Randel tensed. These men certainly were a hard lot. “The children are all trained fighters, but we will keep to ourselves. I would not wish to disturb the order here.”
The man just grumbled.
Perhaps Randel would not mention his desire to join the Templars straightaway. He must win their favor first. And that would be no small task.
As the girls noisily unpacked their belongings and set up their room, Rosalind made her way to the common area in the center of the building, hoping she might make the stark area a bit more like home. It would take at least two days to get a response from Count Bohemond. They might as well take advantage of this quiet respite—for one way or another, it would not last long.
Passing through the doorway, she found Randel sitting alone on a bench at the long trestle table filling the room. His hands were clasped in front of him and his head dipped low, but his eyes were open and fixed on the bare wall across from him. He did not appear to be in prayer. More like deep contemplation. And he looked a bit downtrodden, although he had been in good enough spirits upon the ride here.
She slid onto the bench beside him and placed a hand on his back. “So . . . did you dislike them as much as I did?”
“Who?” He blinked a few times, as if rousing himself. “The Templars? They are a gruff lot for certain, but I expected as much from hardened crusaders. Did you really dislike them so much?”
She kept her voice low so that the children would not hear. “Gruff is putting it mildly. Rude. Arrogant. Mean, perhaps. Are you certain this is the path for you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “They must be all those things to survive here. I am more concerned that I will not be up to their standards. I was watching them train just a moment ago. I have never seen fighters so fierce nor so disciplined.”
“Nor so jaded,” Rosalind added with a frown.
He looked up at her, hurt blaring in his eyes.
“I am sorry, Randel. If this is truly what you want, I will support you.” She rubbed his taut back with small circles now. “But despite your bad experiences with war, you have not grown callous like these men. You still have emotions. You still feel pain and sorrow.”
“And fear. A career soldier cannot afford fear nor even pain. I need that sort of toughness, elsewise . . .” He paused for a moment. “I have been meaning to talk to you about . . .” His voice drifted off again.
But she knew exactly what he referred to. The incident after the battle. “There is no need to explain, Randel. Abu-Wassim told me of the haunting spells that soldiers sometimes suffer after a battle. It is not a weakness. Only human.”
“It makes me wonder if I have what is required to be a Templar.”
“You do. Never doubt that.” She leaned into him with a sort of side embrace, resting her chin upon his shoulder. “You fought admirably and did not allow yourself to give in to your demons until the danger was gone. Still, I wonder what a life like this would do to your heart.”
“Perhaps my heart is the problem. These men seem to have harnessed their hearts.”
“More like murdered them,” Rosalind whispered. She took his cheek in her hand and turned him to her. “Look at me, Randel. You can do whatever you put your mind to. But still I ask you, I beg you to consider, is this God’s path for your life?”
“Shh!” Randel said.
At that moment, one of the girls entered the room, and Rosalind jerked away from Randel. She had not even given thought to how close they were. It always felt so right and natural, like coming home, but she did not wish to confuse the children. Nor did she wish to give away Randel’s secret plans before he decided to share them with the others.
And she must respect his plans for his life, even if she was not convinced.
Sapphira, dressed for the first time since the feast in a proper girlish kirtle, came and sat across from them, concern plain upon her dainty features. “How can we persuade them?”
“To help us?” Randel asked.
“Yes.” She pulled at her whitish tresses that now hung free. “Perhaps if I recounted my vision to them. It worked with Brother Francis and at least some in Count Bohemond’s court.”
Rosalind looked to Randel. Politics was not her world. Until the crusade, her world revolved around face paints and fancy gowns, but hopefully he would have a plan.
“They did not seem likely to be swayed by anything that cannot be proven to them,” he said. “I imagine they have heard far too many stories like ours.”
“True.”
“What they did respond to was your strength. We must be on our best behavior. Let them see how well trained and disciplined you children are. That is more likely to win them to our side.”
He reached out and brushed Sapphira’s rose-colored kirtle. “A bit of feminine charm might not hurt. A few might miss sisters and mothers. But be careful on that count. Some monks come to see women only as evil temptresses. And be sure that the girls do not touch them in even an innocent manner. It would be an offense to their vows.”
“Good thinking.” Sapphira pursed her lips. “I will warn the other girls. Especially Brigitte.”
“And of course we can pray.” Rosalind reached out and covered Sapphira’s hand with her own. “Perhaps God can work a miracle, even in these hard hearts.”
“Agreed. Tonight we shall all be on our best behavior for dinner. Our new mission shall be to convince the Templars that we are true soldiers for Christ, and afterward we shall meet back here for an extended prayer time.” Sapphira stood and returned to the girls, lost in her own thoughts.
Randel chuckled. “I suppose there is no point in reminding her that I am in charge here.”
Rosalind smiled. “She will obey you in logistical matters, but I think we all know who is truly running this crusade.”
He nodded.
They hadn’t finished their conversation from earlier, but Rosalind knew not how to pick it up again.
Randel had much to consider, and pressuring him would not help. Hopefully his time with the Templars would give him the perspective he needed. It would not be fair to lure him from God’s plan because of her own selfish desires. She had been that type of girl once before.
