“You did a good job of rallying the Templars,” she gave his hand a squeeze. “Lady Honoria could not have asked for more. You have been an exemplary leader at every turn.”
“I hope you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. And Sir Etienne said the same.”
A true smile played at Randel’s lips. “Sir Etienne gives me hope.”
“Speaking of hope, have you spied your Syrian serin yet?”
“No, oddly enough, though the Templars say they are common in this region.”
“Soon, then, I suppose. Shall you send word to your mother?”
“She would like that. And hopefully by then I shall have good news about my future. Perhaps when this is over, you might deliver the bird to her for me.”
“I would take most excellent care if it.” Rosalind smiled.
“I have no doubt.”
Rosalind pressed the horn to her lips and attempted to blow, but nothing came out. Last night they had all tried the instruments to see who might blow the charge. Randel had done well enough, being acquainted with a number of musical instruments, but Rosalind had not succeeded.
No problem there, though, as not everyone would have a trumpet. They had not been able to acquire a full two hundred horns in this remote area, but Sapphira seemed certain that the result would be the same.
Trying again, Rosalind puckered her lips and blew hard. The horn emitted a wailing mewl, like a cat in pain.
Randel put his hands to his ears. “For the love of all that is holy, Rosalind, spare us.”
She lowered the horn to her lap. “I shall master it yet. And you promised to teach me the lute, remember.”
“Someday. When matters are less tense.”
“And when shall that be? Once this is over, you shall head off with the Templars.”
“With the Templars?” came a disgusted voice from behind them.
Sir Sebastien stomped over. He must have crept closer while they spoke, elsewise he would not have heard Rosalind’s soft voice. Stealth was among the Templars’ many noteworthy skills.
“What do you mean? Sir Randel a Templar. Ha! Not in this lifetime.”
Wincing against the rebuff, Randel focused on the more pressing issue. “Please,” Randel whispered loudly. “I do not wish the children to hear.”
They all still played noisily and did not seem to notice anything.
He motioned Sir Sebastien closer, though he regretted it the moment the man’s sneering face loomed over him. Randel was sick of this fellow’s bad attitude, which had hovered like a cloud over this whole trip.
“Is it true? Do you wish to be a Templar?”
“I have considered it. My mother always wanted me to join the church. But right now I must remain faithful to this mission and these children.”
Sir Sebastien scowled. “I knew you were a fool, but this tops everything.”
Randel stood to better face the man. “I am the fool? You are the one along for a mission you do not believe in.”
“A mission spawned by your brats. But the Templar brotherhood comes first. I could not stay behind and betray my fellows.”
“Perhaps I long for such a brotherhood.” Randel relaxed his stance.
“Trust me, you would not be welcome.” Sir Sebastien’s hands fisted at his sides.
“Sir Etienne might feel differently.”
At that moment, the young twins came flying by. One tripped and tumbled straight into Sebastien, nearly knocking the arrogant coxcomb off his feet.
Before Randel could think to intervene, Sebastien stood and backhanded the boy across the side of his head.
The boy wailed and grabbed for his ear. But Sebastien showed no mercy. He grabbed up each of the twins by their collars, pulling them so far off their feet he nearly choked them. Then he tossed them roughly toward Randel.
The world seeped to red as anger welled within Randel. He helped the boys up and checked them for injuries.
“I told you to keep these brats out from under feet.”
As Rosalind pulled the boys to her chest, Randel flew at Sebastien. “Never! Ever! Touch one of my children again.”
“Or what?”
Randel’s fist twitched at his side. His head felt about to explode.
Sir Sebastien swiped a hand his way. “Coward. You will do nothing.”
Unable to take it any longer, Randel pulled back his fist and drove it deep into Sir Sebastien’s gut.
The man doubled over.
“Who is the coward now?” Randel took a step back, but the violent action had only sparked so many frustrations from these past weeks and months. He longed to pound the scoundrel’s face into one of the many hard rocks surrounding this place.
“Why, I ought to . . .” Sir Sebastien ducked low and plowed Randel to the ground.
Fury exploded within Randel, and his fists flew as they tumbled again and again over top of one another.
The next thing Randel knew, several men were pulling them apart.
“I did not expect this of you, Sir Randel.” Sir Etienne frowned at him. “But, Sir Sebastien, you have been itching for a fight these last few days. I suggest you both go back to your tents and cool off. Sir Sebastien, one more outburst like this, and I shall speak to your commander about sending you home.”
Randel’s anger seemed spent. Already he regretted being lured into the man’s trap. He did not wish Sir Etienne to think poorly of him. He shook off his aching fist and headed to his tent.
Once there, he collapsed onto the ground. What sort of leader had he just been? What sort of example to the boys? But Sir Sebastien had pushed him too far. By harming the boys, of course, but—if truth be told—more so by mocking his desire to become a Templar.
Rosalind slid into his tent and let the flap close behind her.
“You should not be in here. The Templars might misunderstand,” Randel said.
“Everyone saw what happened. They will know I have only come to comfort you.”
