn.