Courageous

by Dina L. Sleiman

“You see, there are advantages to being a monk. But what of you?” he asked, staring deep into the pools of her blue eyes. For so long he had put off this question, but now that he had shared his own reason, he wanted to know. “Why do you not wish to marry?”

  She looked away over her shoulder as she answered. “I made some horrid mistakes with Sir Hugh.” Her voice grew breathy as she spoke and faltered completely for a moment before she whispered, “I no longer deserve marriage and family.”

  He reached over and gently pulled her chin back toward him. He was not shocked, for he had already suspected something along those lines. Rosalind was a passionate young woman, and she must have fallen to Hugh’s seduction, but she had a good and pure heart beneath it all.

  “That is ridiculous,” he said. “Whatever you have done, God can forgive and restore you. He would not wish you to consider your life ruined.”

  “But what man would want a woman so damaged? I do not wish to enter a marriage under false pretenses.”

  He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear with all the brotherly kindness he could muster. “Rosalind, I realize this is a somewhat useless point, but I still think you worthy of marriage.”

  “You do not understand. I have not told you everything.” She bent over and hid her face against her knees.

  He waited to see if she might say more, but it was clear she did not wish to proceed. And he would not push her, for he saw the pain that even this discussion had stirred. Truth be told, he had not shared the full depths of his sorrow either. “If you ever wish to share your burden, I am here for you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered with tears choking her voice. “’Tis good to have a friend.”

  In that moment he almost wished he could be more. That he could prove to her how worthy she was. How capable she was of love. What a perfect mother she would make.

  But that honor must go to someone else. And perhaps not for quite some time, as she was not yet ready. For now he would pray that her heart would heal, and that she would be prepared for love when the right fellow came along.

  Chapter 17

  “Wait here,” grumbled a battle-scarred man in broken French.

  I glanced about the dark alleyway in this Druze village, not so far from the prison of Jezeer. My heart thudded wildly in my chest. The moonlight barely reached into this shadowy place. Danger lurked around every corner. Enemies resided in each home. But I would not turn back.

  This was my chance. The one I had been waiting for throughout this long and worthless crusade. I finally had concocted the perfect plan to bring Randel the most shame and humiliation possible, and likely see him killed in the process. But even if he was not killed, his life would be shattered, and he would never dare show his ugly face in England again.

  I pressed myself against a stone wall and gathered my courage. I had faced my brutish father on countless occasions—stood up to him to protect my brother, although in the end I had not been able to save him from Randel Penigree. Surely I could face whatever this night might bring.

  Another Saracen rounded the corner and held out his hands. “There you are, my friend.” He was surrounded by the fellow I had sent to fetch him and several burly guards, one of whom held a torch that sent a flickering glow across the area.

  This new man, supposedly the chieftain of the village, appeared relaxed and welcoming. “I hear you have important information.”

  “I do. You shall not regret meeting with me.”

  “Why do you wish to betray your people? I see your skin is as white as any European, and your French flawless.”

  “I came on this journey for my own purposes. I do not wish for you to harm my people. Merely thwart my enemy and send the rest of them on their way. They do not belong here. In truth, I am not terribly attached to the Christian faith. Some might feign devotion, but do we not all just want to thrive and serve our own purposes? I believe you Saracens should have the right to live your own way in your own land.”

  The man stroked his long dark wooly beard. “Hmm . . . it is usually unwise to trust a traitor, but you have captured my interest. I will at least hear you out.”

  “This crusade his been sparked by the vision of a certain young woman. A child, really. ’Tis silly, if you ask my opinion. I believe if you capture this child along with the group of children who have traveled with her, you will do away with the heart of this mission, and the rest of them shall quickly retreat back to Europe where they belong.”

  “And how would I go about capturing them?”

  Something in the Saracen’s tone told me that he did not have mere capture on his mind, but I could not trouble myself with such technicalities now. I had come too far.

  “We have not yet left the prison at Jezeer.”

  “I suspected as much, and could have confirmed this on my own.”

  Desperate to impress him, I spoke the first thing that came to my mind. “The Tripolians and Cyprians will be leaving on the morrow, depleting our troops nearly by half, and the prisoners are not yet recovered to full strength. Now is the perfect time to strike.”

  His eyes sparked with interest, and so I continued.

  “I have noted that every day around midmorning the children train in the field north of the prison. They are the only youngsters with the group, and should be easy to spot. If you approach from the hillside, I believe you could take them with little resistance. The rest of the troops will be training on the far side of the prison at that time.”

  “Hmm . . . Also outside of the walls?”

  I did not like the question. I had not intended to say so much, for though I did not support the crusaders’ cause, I yet had friends among the group. But I could not afford to lose his trust. I swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

  “And what is in this for you?” He stared into my eyes. For the first time I spotted something harsh and fierce behind his congenial smile. However, it was too late to turn back now.

  “Only that you protect me and destroy my enemy. I require nothing else.”

  He chuckled, low and deep. “Good, for you have already given me your information, and if you had demanded payment now, I could have easily dispatched with you.”

  Cold fear flooded my senses, but I did not let it show upon my face. If he thought me weak, that would be the end of me. “I have not yet told you which girl, but I believe my terms are fair enough. Do we have a deal?”