And she had left that girl far behind in England.
Chapter 25
Rosalind leaned against the crenellated wall of the parapet along with several of the children. Word of the horseman finally returning from Tripoli had traveled like wildfire through the fortress. She watched as he galloped the last stretch of shoreline.
Along the beach she spotted Abu-Wassim and his family, likewise turned toward the approaching rider. How strange to think of him as Abu-Wassim, which translated to father of Wassim, now that his son was gone.
Beyond the sand lay the frothing Mediterranean with their ships bobbing at a distance like pretty toys. It would be so easy for them to sail away to somewhere safe. But they could never leave the rest behind. Images of Honoria, of Sir Ademar and Humphrey, of the sweet convent-bound Anna and Margaret, even of Rumsford and of Jocelyn had haunted her these last days.
So many lives depended upon them.
As the rider drew near, they all hurried down the stone stairs to hear the answer they had been awaiting—while feigning patience the best they could—for the last four days. Judging by the speed with which the rider traveled, Bohemond must have dallied extensively before making his decision.
Four days of leaving their people to rot in that valley. Four days of trying to reassure the children that their family members would be well, when she was not at all certain that was true.
The rest of the children and many of the Templars had all gathered in the courtyard. Rosalind found Randel and secured her arm through his.
He patted her hand and smiled. “The news will be good. It must.”
But Rosalind knew an empty promise when she heard one, having delivered so many herself this week.
The rider galloped through the gate and hopped down from his horse. The winded fel
low handed a missive to the leader of the group, who she had learned was named Sir Giles, though the man had never bothered to introduce himself.
Sir Giles broke the red wax seal and unrolled the parchment. As usual, his face registered no emotion as he read. Then he rolled it back up and tapped it a few times against his palm.
They all waited quietly, remaining on their best behavior to impress these men, or at the very least, to not annoy them. Rosalind felt an eternity slip by as Sir Giles pondered the missive.
At long last, he spoke. “Count Bohemond will not help you. He gives a list of reasons, but as none of them are worthwhile, I will not recount them. Suffice to say, he puts his own comfort before the lives of those he claimed as allies.”
Rosalind’s stomach tied into a knot. Bile rose in her throat. But she tried to keep up a stoic front, as she knew they expected in this place. The children also made valiant attempts to remain still, but she noted ashen faces and tears trickling down cheeks.
“Please forgive the children their grief.” Sapphira took a step forward. “Many of us have parents among the captured.”
The briefest flicker of compassion passed through Sir Giles’s eyes. “I see.”
“And I understand that the count will not help us, but . . .” Sapphira clasped her hands and pressed them to her chest. “Will you?”
Sir Giles considered her quietly for a moment.
Rosalind grew agitated. The man must say something. Anything!
“Perhaps you would allow me to share my vision with you,” Sapphira ventured.
He waved the suggestion away. “I have no faith in visions. God, yes. His Word, certainly. The decrees of the Pope, of course. But not mystical nonsense that no man can prove.”
“Oh.” Sapphira’s face crumpled.
And if possible, Rosalind’s stomach twisted even tighter.
“But I have been watching you,” Sir Giles said, eyeing Sapphira keenly. “Your group is disciplined and courageous. The children have been surprisingly well behaved. And I have been moved by your commitment to prayer.”
He looked to his men, and several of them nodded the affirmative to his unspoken question. “As you said, it is the Templars’ mission to protect travelers to the Holy Land, and I have already sent for backup from some nearby Templar forts. Once they arrive, we shall consider our next move. We will help you, but we shall be sorely outnumbered.”
His words did not bring as much comfort as Rosalind might have hoped, but at least all was not lost.
As was his habit, Sir Giles turned on his heel and walked away.
Three days after Count Bohemond’s refusal, Randel stood on the beach with warm waves lapping at his ankles. He rubbed the tension from his neck. In North Britannia, the shore was on the east coast, and he could watch the sun rise over the sea. But here in Tripoli, the sea stretched to the west.
Nonetheless, he had come here early this morning as the sun lit the sky from over the mountaintops so that he might think and pray. They had now been at the Templar fort for an entire week, and he could hardly wait to set out again.
The beach was now filled with several troops of Templars. Sir Giles did not expect any more to arrive. He had only sent word to the forts within a few days’ travel. This morning the leaders, Randel included, would meet together to form a plan.
Though deep in his heart he believed that God could give them the victory, his logical mind could not fathom any possible way. He and Sir Giles had already talked extensively about the logistics and options. At this point the best idea they had come up with was to camp in the mountains and wait until some of the massive Saracen army departed for elsewhere. But that could take months. And the longer their people languished in those prison walls, the more would perish.
All this was assuming the enemy had even let the English army live. But the white flags of surrender Hassan had spied gave Randel hope. Although the Saracen troops were a mixed lot, much like their crusader counterparts, many were known to be honorable men after the tradition of the famous Saladin, who had retaken Jerusalem for the Moslems during the third crusade.
