Courageous

by Dina L. Sleiman

  “Look at that! You have made her cry now. Leave her be,” one of my friends came to my defense.

  The wicked Templar just chuckled. “Well, someone had to ask. A harem slave? Why, it is the story of a lifetime!”

  Then he paused with an odd expression on his face and sniffed his stew. Whatever his concern, he shrugged it away and continued eating.

  “Hush!” another friend said. “Enough of that. She will speak of it when she wishes.”

  Everyone grew quiet and focused on their food after that, giving me far too much time to think about my ten days in the village near Jezeer.

  They had been close to guess a harem slave, for I had met a few. Although the Druze did not keep slaves for those purposes, nor did they marry multiple wives, the Sunni leader of the army passing from Arabia to Egypt had no such scruples. The chieftain had offered me to the commander, and he had been quick to declare me his fifth wife.

  But I did not want anyone here to know that I was someone’s misused wife, even if Father Andrew could likely annul the infidel ceremony. And I most certainly did not want any of them continuing to question why I had been the only one taken.

  I had suffered far more than I’d ever expected, but I had grown up with pain aplenty . . . and knew how to harden my heart to it. I could not say I felt good about Sir Manfred’s lost troop, although if Randel had been successfully eradicated, that part would have been worth the price. Now I was left to scheming all over again.

  I noted that Sir Sebastien’s face appeared pink, and he shifted about uncomfortably. He pulled at his collar as his eye twitched.

  “Has anyone heard of the plans?” one of the women asked, clearly hoping to break the uncomfortable silence, and having no idea she would cause me tension over my own nefarious plans.

  “Likely we will attack tomorrow after dark,” Sir Sebastien said. But then his face contorted with pain.

  Matters proceeded quickly from there. His face flushed red. He clawed at his neck as if he could not get enough air. He began to spasm and convulse.

  A woman screamed at the top of her lungs, piercing the air with her terror.

  And Sir Sebastien collapsed to the ground.

  “What in the world?” Rosalind said as the screaming and commotion from across the camp met her ears.

  “Come, hurry.” Randel grabbed for his sword and ran in that direction.

  “Children, stay here,” she said. Although she doubted they would listen in this instance.

  She took off after Randel and heard Abu-Wassim enforcing her order behind her. Thank God for the precious man.

  A crowd had already gathered in the area of the problem, but Rosalind managed to squeeze her way through to Randel. When she reached him, his face was pale and stricken. She took him by the arms. “What is it? Please tell me.”

  Randel sank to his knees and said not a word. He hid his face in his hands.

  Then Rosalind managed to weave in closer and see the horrid sight for herself.

  Sir Sebastien. Dead upon the ground. Frozen in a grotesque contorted shape.

  “Murder!”

  “Poison!”

  “Betrayal!”

  The chaotic shouts now began to make sense to her.

  Jocelyn climbed up on a log, and called out in a loud voice. “Sir Sebastien is dead. Murdered. And I know just the man who did it.”

  People began to step back now in fear. The confusion waned as everyone surely must have come to the same conclusion. Had not he just last night said that he would kill Sir Sebastien with his bare hands?

  But that was ridiculous, Randel would never . . .

  The crowd thinned out, leaving Randel kneeling upon the ground. He looked up.

  “He did it!” Jocelyn pointed directly at Randel. “Sir Randel Penigree is the murderer.”

  Randel scrambled to his feet. “I am not. I am innocent. I swear I would never do such a thing.”

  Jocelyn glared at him with pure hatred in her eyes. “Everyone heard your threats.”

  Randel rushed at Jocelyn, but a Templar jumped between the two and held out his arms. “We should make no assumptions.”

  “This is not an assumption. I know for a fact,” Jocelyn persisted.

  Sir Giles pushed through the throng of people that now surrounded them. Then he spotted Sir Sebastien. “No! I did not believe it.” He covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a sob.

  Running to the man upon the ground, he gathered him into his arms. “Sebastien. My poor, dear brother Sebastien.” He rocked the younger man. “What happened?”

