Their swords tangled. The large man shoved Randel back, but he was prepared. He rolled over his shoulder and back to his feet with his sword at the ready. Lunging again, he flew at the man, but the fellow sidestepped, managing to catch Randel’s free arm and swing him around.
He kept his sword firm in his hand, and the next thing Randel knew, he was face-to-face with Jervais—his sword hurtling toward the boy’s unprotected belly. Having not a second to spare, Randel tossed his sword aside with a groan. He slammed into Jervais, and the boy lost his sword as well. They tumbled to the ground together.
Rosalind gasped as she registered the horrid sight of Randel and Jervais upon the ground, with a Druze looming over them, sword raised. The man she loved and a child she had come to view as her own. Both unarmed. She could not bear to lose either of them.
Without thinking—without so much as breathing—she grabbed the dagger from her boot and threw it straight and sure.
As Randel scrambled to his feet to face his attacker, the man’s face suddenly went pale. His mouth gaped. He grabbed at his chest and crumpled to the ground, revealing the dagger in his back. Then Rosalind, her own face covered with dirt and blood, stood in the man’s place.
Randel and Jervais both grabbed up their swords and dropped into low defensive stances. Abu-Wassim disarmed the last man and pinned him to the ground. At last, no enemy soldiers remained on their feet.
“Children. Back into the cave. Now,” Abu-Wassim commanded.
They ran to obey.
Only four adults remained in the clearing. Four? Randel scanned the ground and found Wassim lying flat on his back and staring up at the sky with sightless eyes.
Tears trickled down Abu-Wassim’s face, but he otherwise appeared stoic. “Make sure they are all dead.”
Rosalind gaped in horror. “But Lady Honoria said to use mercy whenever possible.”
Randel understood. “We cannot afford mercy now. There is no time to drag prisoners along, and if we leave them, they will betray our position. We must keep the children safe and get word to the crusader forces. It is our only choice. Rosalind, go to the cave and distract the children.”
The rest of them would do what they must. That was the lot of a soldier.
Randel delivered a death blow to two more men, then sunk to his knees upon the ground. They had won. And only lost one person. An adult fighter at that. He should be so thankful. He should be so relieved. But the close call with Jervais had been too much for him. Far too similar to . . .
Images of Gravensworth washed over him, and he doubled over, no longer having the will to fight them.
Rosalind tried to think of a way to distract the children but instead took the easy route and instructed them all to face the back wall. Rabia was crying for her lost brother, but the rest of them stood in shocked silence as they no doubt relived the past five minutes.
She had been so scared, yet so determined to protect these children. And as she had prayed a supernatural sort of fierceness had washed over her. Beyond that, she did not remember much. Mostly dashing about and striking at anyone who came too close to the youngest fighters.
Knowing she had limited strength, she had relied on speed and cunning and used several of her tumbling maneuvers to evade flashes of steel. But her body that had felt so centered and strong moments ago, now quivered and went cold. She feared it might turn to syrup and ooze across the floor of the cave.
That is when it hit her. She had killed a man.
The instinct of a mother wolf had overtaken her, and she had done what was needed. It was the second time she had been responsible for taking a life, but on this occasion, she had no regrets.
“Can we look now?” one of the young twins asked in a squeaky voice.
Rosalind braced herself, tensing muscles that threatened to collapse. “I suppose we must.”
But no one turned.
“Perhaps we should take a moment to thank God for delivering us,” Sapphira said.
“But he did not deliver my brother.” Rabia wailed, and Sapphira gathered her friend into her arms.
Finally Jervais turned, and then Garrett and Sadie. Rosalind needed to be brave as well. She needed to dig down deep inside herself and find whatever courage remained. But as she swiveled about to face the scene, her body grew cold and tingly once again. For the first time she noted the metallic scent of blood. Flies had already begun to buzz around some of the corpses. Randel was right.
War was not glorious. It was ugly and horrible.
So why did he say he did it? She must remember. Must find some meaning in this. Yes! He said he did it to protect the innocent. To fight evil. She had protected the children. And she felt no remorse for that. But she was struck with the complexity of the situation. Nothing was as clear-cut as she had assumed when she had set out on this crusade. The Druze were only obeying orders. And their leaders only doing what they believed to be right. Why did men fight so? Suddenly, she had no idea.
Then, in the midst of the bodies, she spied Randel crumpled to the ground.
What on earth?
She ran to him, though her legs wobbled beneath her. She threw herself at his side. He knelt low to the ground with his face pressed to it. She felt the warmth of his back and sensed the slow rise and fall.
Alive.
But as she pulled his face from the ground, she was not so sure. It was pale and covered with terror. His eyes did not focus on her. He tugged away and wrapped his hands around his head. “No, no!” He shouted. “It cannot be!”
She took him by the arms and shook him hard. “Randel! Randel, it is me. Rosalind. Look at me. Come back to me.” Still not succeeding, she grabbed his face in her hands and stared straight into his haunted eyes. “Look, Randel. Look at me.”