Randel and Sir Giles both held out hope that when they put the minds of so many military leaders together, they might come up with a viable plan.
Abu-Wassim approached him and laid a fatherly hand on Randel’s shoulder. “Has anything been decided?”
“Not yet, but soon. How is Rabia doing?”
“She remains listless, but it will take some time for her to adjust. Hassan and I have known loss before. We understand one must go on, but she does not recall her mother’s death.”
“Perhaps once we leave this place she might enjoy bedding down with the girls.”
Abu-Wassim managed a haunted smile. “I think that would cheer her.”
The patter of feet behind him caught Randel’s attention. He turned to see Sapphira frantically dashing in his direction for the second time in as many weeks. Again she wore only her shift, and this time her gangly legs were clearly illuminated in silhouette.
“Hurry,” Abu-Wassim said. “Before they notice.”
Randel ran to meet her before the newly arrived Templars, who were now cooking their breakfasts over campfires between the tents, could observe her inappropriate attire. He caught her and pulled her to a semi-private area behind some rocks that dotted the shoreline. “You really must learn to dress before you come looking for me.”
The girl panted and collapsed on a smooth rock. She bent over double for a moment, in an attempt to catch her breath. “I had another message . . . from God. . . . Rosalind thought I might find you out here. . . . She . . . she shall join us as soon as she dresses.”
Rosalind was a wise woman, for the sight of her running in her shift would have elicited a far different reaction than Sapphira’s slight, coltish figure.
Randel waited until Sapphira’s breathing slowed to normal. The girl took a last deep breath and pressed her hand to her side.
“So then,” he prompted, “tell me of your message.”
“Gideon. I have been hearing this name for the past few days every time we pray. I thought perhaps it might be the name of a soldier or some ally who could help us. Then early this morning as I prayed again, it welled up from deep within me, the story of Gideon from the Bible. I do not know it well, but it all came back to me with stunning clarity.”
“I remember that there was a Gideon . . . but little more,” Randel confessed.
Sapphira stood now, grabbed his arm, and began tugging with a force he would not have thought possible given her small size. “Come. Let us hurry to the chapel. We must find it and read it together. In Judges, if I am correct. I believe we shall find our answers there.”
Randel waited until all the Templar leaders made their way into Sir Giles’s office. He peeked around the corner of a nearby building to watch the last of them file inside.
Then he turned back to Sapphira. “I hope you are certain about this.”
“More certain than I have ever been of anything in my life,” she assured him.
He rubbed at his temple and the gnawing pain that was developing there. “Well enough, then.”
During the breakfast hour, he, Sapphira, and Rosalind had pored over the story in Judges. But he still was not quite convinced. He had come up with ample arguments against the plan, and he feared these seasoned crusaders would not be impressed.
Nonetheless, he led Sapphira the rest of the way to the office. At least now she wore a proper kirtle and a wimple that hid most of her ethereal hair. She looked every inch the noblewoman rather than the wild fairy-child she had appeared earlier that morning. He poked his head through the doorway and rapped on the wooden support beam as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
A shadowy figure lifted his head. “What is it, Sir Randel?” asked Sir Giles.
“The Lady Sapphira requests to join us. I realize this is unorthodox, but she has provided much guidance and leadership to our army. I hope you will allow her to share her thoug
hts.”
Randel could now make out Sir Giles’s craggy features. He glanced about to the other men. Several of them shrugged.
“I see no harm,” said one of the warrior monks from a different troop. “I have heard tell of this Sapphira, and I should like to meet her.”
“Fine, then.” Sir Giles beckoned them. “Let us get on with this.”
Randel nodded to Sapphira. She nodded back as she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin in a most regal manner. He stepped aside, and she glided into the room like a queen holding court. Resisting the urge to bow, he followed her.
“Greetings, Lady Sapphira,” said Sir Giles.
Employing just the right blend of confidence and femininity, with which her sister had ruled their region for the past six years, Sapphira nodded to the group of Templar leaders. “Greetings to all of you. My sincere thanks for allowing me to take a part in this meeting.”
“Of course,” Sir Giles said.
A few of the new Templars eyed her with curiosity, and at least one young fellow with something far more predatory, but she did not so much as flinch beneath their appraisal.
“You may proceed,” Sapphira ventured to say with a flick of her wrist in Sir Giles’s direction, in that subtle way establishing herself as an authority in this room. Honoria had taught her all the tricks a woman needed in order to wield power.
She glanced up at Randel to gauge his reaction, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. She responded with a quick smirk for his eyes only.
“Ye-es,” Sir Giles stumbled over the simple word. “We need to make some decisions. You all know the mission—to rescue the English army from the prison at Jezeer. The question is how.”
Randel stepped forward. “We only saw the enemy army from a distance, but there must have been at least a thousand men.”
“They appeared like ants swarming the prison,” Sapphira said.
“But we know not if they remain. We assume that, for such a large army to have gotten there so quickly, they must have been redirected while en route to Egypt.” Sir Giles rocked back and forth on his heels. “Nor do we know the state of the prisoners.”
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