  “It appeared to be poison.” One of the Templars said. “A very fast-acting poison. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late.”

  Lady Honoria, followed by Lord Rumsford, Lord Haverland, Sir Ademar, and Sir Etienne, now made their way over as well. Each with a look of horror on their faces.

  “It was Sir Randel, I tell you,” Jocelyn shrieked now. “Clearly one of our own has killed him. The Saracens do not even realize we’re here. And we all know who held a grudge against Sir Sebastien. I watched them fight just yesterday, over nothing important, and Sir Randel came right out and threatened to kill the man.”

  “’Twas not over nothing,” Sir Ademar defended.

  “And Sir Randel would not be foolish enough to kill him after a threat like that,” Lady Honoria said.

  “But if he was truly worried about your children . . .” Sir Giles continued to rock his fallen comrade. “I do not wish to rush to conclusions, but it is possible.”

  Rosalind had stood frozen, taking it all in for these last minutes. Now the reality stabbed her in the heart. Sir Sebastien was dead, and Randel, the kindest, gentlest man she had ever met, was being blamed.

  “Poison is a woman’s weapon,” Sir Etienne said. “A knight like Sir Randel would never stoop to such underhanded machinations. This makes no sense at all.”

  “He would never do it!” Rosalind wailed in desperation.

  Lady Honoria lifted her chin and gazed at the gathered group. Rosalind followed her example and noted that even the stunned children had joined them now.

  Then Lady Honoria spoke. “This matter must be dealt with swiftly. One of our own, a man who risked his life for our soldiers, is dead. Sir Etienne, take Sir Randel into your care for now. Sir Giles, Lord Rumsford, have your men look into this at once and gather what evidence you can find. We shall reconvene in two hours. Whatever decision we make, you shall all abide by it. Do I make myself clear?”

  The gathered assembly mumbled their consent. Even Jocelyn got down from her log. But she did not look at all defeated. In fact, quite the opposite. She appeared a woman on the verge of her greatest triumph.

  Randel could not believe he was being dragged in front of the assemblage with his hands tied behind his back like a common criminal. He knew not whether to laugh, scream, or crumple to the ground in despair. Whatever could these fools be thinking? Of course he had been angry with the man, but murder? Poison? It was too ridiculous. Nothing made sense. He feared he was losing his mind.

  The sun was now low in the sky, and the cheerful colors streaming from it mocked him once again. He felt numb to the beauty of it. Numb to the hope of it. Even if he was acquitted, his chance to be a Templar would be gone.

  Sir Etienne respectfully led him to Lady Honoria and the other esteemed members of their group, who would serve as a judicial council.

  “Sir Randel, I am sorry to put you through this,” the lady began. “But we must be thorough. These are harsh allegations that have been brought against you.” The compassionate look in her eye said she wished to acquit him and be done with this. “Has the cause of death been confirmed?”

  Sir Giles stepped forward. “One of my Templars is quite skilled at the subject. He assures me it was poison. Most likely nightshade. A huge dose, based on the speed and the symptoms reported.”

  “And no enemy soldiers might have sneaked into our camp?”

  “Not on our watch,” Si
r Giles said with finality.

  Lady Honoria sucked in a sharp breath. “Did anyone else have a quarrel with the man?”

  No one spoke up.

  Randel’s chest began to tighten. There no longer seemed to be enough air. Still, there was no real evidence against him.

  Sir Rumsford came to the forefront now. “My lady, I am sad to be the bearer of this news, but my men searched Sir Randel’s tent and found this vial.” He held up the small yet earth-shattering container of dark glass sealed with a cork. “We believe it is nightshade.”

  Randel could no longer hold his peace. “This is ludicrous. Why would I . . . Surely I would hide . . .” And even as the thoughts collided in his head, he realized.

  It must have been one of his boys. He pressed his lips together as his throat constricted, unable to speak even a single word that might indict them.

  “Perhaps you were too blinded by hatred to think straight.” Jocelyn sneered. “You are a murderer, plain and simple. I know for a fact that you murdered my brother and never looked back. You never so much as apologized to my family.”