Finally something broke through the haze in his eyes. “Rosalind!” He collapsed against her and buried his head in her chest. “Oh, Rosalind, thank goodness you are here.”
She cradled him to herself. “Shh. Shh. Do not despair. The children are well. We lost Wassim, but he fought valiantly until the end.”
He shivered against her, although he did not cry. Only trembled in shock. He had also fought valiantly until the end. She wished she understood what demons from his past had reduced him to this shell of himself.
But they must gather themselves together and move on from this place. It had been hard enough to lose a single friend today. They could not lose an entire army.
C
hapter 24
“There it is!” Garrett stood in his stirrups and pointed to the Templar fortress made of tan stone, still a good quarter mile away.
“I want to be a Templar!” one of the twins said.
“Me too!” echoed his brother, bouncing in his saddle.
“They are the toughest warriors in the world!” Jervais proceeded to fake a sword fight with Garrett.
Sapphira slowed her pace a bit and beckoned Rabia to follow her to the far side of the wide road, away from the commotion. Sadie looked back with a questioning glance, but Sapphira nodded her forward. Rabia liked Sadie well enough but seemed to trust Sapphira the most.
She smiled to her friend in encouragement. “We shall be there soon.”
But Rabia only nodded without showing any expression.
Sapphira wished there was some way, any way, to go back in time and save Rabia’s brother. Her mind wandered to memories of the skirmish on the mountainside. If only she had seen Wassim faltering sooner . . . then again, she might not have helped at all. They might both be dead. Overall the battle had been a resounding victory and had helped to restore her faith, but Rabia had been shattered in the process.
Sapphira noted the scent of saltwater and fish tinging the air. She had always loved that aroma, but never before had it brought her so much comfort. Soon they would reach the Templars and send word to Bohemond. Surely all was not lost.
Now if only she could think of a way to ease Rabia’s pain. After Abu-Wassim had led a short service of Moslem
prayers and they had buried Wassim, the girl had stuck close to her father. At least today she had ventured to ride alongside Sapphira and Sadie. But Sapphira could think of little to say. None of the platitudes she would normally use in this situation seemed to work. Finally she hit upon something.
The Sufi family could easily have turned on them, but they had remained faithful to the end. “Your brother died a hero, Rabia. You should be very proud of him.”
“You believe he burns in hell.”
Rabia’s bitter words struck Sapphira like a slap to her face.
She jolted and gasped. “Oh, Rabia! Is that what you think of me?”
Rabia’s face softened. “I know that you are a compassionate person, but you are still a Christian. You must believe he is in hell.”
Sapphira paused to consider her answer. Of course there was truth to Rabia’s words. That was the very reason she had not known how to comfort the girl. “Do you believe that Christians go to hell?”
Rabia bit her lip. “We work very hard to keep the commands of Allah, and Christians do not keep those commands at all.”
“Rosalind once told me that Moslems have no assurance of heaven.”
“Allah must decide if we have done enough to earn eternity in Jannah, paradise.” Rabia sighed. “My brother was very good and devout, though, and of all of us, he had the most profound experiences with the Divine.”
Sapphira pressed her lips together. Though she was commanded to preach the gospel, was now the right time? She did not wish to be cruel, but something in her heart bid her to proceed. “I believe that Christ died on the cross to pay the price for the sins of every person who will accept Him. He alone is my assurance of heaven.”
“And do you believe your Christ is the only way to heaven?”
Sapphira gulped down a lump in her throat. “Yes. And so it is imperative that I share this news with others.”
“Then you do believe my brother is in hell.”
Sapphira reached over to take Rabia’s hand. For a moment the girl flinched away, but then she allowed the comforting touch.
“Is it fair to say that I hope there is something I am not accounting for? That your brother perhaps found Christ somehow during those divine experiences, or even at the moment of his death? I do believe that Jesus is the only way, but I hope from the bottom of my heart that your brother is happy in heaven right now.”
“I suppose I can accept that.”
“I leave the final judgements to God.”
“And you would wish to see me accept your Christ.” Rabia peeked up from under her veil.
“Of course. I love you. Would you expect anything different from me?”
Rabia cracked half a smile. The most Sapphira had seen since her brother passed away. “No. Given your beliefs, I suppose I should be offended if you did not at least try.”
Sapphira chuckled. “I have prayed for you every night since we met.”
“For my soul?” Rabia sounded concerned and tugged her hand away.
“And for your safety. And now I pray that God will restore your peace and joy. I was very young when I lost my parents, but I still remember. I suppose a brother must be similar.”
“My mother died giving birth to me. Wassim was like a second parent.” Rabia drifted back into the depths of that sadness again.
Oh, how Sapphira’s heart broke for her friend.
The Templar fort was now close enough for her to make out the guards posted on the walls. She did not wish to even think of what they would do if the Templars would not help them.
And she could not help but wonder if she might see Philippe again soon. But their recent battle had put her relationship with the boy in a more rational perspective. Right now she must take matters one day at a time.