  He bowed. “Quite fair.”

  “She will be the slender one with white-blond hair and blue eyes. Her name is Sapphira.”

  His smile stretched even wider.

  “And be sure to kill the leader of their troop. A tall, thin man with short-cropped dark hair. A Sir Randel. He’s a tricky one. This shall be of the utmost importance to your cause. Once you have the children, the rest of the English crusaders will be gone soon enough. I guarantee it.”

  He nodded. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, my friend. If matters go well, perhaps we shall meet again and you shall dine in my home. I would be most honored.”

  “Perhaps.” Although I hoped not. All I wanted was to destroy Randel Penigree and return to England just as soon as possible.

  But now I couldn’t help but worry. Would I bring the entire army down along with him? Nonetheless, sometimes one must do what one must, and consequences be blasted.

  Surrounded by the other girls, Sapphira picked at her breakfast of fruit, cheese, and nuts as the Cyprian and Tripolian forces prepared to return home. She knew that beyond the fortress walls they were lining up in formation to leave at any moment, and the thought had stolen her always-fickle appetite away.

  Philippe yet remained in the guard house with some of the boys. He hoped that somehow in the shuffle his relatives might not notice his absence. But she spotted Leo storming their way.

  “Where is he?” Leo demanded of Randel without breaking his stride.

  Randel just inclined his head to the guard house, and the angry man marched inside.


  Not a moment later, she heard the struggle, the shouts, and then, “No. You cannot do this to me!”

  Leo ducked back through the door with his smaller, fifteen-year-old relative flailing and kicking over his shoulder like a troublesome toddler.

  “Stop!” shouted Philippe. “This is not fair! This is not right! It should be my decision.”

  Leo never faltered. Never deigned to respond. Several soldiers surrounded them now. Philippe must know he was beaten. Finally he ceased struggling.

  Lifting his head, he sent a heartbroken look Sapphira’s way.

  “Be safe,” Philippe called as they whisked him away. “Come back to me. I wish to make you my wife someday.” The last words filtered to her from beyond the prison wall.

  Sapphira’s mouth dropped open. Though her heart ached to see him leave in such a manner, she could hardly believe he would broach the subject of marriage so soon.

  Sadie reached over and patted Sapphira’s hand. “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard for you.”

  “Oh, it is so romantic.” Issobelle squealed and pressed her joined hands to her chest.

  Sapphira moaned. “Do not be ridiculous.”

  “Right,” Lillian said. “You wish to be a nun.”

  “Well.” Sapphira felt obligated to speak the truth, no matter the inconvenience. “I confess I have had second thoughts of late. But for goodness’ sake, I am only thirteen years of age. And I shall not be much older by the time we leave.”

  “’Tis not unheard of.” Brigitte, at fifteen, tossed her yellow hair in a worldly-wise manner. “Some girls marry as young as twelve. My cousin did.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sadie scoffed.

  “I am not ‘some girls.’ I would never consider marrying until I was at least eighteen. I yet have much learning and growing to do.” Sapphira frowned.

  “If I turned eighteen and was unwed, my mother would think me a pathetic old maid indeed.” Brigitte sighed, no doubt still stinging under the loss of a chance with Humphrey.

  This whole matter had been almost too much for Sapphira’s heart to bear. She did not need this sort of romantic confusion at her young age. Perhaps it was for the best that Philippe had been dragged away, even if it was against his will.

  “So we will be all alone in foreign territory soon.” Rosalind brought the conversation back around to the true issue at hand.

  She was right. Sapphira must let Philippe go and focus upon what mattered. Their mission.

  “Not for long.” Randel tossed aside a stick. “We are sending a troop of scouts to Beirut even now. And soon the prisoners and wounded shall be ready to move. I would say another week at most.”

  And then they would press onward, to the next challenge and the next battle. Without local support. Without the element of surprise. With only a few native guides to lead them.

  Yes, Sapphira needed to focus upon what mattered and turn her heart from thoughts of Philippe to thoughts of God.

  Rosalind awoke with the same sense of unease that had stalked her mercilessly the day before. It jolted her so suddenly from her sleep that she knew she would not return to the warm, hazy world of her dreams, although the sun was only now beginning to tinge the sky with a predawn glow.

  The girls around her slept quietly. That heart-full nurturing sensation she always felt when she watched them in repose encouraged her for a moment, but it was soon crowded out by the unease once again. Perhaps it had first arrived as the full ramifications of Randel becoming a Templar had finally struck.

  In the beginning she had thought only of the possible consequences for him. But as she further considered the matter, she was forced to admit that she had grown quite attached to him, and although she had never allowed herself to think in terms of marriage, perhaps the smallest part of her . . .

  She did not even let herself finish the thought. Perhaps Randel was not the source of her unease after all. They were thousands of miles from home and living inside enemy territory with depleted forces. Surely that was reason enough to feel concern. Stealing from her bed, she pulled her tunic over her shift and donned her leggings. She splashed off her face with water from the basin and combed her fingers through her hair. Good enough for what she had in mind.