  Now Randel’s thoughts reeled completely out of control. “But I . . . I do not even know your brother.”

  “Oh, yes. You know him by his alias. Anslem Sollers.”

  The name crashed into his head like a battering ram. The images rose up all around him. The darkness. The fog.

  He pivots and thrusts his sword. He feels it drive deep into the belly of his own comrade. The younger man’s face contorts. A flash of sword. A splash of blood. A body crumpled against the battlement.

  “No, No. I killed him. I killed my own man. God help me, no!”

  Sapphira gasped and then froze, the air still lodged in her lungs.

  Whispers surrounded her. Jocelyn began to shout again that Randel was a murderer. But he could not be. It simply made no sense.

  “Hold!” said Sir Giles, raising a hand to still the explosive gathering. “Sir Randel, what are you saying? Who did you kill? This Sollers fellow, or Sir Sebastien?”

  “I killed them. I killed them all. It is all my fault.” Randel writhed upon his knees with his hands yet secured behind his back.

  “You see!” Jocelyn cackled. “I told you.”

  “Wait.” Sir Etienne went to Randel’s side. He waved his hand before Randel’s face. Then he shook him by the shoulders. “Sir Randel. Sir Randel, can you hear me?”

  But Randel continued to moan and double over. “I killed them. It is all my fault.”

  “’Tis clear he is not in his right mind,” Sir Etienne said in Randel’s defense.

  Sapphira approached Randel now. “May I?” she asked Sir Etienne.

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Sapphira knelt down beside Randel and laid a hand upon his arm. As she began to pray for him, she sensed the murky darkness that filled him and surrounded him. It threatened to suck her in as well, but she battled hard in the Spirit. Soon she felt an explosion of strength and blinked her eyes open to see that Sadie and many of the children had joined her.

  She closed her eyes again and continued fighting for the soul of dear Randel—the best, the only, commander she had ever had the privilege to serve under.

  Rosalind whispered her prayers under her breath, but she needed to keep her eyes open and her senses alert.

  As Randel seemed to be calming, Sir Etienne turned to Jocelyn and asked, “Where did this supposed murder happen?”

  “At Gravensworth Castle. He was the commander, yet he killed my brother with his own sword. He lost every one of his men that night, and he alone escaped and ran away like a coward.”

  “Surely not!” Lady Honoria protested. “The duchess would not have recommended him so highly if this were true.”

  Gathering her courage, Rosalind stepped to the front of the gathering. “May I speak?”

  “By all means,” Lady Honoria said.

  “Some of what Jocelyn says is true. Randel’s troop was taken off guard by a huge group of Scots. They had no chance, but they fought valiantly nonetheless. The death of this Sollers haunts him at all times. It was an accident, pure and simple. He turned to strike at what he thought was the enemy on that dark and foggy night, but it was the boy, his own man. The only reason he survived the massacre is that he was shoved from the parapet and by some miracle awoke the next day. He then ran to get help for the people inside the castle.”

  Randel blinked her way a few times, as if he were starting to come back to himself.

  “That makes more sense, and sounds more like the man I know.” Lady Honoria sighed with relief. “And if your brother used an alias, of course Randel would not know to whom he should apologize.”

  Jocelyn huffed in outrage and crossed her arms over her ample chest.

  “Randel was horribly troubled by the loss. He tried to be pleasant and lighthearted, but I have seen the darkness of his memories overtake him again and again.” Rosalind clasped her hands in petition. “Sir Randel Penigree has the purest, the gentlest heart a knight could ever possess. He threatened Sir Sebastien to protect the children, but I know he would never murder anyone. Let his guilt over the accident at Gravensworth be proof enough that he is not capable of such an intentional act of evil.”

  Where was Father Andrew? Surely he knew the truth. He would confirm her story.

  “Why would you believe her?” Jocelyn turned her venom Rosalind’s way. “She is no better. Thief! Harlot! Murderer!”