She left space between them, no doubt to leave two distinctive shadows if anyone attempted to spy. But she reached over and clasped his hand.
Fire zapped between them. Much like the fire he had stared into earlier this evening. Molten. Blazing. Fire that gave warmth and light, but could just as easily devour and leave one with nothing but ashes.
Rosalind. His best friend. His closest ally, yet the most pressing reason he questioned his ability to become a Templar. How could he stay here in the Holy Land without her when she needed him so?
He clutched tightly to her hand. “I apologize. I behaved horribly.”
“Surely you jest,” she whispered. “If you hadn’t punched him, I would have.”
They both dissolved into laughter. Rosalind. No wonder he loved her so.
Sapphira surveyed the dark and quiet valley surrounding the prison fortress in Jezeer. A half-moon offered its light so that she could see the outlines of hundreds of tents encircling the main structure. Only a handful of guards upon the walls appeared to be awake and alert. The rest had given way to slumber.
And somewhere in the bowels of that prison—hopefully, for the alternative was too awful to consider—her sister was locked away, along with so many who had become important to her during this trip.
Was it only this morning that the Templar scouts had set off to spy the valley?
By noon they had returned with the report that the army remained and, from what they could assess, the prisoners were likely still alive. But they had not risked getting close enough to speak to anyone, for the element of surprise was paramount. Everyone had spent the afternoon preparing and rehearsing their plans. Then they had headed in this direction at dusk.
Fortunately, they had not run into any perimeter guards along the way. Although these tough, hawk-eyed Templars would have easily dispatched with them, their absence might have alerted the enemy to their presence.
“I think the time is close,” Sapphira whispered to Randel, although they were positione
d partway up a mountain several furlongs from the prison and surely no enemy could hear her.
“You tell us when. Everyone should be in place now.”
Although she could not see the Templars, she knew they spread in groups of twenty or so throughout the semicircle of mountains surrounding the prison and even hid in their own stealthy way throughout the edges of the valley. It was a slight deviation from the biblical story, but she had felt a peace about the plan. They wished to leave only a narrow passage for retreat—for their strategy depended on the enemy escaping in a panic, and they wished to drive them directly east, back into the desert from whence they came.
But would the plan work? It seemed foolish to assume that an entire army of a thousand men would run in terror.
“Randel.” She tiptoed closer and whispered so that no one else would hear. “What if it does not work? I wish we had a way of knowing if God has stirred up fear among the enemy.”
He gripped her shoulder. “We cannot risk detection to find the answer, but we have been praying the whole way here. You must trust what God has shown you in your heart.”
She glanced about at the children. They had decided to stay together for this momentous occasion. Even now, many of them prayed.
Rabia stood nearby Rosalind. They had spoken of Jesus more and more over their trip here, and Sapphira could only hope that this experience might inspire her friend to turn to the God of love.
Assuming, of course, that it worked.
The lantern was close by and prepared. Jervais, who had a way with tinder, was ready to spark it. Of their group, Garrett, Lillian, Hassan, and Randel would blow the horns, for they all could do so loud and true.
And Sapphira would choose the moment. She still could barely fathom that Sir Giles had granted her the honor.
But if not her, then who? This entire plan had been her idea. Well, God’s idea, she hoped with all of her being, but spoken through her own frail vessel. Her stomach clutched tight, and her shoulders tensed. But she pushed past the physical sensations and sought out that peaceful place within.
Seeming to sense her need, the girls surrounded her and laid their hands upon her. She felt a surge of the Spirit within her. Sadie prayed fervently beside her. And in that moment she had clarity. The time had almost arrived, but not quite.
She led them in a song. Rosalind, Randel, and the children all joined along. They sang it once and then twice. Midway through the third round, a voice spoke strong and clear within her heart. Now!
Chapter 28
“Now!” Sapphira spoke the word aloud.
Almost instantly, Jervais lit the glowing lantern and the trumpets blasted out the call. Those not blowing shouted their agreed-upon cry, “For the cause of Christ and for freedom!”
More of the children lit lanterns from Jervais’s flame and ran in both directions. Light and sound rippled outward like a wave, and within a matter of seconds, to all appearances, a giant army, battalion after battalion, surrounded the prison.
They continued blowing and hollering. Their shouts bounced between the mountains, until they became a single thunderous roar, ominous in its tone.
For a moment, Sapphira dared not peer into the valley below. What if the Saracens retreated within the walls? Worse yet, what if they gathered their arms and came out to fight? Their group could never withstand such an onslaught.
But cracking open her eyes, she took in the scene again. Their crusader forces appeared by both sight and sound to be a mammoth fighting force. And surely enough, the Saracens below scrambled about, crazed and confused in their fear.
At first the Saracens seemed to stumble over and atop of one another, unable to devise a plan. Then a flood of them headed to each side of the prison walls. A few seemed to fight the current, but to no avail. They all ran helter-skelter, a mob moving toward the east without their tents or supplies. Some grabbed horses, but most dashed away on foot.
As the crowd thinned out, she was able to see that the prison gates had opened, and men poured from the fortress as well. Several even scurried down the sides in their rush to escape.
