No! It could not be. Humphrey could not be gone for good. It was not right. Not fair. They could have prevented this.
At that a wall of bitterness threatened to rise up in Sapphira again. If only they had listened to her. But again she pushed it down, for no one was suffering at this moment more than the broken father before her.
“Oh, God in heaven, forgive me!” Lord Haverland cried. “Would that I had listened! Would that I had pushed past my pride and given heed to your warning, Lady Sapphira. I should have at the least sent him with you. How will I ever tell my wife? It is all my fault.”
He broke into a sob, laying the boy on the ground and pressing his face into the too-still chest.
Compassion welled from some supernatural place in Sapphira’s heart. She knelt beside the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There is no use casting blame. What is done is done, and I am sorry for your loss.”
“War comes at a high cost. Too high sometimes.” Father Andrew moved to Humphrey and began mumbling the last rites.
True words, every last one of them. Yet they would not bring back her friend. Nor Rabia’s brother, for that matter. War came at a high cost. Perhaps they had all failed to count that cost.
Randel harnessed every ounce of his self-control to keep from hurling himself at Lord Haverland. Thank goodness he had vented some of his frustration on Sebastien the night before, for Haverland had clearly suffered enough already.
Yet anger fumed and steamed within Randel.
And behind the anger . . . yes, that pinch in his gut was guilt. For he had sent Humphrey into the battle fray in the first place. Not that he had any choice, and yet . . . The awful sensations threatened to rise up again, but he managed to push through them and surface back to reality.
Randel pressed his fingers into his aching temples. At least they had saved most of them. All might easily have been lost.
Sir Giles and Sir Etienne came and joined their small leadership council.
Sir Etienne clapped a supportive hand to Randel’s shoulder. “So, have you asked how it happened?”
“How what happened?” asked Rumsford.
“How the enemy was moved to fear. Our plan depended on them giving way to panic, but we had no way of planting those seeds without risking detection.”
“I do not know for certain, but I have a guess,” Honoria said. “I heard the guards talking. I have not picked up much Arabic, but I heard the name Sapphira uttered in horror. Something about her terrifies them.”
“Yes, they questioned me about her,” Rumsford said. “I denied she existed, but it was clear they had heard of her and that rumors were spreading.”
Sir Ademar hugged young Garrett closer to his side. “They thought she had disappeared like a spirit into the hills. And when their troop was discovered slaughtered, their fear grew.”
“Our God is truly amazing,” Sapphira whispered in wonder.
They all stood quietly for a moment.
Then Sir Giles cleared his throat. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but we must move quickly. We are not safe.”
“The question is,” said Sir Etienne, “do you wish to return to Tripoli or head on to Beirut? If you wish to look for your men in Beirut, I fear this is your only chance. Right now they believe all is well, but once they receive word of this”—he gestured to the prison—“they will be on high alert.”
Randel knew what his choice would be—to get these children far away from danger. But it was not his call to make.
Lady Honoria’s glance darted about, as if she were confused. “We have saved so few. Less than a hundred people, and many of those not even our countrymen. We have not yet found my husband or my cousin, who might be our future duke.”
“If we do not go on,” Rumsford said, “then what was the point of all of this?”
The man was correct.
“But we are all so tired and worn already.” Sir Ademar nodded to Lord Haverland, who yet wept over his lost child.
Somewhere during the discussion, Randel’s anger with Haverland had drifted toward compassion. Although his own guilt still ate at him.
Sir Ademar continued, “We need time to rest and recoup. Perhaps back to Tripoli then onward to a new area, closer to Jerusalem. We know not where our people might even be.”
Sir Etienne let go of Randel’s shoulder and stepped forward. “We do not know for certain, but as I told Lady Sapphira and Sir Randel, most high-ranking nobles captured by the Druze are taken to Beirut.”
“And as some of the Jezeer prisoners rallied, they made the same claims,” Lady Honoria added.
“But . . .” Ademar looked to Haverland and the sad form of Humphrey again.
Lord Haverland struggled to his feet now, though he did not leave the side of his dead child. “We must push onward. Just tell us the plan and we will do it. This cannot be for nothing.”
“What is to keep them from following us?” asked Rumsford. “Or from sending messengers to the city?”
Sir Giles lifted a brow. “The Templars can handle this. Some of them shall be returning, but Sir Etienne and I, along with our troops, plan to stay with you and see this through.”
“We shall spread out over all the passages between here and Beirut, traveling at top speed,” Sir Etienne said. “No messengers will get by us. As for the rest of you, stay until the morning and refresh your people, but you must travel quickly as well. By the time you have arrived, we will have assessed the situation and devised a plan.”
“God willing, we can strike before they ever know we’re coming,” added Sir Giles.
“I shall send a message to our ships to move farther south, but still out of sight of Beirut.” Lady Honoria seemed to be coming back to her normal confident self.
“Excellent plan.” Sir Giles nodded. “For once our task is accomplished, we shall need to get away swiftly.”