  She hurled each word like a dagger. Slow and sure. Straight to Rosalind’s heart. “You might have fooled the rest of them,” Jocelyn said, “but I know exactly what you are.”

  Chapter 33

  The world began to spin around Rosalind as Jocelyn’s accusations echoed in her head. She wheezed in and out but could not seem to fill her lungs. Sir Ademar caught her from behind by the elbows and kept her from falling.

  Through blurry vision she took in the horrified faces all around her. Every person in the crowd gaped her way in disgust. Even Honoria. Even the children.

  Only Randel gazed at her with compassion and understanding.

  But it was not enough. Those words pierced through her again and again. Thief. Harlot. Murderer. She had been a fool to think she could ever outrun them. Pressing a hand to her side, she struggled again to find her breath.

  But perhaps she had only imagined the disgust. For as Lady Honoria spoke, she sounded confused, taken aback, but entirely unconvinced. “That is madness. What on earth is she talking about?”

  “She—” Jocelyn was about to pour out more of her poisonous accusations over the crowd, but Rosalind held up a hand to stop her.

  “’Tis true. I killed my own unborn . . . child.” As she said the last word, she collapsed into tears and could say no more. Sir Ademar lowered her to the ground, where she sat in a defeated heap.

  More voices swirled around her, but she could not take them in. Only recall her tiny, fully formed child in her palm. Dear God, no! No! Please take this pain away.

  The next thing she knew, the children came and surrounded her much as they had surrounded Randel just moments earlier. Their prayers wafting about her like incense. Their innocent light seeping into her darkest places.

  Light like water rushing into her heart, filling each crack, and pushing out every last bit of the darkness that had threatened to destroy her.

  Randel could not stop staring as the children prayed over Rosalind. He could almost, but not quite, see the shimmer of light around her on this dim evening. The sun had set during all of the commotion, yet the sun in his heart had dawned for the first time in so many long months.

  He could not explain the new hope, the new lightness that surrounded him. The new eyes with which he saw the world. The new perspective that changed everything he thought he had known.

  He was forgiven. He was free. And he needed please no one but Christ. Facts he knew, words similar to those he himself had spoken to Rosalind, yet they had never made it past the darkness in his own heart. />
  But the trouble was not over yet.

  “I do not understand the complication nor the hesitation.” Jocelyn’s bitter tone turned every word into a weapon. “They are both guilty of murder. Kill them both and be done with it.”

  “Wait!” Randel stumbled to his feet with his hands yet trapped behind him, then strode to Lady Honoria with confidence.

  “Sir Randel?”

  “Rosalind did rid herself of a child conceived out of wedlock. Sadly, it is true. But she was young and confused. Her family relied on her income, and she did not wish to lose her position and leave them to starve. Her mother convinced her it was the right thing to do, but she has mourned her decision every day since. Her repentance is more true and real than any person’s I have ever witnessed. Is not God’s grace sufficient? Can she not be forgiven?”

  Lady Honoria yet looked shocked and confused. “I put my innocent young sister in her care. I . . . I . . .”

  Father Andrew pushed his way through the crowd to the center. “What is going on here?”

  Lady Honoria turned to him. “Did you know about Rosalind’s child?”

  The priest clasped his hands together and looked to the ground. “I did, but I was told in the sanctity of the confession. She committed a grievous sin, and there is no way to undo the loss of the child, but she has been forgiven.”

  Father Andrew gestured to Rosalind. “No one in the history of the earth has ever repented of any decision so thoroughly. I personally believe that Christ paid the full price for Rosalind’s sin upon the cross, but even by the prevailing views of the church, she has done penance aplenty this past year and a half.”

  “And do you believe Rosalind is trustworthy to lead our children?” asked Lady Honoria.

  “Indeed. For no one understands the destruction caused by poor choices as thoroughly as Rosalind does. Since the first day we set sail, she has been a paragon of virtue and a fine example to these young ladies.”

  Then he shifted his gaze to Randel. “And for whatever it is worth, my son, you are forgiven your mistakes as well.” The priest smiled to Randel, and this time he felt its warmth to the core of his being.