Finally the crusader army ceased their shouting. Few of the enemy soldiers remained below, yet running away in the night. Only a cloud of dust rose to the east, blocking sight of the Druze village beyond.
Then all grew still and quiet once again.
God had been true to His word. Sapphira had heard Him correctly, and the Templars had done well to trust her instincts. They all had employed a monumental amount of faith this night. And they had prevailed.
But now they must find their people.
“Come,” Randel called. “To the prison!”
Because their forces had been spread in such a large ring throughout the mountainside, nearly ten minutes passed before they were able to meet with all of the Templars in the valley outside of the prison.
Rosalind fought off fear. Not a single soul appeared to remain. The tents lay empty as they passed between them, ghost-like shells in this forsaken valley. Not so much as a breeze stirred within the prison walls.
Sir Giles awaited them as they reached the entryway.
“Has anyone gone inside?” Randel asked.
“We thought we should wait for you.” Sir Giles looked directly at Sapphira.
Sapphira froze in place as her eyes grew large and she reached for Randel’s hand. Rosalind would have loved to do the same, but instead she clamped a young girl to each of her sides.
Then Sapphira nodded. “Please send in your men to open the prison and see if they are inside.”
Good thinking, for Rosalind doubted any of their group could bear facing a prison full of empty cells.
Sir Etienne lifted his chin, and a troop of Templars disappeared inside the walls.
Rosalind watched in the moonlight as they made their way across the courtyard to the prison door, as they opened it and disappeared into the pitch black.
How many minutes passed as they waited?
How many prayers flew through their minds? How many fears did they all repress as they stood staring into the black maw of the prison door? Seconds or hours? Rosalind could not say, for it seemed as if an eternity passed.
Finally the muffled shout came from the dark interior, “They are here!”
A whoosh of air escaped Rosalind, and her stomach unknotted.
Sapphira collapsed against Randel in tears. In a moment, their group melded into one giant hug. Then they dispersed as the first prisoners began straggling into the courtyard.
“Mum!” one of the twins shouted. He, his brother, and Lillian tripped over one another racing toward the woman.
As dazed and confused prisoners continued filling the courtyard, their group rushed forward to greet them.
Sapphira spotted Honoria and headed her way. But she did not see the strong, tough woman she was accustomed to. Instead, a haunted female ran toward her holding out her arms. “Sapphira, you are safe!”
She knew not what to do as her sister pulled her to her chest. Her body remained stiff, unused as it was to such outbursts of emotion from the cold woman who had served as her mother. But something else held her back as well.
Then it hit her. Resentment. If Honoria had heeded her warning, this would not have happened at all. They would have been spared these last tense ten days. And of yet, she knew not how many lives had been lost.
But Sapphira forced her body to soften. To relent into the hug. She could not afford to hold on to bitterness, for nothing would chase God’s spirit far from her presence more quickly. She nestled her head into her sister’s shoulder. A place of refuge she had longed for but rarely found. “I am so glad you are alive.”
Lord Rumsford made his way to them. Then Sir Ademar limped over with Garrett secured to his side.
“What happened? Are you up to telling us?” Randel asked the assembled group of leaders.
“Sir Ademar never did feel right about our decision to stay in the valley,” Honoria said. “When the enemy descended l
ike a flood, he had the white flag flying within a minute.”
“But I was not quick enough.” Sir Ademar lowered his head. “Sir Manfred and most of his troop were lost before the enemy paused to note our surrender. I am sorry for that.”
“How many?” Sapphira asked.
“About fifty in all.”
“The women?” Rosalind joined them now.
“All captured safely alive,” Honoria said. “But Jocelyn disappeared somewhere along the way. We fear the Saracens might have taken her as a . . .” Her voice dwindled away.
“As a what?” Sapphira asked.
“As a harem slave.” Rumsford softly supplied the answer.
“Dear God, please no.” Sapphira pressed a hand to her mouth. As much as the woman had stirred up trouble along the way with her forward manner and her provocative clothing, no one deserved that.
“But who do we have to thank for our rescue?” Honoria asked.
Sapphira pointed to the Templars joining their ranks. “The Templars offered tremendous help and support, but truly you have God to thank. It is a long story. We shall explain later.”
Randel stood on his toes and scanned the courtyard. “Where is Lord Haverland?”
They all checked the area.
“He was tending Humphrey when last I saw him,” Sir Ademar said. “The boy’s wounds were not healed when we were taken.”
And that is when they caught sight of a lone figure stumbling from the prison. He held a smaller, drooping form in his arms.
As the moonlight at last hit his face, his expression said it all.
Sapphira hurried with the other leaders in that direction.
Lord Haverland fell to his knees, still holding his limp son. Each word came out tortured and twisted. “Humphrey did not make it.”
Sapphira’s first thought was that perhaps God would heal him. Surely they had seen miracles aplenty on this trip. God could most assuredly raise the dead. He had done so several times in Scripture.
But as she paused to seek her heavenly Father, a faint whisper in her heart said, Not this time. My grace is sufficient.
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