Chaotic caterwauling snapped me from my sleep. I did not understand the source. But I tiptoed to my door and saw men dashing around the hallway in a panic, screaming about jinns and armies. The guards assigned to my room were nowhere in sight.
I could not waste time to discover the details. This was the chance I had awaited during my ten-day nightmare in this silken prison. My fellow captives began to stir, but I did not waste breath on good-byes. I needed to slip out immediately and alone.
Pressing myself tightly into the shadows along the wall, I hurried through the hall and ducked through an archway. I rushed through the main room, but no one was looking for a lone escapee.
As steps passed my way, I hid behind a table. Two men were arguing. Based upon the few words of Arabic I had picked up and their erratic arm movements, I suspected they were terrified and considering if they should run far away. But who wished to run? The leader of the Saracen army? The entire village?
Once the area was clear, I snuck through the front portico and out into the frantic streets lit by moonlight and torches. I so badly wanted to understand what had happened, but I heard again shouts of crusaders, armies, and jinns, along with a word spoken in both terror and awe.
Sapphira!
The fools. I had been the one to create the fear of the young woman in their hearts. I had called her a powerful blue-eyed jinn and had stirred up every ounce of panic I possibly could, hoping they would go after Sapphira and Randel at all costs. Not so they would run away like scared children. Although after the traumatic week I had endured, I was glad for any respite.
A small part of me wished to linger and learn what had happened, but I would find out soon enough. Once I was safely returned to my own people.
The mass of Saracen soldiers seemed to be heading through the Druze village and toward the desert to the east, but I pressed upstream against the throng of bodies in the direction of the prison. Soon I would be far away from this place. And if by some chance Sir Randel had survived this ordeal, heaven help that man!
For if such a thing were possible, I hated him more now than I had for be
ing responsible for my brother’s death. Why, I would not be at all surprised if I learned he had killed the boy with his own two hands.
Chapter 29
Though he was as tired as any of them, Randel gladly took a turn upon the wall to make sure none of the Saracen army attempted to return. Unlike those who had spent the last ten days imprisoned, at least he had been fed properly and had not feared for his life.
Many of the Templars were already flying off toward Beirut, but Sir Giles had done well to give the prisoners a few hours to recoup.
The Englishmen had little clothing and no weapons when they left their prison cells, and were even now searching out their belongings. What they could not find, they would have to requisition from the abandoned Saracen tents. They still needed time to adjust to their new situation and the loss of so many. Besides, their foot soldiers could never travel at the pace of the mounted Templars.
He peered through the dark at the distant Druze village. It was too far away to spy any details, but there seemed to be much movement for this early morning hour. So far he had not spotted anyone heading toward the prison, but like the other guards along the parapet, he remained on the highest alert possible.
He could not believe that Humphrey was gone. The boy had been like a younger brother to him. And though Humphrey had his annoying side for certain, he had helped guard the secret of Randel’s haunting dreams and spells. Randel had owed him much for that. Guilt settled deep inside him now. Perhaps he should have gone himself to warn the troops and never put the boy in danger. Yet the safety of the other children had also been at stake, and Sapphira had needed protection at all costs.
Sometimes in war there were no right answers.
Just death and destruction wherever one turned.
A flash of sword. A splash of blood. A body crumpled against the battlement . . .
No! Calling forth every ounce of strength that he possessed, he fought through the memories. He must stay alert and protect his people. He could not bear to be the cause of one more lost soul.
That is when he saw a figure running his way. It seemed to be wrapped in loose robes of the Moslem style, although it wore no headgear that he could tell. From this distance he could not tell if it was a man or a woman. Either way, he would not allow any enemy to breach their defense.
He pulled out his bow and notched an arrow along the string. Glancing to his right and left, he noted Hassan and several other guards doing the same. Whoever this unfortunate soul might be, they would regret ever heading their way.
But the figure had not yet come within range. Though it had been moving at a run, it now seemed to stop and double over, as if struggling for breath. Then it continued at a walking pace. Closer and closer.
Almost within the range of his shot.
Closer . . . and then . . .
“I know her!” shouted Hassan, the man known for his sharp eyesight.
“Who is it?” Randel asked, unable to make out the face.
“The one you called she-wolf.”
Randel squinted harder. He held his bow, still quivering in his hand, but raised the arrow over the head of the figure. Could it be?
Soon he saw the whipping black hair. He realized the fabric was a wrapped sheet rather than a robe, and he managed to make out Jocelyn’s features.
“Hold your fire!” he called to the other men. And then, “Fill the line.”
It took several minutes for him to run down from the parapet, across the courtyard, and through the gate. He dashed around the side of the prison and hurried to Jocelyn just as she reached the wall and sagged against it.
The first light of dawn had begun to fill the horizon, and he could make her out more clearly now. She looked up at him with tears streaming down her face, leaving pools of black makeup in their wake. He spied a bruise upon her cheek and another upon her shoulder.
With great tenderness and a bit of trepidation he pulled her to himself. “Oh, Jocelyn, I heard the news. I am so sorry.”