She did not even know if she would survive to make long-term plans. If she did, her sister’s fate and the future of this crusade would also play a major role in any decision she might make about Philippe. Her confusion over the matter had lessened as she rediscovered her courage during the battle.
And she would need that courage to face whatever might come next.
Randel’s head buzzed with excitement. He knew he should remain focused on his mission. Focused upon saving his army, protecting the children, and comforting the mourning family with him. But in this moment he could think of nothing beyond meeting the Templars.
Their flag featuring a bright red cross waved regally over the fort, and he stared in wonder at the sharp eagle eyes with which the knights watched them approach, their stoic faces without a flicker of concern or even curiosity.
The group had brought along the English and crusader banners, and so the fortress gate was raised high to let them pass. A sign overtop read, in French, Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. Randel’s hands trembled, and he could barely keep a grin from spreading across his face as they passed under it. But then his past failures crept in to dampen the moment.
At least on the mountainside he had won the battle. He had protected the children and had not fallen into that dark place until every last enemy fighter had been destroyed. He could be proud of that.
A tough, battle-scarred group of Templars stood waiting for them in the courtyard. They wore long ivory tunics with their red-cross emblem, not so different from the battle tunics the North Britannians had brought along.
“Greetings.” A high-ranking man stepped forward and held up one hand, as much to halt them as anything. His short-cropped hair shined silver in the sunlight and stuck straight from his head like so many needles. Deep grooves covered the portion of his tan, weathered face that was not hidden by his long beard. His Norman French lineage was apparent in his features, as was the case with many of these men.
Randel slid from his horse. “Greetings. I am Sir Randel of North Britannia in England. We have come seeking refuge and assistance. We are with the army that recently fought alongside Count Bohemond’s men in Jezeer.”
“They sent word as they traveled each way. But on their return they claimed you had won.” Though the man still largely masked his emotions, his eyes grew more wary.
“Matters have turned. The Tripolians assumed we would be safe enough in Jezeer, but they were incorrect. A huge Saracen army descended in a horde and took our men off guard.”
The man made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “So much for Divine guidance. The fools. I grow weary of idealistic Europeans complicating matters.”
Sapphira gasped. Randel could almost feel her bristle with indignation.
Meanwhile Randel’s heart clenched in his chest. Would they refuse to help them?
“So, how did this motley group escape?” sneered the Templar. “Women and children. You amateurs have outdone yourselves this time.”
Randel was still stinging from the verbal attack when Sapphira approached the Templar leader.
“Perhaps you are hasty in assuming we are not guided by providence. I am Lady Sapphira of North Britannia, cousin to the Duchess Adela. My vision led us to this place. And I had a message from God that warned us away from Jezeer. If our army had listened, they might be safe right now.”
Somehow she managed to stare down her nose at the much taller man in a manner that bespoke both breeding and authority. For a moment Randel worried that the fellow might take offense, but Sapphira had been reared for such a time.
The Templar studied the girl. “I have heard of you. You are as angelic as the rumors say. But I put little stock in words from God. It sounds to me like you grew scared and ran away, like one might expect of a young girl.”
She stared straight at him without wavering. “I had permission to leave. This is my troop, and I wished to protect them. We were coming here to request support. Since Bohemond’s army left, our ranks are depleted. On our way here, we saw the devastation from a distant mountain, and without us, it might have been months before anyone even learned of this tragedy.”
“Unfortunately for you, we do not suppor
t random crusaders on rogue missions.”
Sapphira planted her feet wider and pressed her fists into her hips. “But you do protect Christians in the Holy Land. Our mission was to release prisoners. And now our own men need rescuing. That is certainly within the duties of the Templars.”
The man nodded to her with a touch of respect. “You know of the Templars, I see. But we are only thirty men. I will send my swiftest horseman to Tripoli to apprise Count Bohemond. I can promise you nothing beyond that right now.”
“And if you will, please remind him that at least ten of his Maronite Christians were too sickly to travel and have now been recaptured along with the others.” Sapphira phrased it as a request, but the command in her voice was clear.
“Of course.”
“Will you allow us to stay here while we await word?” Randel asked. Though their ships were not far off this shore, it would be better to spend time with the Templars and win them to their cause.
“You, yes. But not them.” The Templar nodded to Abu-Wassim and his family.
“But they are friends of the count, and the oldest son died defending us,” Sapphira said.
“They may camp on the beach, but they will not defile our fortress.” The man crossed his arms over his chest.
Randel was about to argue when Abu-Wassim cut in. “That will be quite acceptable.” He laid a hand on Randel’s shoulder to prevent any further trouble.
“Then we have a plan.” The Templar leader waved to one of the soldiers. “Sebastien will show you to the guest quarters.” Without so much as a good-bye, the man strode away and the soldiers dispersed.
Sebastien eyed them all suspiciously as he approached. He had a jagged scar running down the side of his face, and he walked with a limp. Randel could not guess his age by his weathered face, but his hair and beard were yet brown.
“Right over here.” Sebastien led them to a simple building against the wall of the fortress. “Sir Giles may have given you permission to stay, but I warn you, keep those brats out from underfoot.”
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