  Rosalind headed outside and climbed the stairs to the parapet. A guard nodded her way, but otherwise paid her little heed. She looked out past the Druze village in the distance with its stone buildings. The first ring of muted sunshine met the horizon. She remained still as it crept upward and painted the sky with streaks of yellow and orange. Midnight blue seeped to lighter and brighter shades.

  How amazing that wherever one might travel, the sun still circled the earth in the same way. God still held the heavens together. Some matters did not change.

  A warm arm wrapped about her shoulders with such pleasant familiarity that she did not even flinch.

  “I did not expect to find you here,” Randel said. “’Tis a lovely surprise.”

  She rested her hand over his where it gripped her shoulder and stroked it with her fingers in the most natural sort of way. “I awoke with a start. I have felt uneasy this past day. Perhaps since the local forces left.”

  “I have not felt quite right either. We should talk to the children and address this issue in prayer.”

  Good Randel, with his good heart. She might not have thought of prayer, but he was precisely correct. She whispered up a prayer even then, as she stood with him watching the sun decorate the sky.

  Chapter 18

  Sapphira sat up with a gasp. She had been communing with God while yet in her bed when the certainty overtook her.

  We are in danger. We should not be here. We must not remain!

  Though the reason remained hazy, she suspected a large enemy army might be moving this way.

  She threw off her covers and dashed to Rosalind, but Rosalind was not in her bed.

  Not even wasting time to grab a tunic, Sapphira ran outside in her shift to search for her friend. “Rosalind! Rosalind!” she called.

  It occurred to Sapphira that, now outside, it would be more natural for her to call for her own sister, but Rosalind was the name her heart shouted. The person she needed to soothe her fear. And so she called again.

  In the early morning light, she finally spotted Rosalind, scurrying down the stairs from the parapet followed by Randel. Sapphira rushed their way.

  A panting Rosalind grasped her by the arms. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Danger. . . . headed this way . . . Must leave!” Sapphira had not even realized she was in such a dither until she attempted to speak.

  Rosalind shot a significant look sideways to Randel.

  “Slow down, please, Sapphira,” said Randel.

  She gathered her thoughts and started again. “I was praying when it came to me so clearly. I believe danger is headed this way. We must leave this prison, this valley. And we must do so at once.”

  Rosalind pulled Sapphira into her arms and shushed her, as Randel encircled them both.

  “All will be well,” Rosalind whispered into her ear. “We believe you, for we had sensed something was not right and were praying upon the parapet. But we must speak to your sister and the leadership council before anything can be decided.”

  “I shall go find them,” Randel said.

  Sapphira rested her head against Rosalind. Clung to her. Drank of her strength. She had begun to wish that Rosalind might be her guardian rather than her coldhearted sister. But at least she could have Rosalind as a mentor and a protector.

  In a matter of minutes Randel waved them to Honoria’s large tent, which had been set up in the courtyard of the prison. Rosalind yet kept an arm around Sapphira as she led her through the flap. Once inside, she faced her sister, Haverland, Rumsford, Sir Ademar, and several other noblemen. All the leaders of this crusade.

  “What is it, child?” Honoria seemed perturbed with her already, and she had not yet said a word.

  Stepping away from Rosalind’s
fortifying support and finding her courage, Sapphira spoke. “I believe danger is headed our way. I suspect it is a huge enemy army. We must leave. Hurry back to the crusader-held territory. It is our only chance. If the men are not battle ready, then let us recoup in Tripoli for a time.”

  Sir Manfred smirked. “I see. She misses young Philippe. How typical of a maiden.”

  Sapphira’s mouth fell open in shock.

  Sir Manfred eyed her with disdain. What was he even doing here with these esteemed leaders? He only commanded a small troop of men, but he seemed determined to gain power and position through demeaning others.

  Sapphira tamped down her indignation. Her pride was not the issue here, and she could not let emotion cloud her thinking and prove them right. “Philippe is not the reason. Not in the least. You trusted my vision to bring us here, now trust me in this. If not to Tripoli, then at least to the coast, where we will have quick access to the ships.”

  “We trusted your vision,” Rumsford corrected kindly but with firmness. “Did this message come to you in such a powerful, supernatural way?”

  “Well . . . no. But I am well accustomed to detecting God’s still small voice. As Brother Francis mentioned, it is far more reliable than any dramatic vision. And I feel so certain in my heart.”

  “The heart is fickle, sweet girl. ’Tis likely a bit of fear has overcome you,” said Rumsford. “This place would test anyone’s nerves.”

  “We should not dismiss her too quickly.” Sir Ademar stared at her as if trying to detect something. “She has never misled us in the past.”

  “The Tripolians felt confident that there were no armies within traveling distance,” Honoria said. “And that the Saracens will not risk a full-scale war over a few released prisoners.”

  “And if we wish to have any hope of meeting the crusaders from Egypt this summer in Jerusalem, we cannot afford to waste time,” Sir Ademar conceded.

  “You all keep mentioning Jerusalem, but it was never a part of my calling.” A sick sort of dread circled in Sapphira’s belly. They credited her with being the inspiration for this crusade, but would she be held responsible when these esteemed adults steered it off course?