“But I escaped. I am here now.”
“Thank the good Lord in heaven for that.” Though he was moved to great sympathy for what she must have undergone, still, the feel of her against him caused him discomfort, and he put her gently away. “And just in time. We will be leaving soon.”
She fell back against him and clutched his tunic in her fist with desperation. “Oh, Sir Randel, you will never know how glad I am to see you.”
He took her under his arm and led her toward the prison gate. He had no idea what to say to her. No idea what sort of horrors she might have endured. Certainly the native soldiers had shared stories about the Saracens’ harems of slaves and of their many wives. To think that any of their English women—even Jocelyn, who was most assuredly not a woman of virtue—had been subjected to that made his stomach churn.
Humphrey gone. Jocelyn beaten and violated. So many of their people had now perished.
How many horrors would they be subjected to upon this journey? And why on earth was he so determined to stay in this place and continue to fight? He could no longer remember.
But one thing was certain, they must complete this mission. They must find Sir Richard DeMontfort and return him safely to North Britannia. Rumsford and Haverland had been correct. If they did not find their people and set them free, then all of this would have been for naught.
Late that afternoon, Rosalind rubbed at her aching back as they finally slowed the horses in a hidden valley along the path to Beirut.
It had seemed this day would never end, blending as it had with yesterday. She and the children had managed only the briefest nap after their conquest in Jezeer before they had been roused to start on their way once again. Even that little bit of sleep had been troubled by dreams of Humphrey’s limp form and the dark mouth of the prison, which threatened to suck her in.
Much like the children, she had wilted against her horse the entire day. Randel had given the youngest members of their troop turns riding with him when they looked as if they could not keep their eyes open one more minute. But Rosalind was a leader now, and she had pushed through her exhaustion.
Finally the Templars along their route had pointed them to this sanctuary. Thank goodness they had not pressed them forward until sunset. They were hours from the prison now, and the Templars had left scouts along the path to watch for any messengers. If even a single member of the Saracen army headed this way, they would all know soon enough. But if Jocelyn’s stories proved true, the Saracens would not be following them.
Far too tired to dismount gracefully, Rosalind slid from her horse and landed with a thump on the dry, rocky soil.
She spied Jocelyn nearby and attempted to smile her way. Jocelyn scowled back. There was a new hatred, a new anger in the woman’s dark eyes—surely the result of her horrific week. And yet . . .
Rosalind beckoned Randel and pulled him behind her horse.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I still do not understand why Jocelyn was the only woman taken. Do you not find that suspicious? And she escaped so quickly once we returned. I feel bad for the woman—I do. But I do not think we should trust her so blindly.”
“Although your point is valid, if you had seen her when she returned, I do not think you would question her so.”
“Lady Honoria did not seem to suspect a thing. Perhaps we should warn her to be on her guard.”
Randel rubbed his temples, a gesture that had become too typical of late, as if his head were always troubling him. “Let us keep an eye on her ourselves for a while.”
“Think about it. The Saracens seemed to somehow know the precise best moment to attack our people.”
He glanced over top the horse in Jocelyn’s direction. “But what motive could she possibly have? It makes no sense.”
“I’m not certain.” Rosalind had asked herself the same question over the duration of the journey today. “But I do not trust her. I’ve always felt she was up to no good.”
“On that I can agree. But
she is so terribly broken right now.”
“Yet she seems more meanspirited than ever.”
“I am more concerned about that awful Sir Sebastien.” Randel jerked his head in the man’s direction. “I cannot believe he was assigned to travel with us. Talk about up to no good. I fear the man came along for no other reason than to taunt me.”
“You should not let him bother you so.” Several times today the two had sparred verbally. Rosalind hoped they would not come to blows again. “Besides, Sir Sebastien could not have betrayed us at Jezeer. We had not even met him yet.”
“We will watch Jocelyn, but I do not feel comfortable casting baseless allegations.”
Rosalind swiped a hand down her face. “I suppose that is best. Perhaps my sleepy mind is playing tricks on me.”
“Let us set up the tents. You are all in desperate need of rest.”
“What about you? You’ve gotten no sleep at all.”
Pain flickered across his face.
“What is it, Randel?”
He just looked at the ground and did not answer.
“Is it Humphrey?”
Randel pressed his lips tightly together. “I doubt sleep shall come easily anytime soon.” He turned to head toward the children.
Rosalind grabbed his arm to stop him.
He gently loosened her grasp. “First things first. We shall talk soon enough.”
Surely he did not blame himself. Then again, he likely did. Even she had struggled throughout the day over the memory of her tiny, dead child. The loss of Humphrey had hit too near that nerve. How she wished she and Randel could comfort each other during this time. But perhaps they should not. For each time they were alone, matters grew more and more complicated between them.
Randel emerged from his tent just before sunset. The last of the boys had roused from their naps and headed out in search of dinner. He himself had kept his eyes open as he rested, dreading the nightmares that would be sure to come if he allowed them to drift closed.
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