Chapter 2

Rosalind sat forward to better heed the words of Father Andrew. Though a part of her wished to tip back her head to the warm sunshine and watch the sails ripple above her, she could not let this rare opportunity to better herself slip by. While her own education had focused on the skills required of a lady’s maid, she was yet young and curious and wished to learn.

“Who can name the crusader states of the Holy Land, also known as the Outremer?” asked Father Andrew with his tonsured hair surrounding the shaved spot at the top of his head like an upside-down bowl and his protruding gut finishing off the roundish effect.

Sapphira held up her arm and bounced almost violently, but Father Andrew knew her too well to fall for her antics.

Finally Lillian raised a hesitant hand.

“Yes, Lillian.”

She stood and twirled her soft brown hair about her finger. Looking to the sky as if for answers, she said, “Edessa, Antioch, Tripoli, Jerusalem, and . . . and . . .”

Rosalind had not been familiar with the geography of the Holy Land before this trip, but along with the children she had learned that the Europeans had divided the area into feudal states when they conquered it a century earlier. French lords now ruled the area of Tripoli, to which they were headed.

Lillian mumbled as she struggled to remember the final state.

Sapphira could no longer contain herself. “And Cyprus!”

The typically cheerful priest shot Sapphira a frustrated glance, then turned his attention back to Lillian. “Very good, Lillian. No doubt you would have gotten the last one had you not been interrupted.”

Lillian offered a slight curtsey and sat back down.

“And what might one find surprising about the Kingdom of Jerusalem?”

Jervais’s hand quickly shot into the air.

“Yes.”

“The crusader state of Jerusalem no longer holds Jerusalem itself.”

“Indeed,” said Father Andrew, “although the crusaders held the holy city of Jerusalem for nearly a century, it was lost to the famous Saladin in 1187. But the crusaders still hold much of the surrounding area, including the new capital of Acre, and they remain determined to take back the entire region for the glory of God.”

“If we achieve our goal in freeing the imprisoned crusaders in Tripoli,” Jervais said, “perhaps we can rally them and come at Jerusalem from the north, meeting with the other European forces, which shall no doubt overtake Egypt soon and head to the holy city.”

The young Lord Humphrey stood to his feet and shook a fist at the sky. “And victory shall be ours.”

All the children cheered.

Father Andrew smiled. “Most excellent thoughts, boys. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. Crusades are a tricky endeavor.”

“But God is on our side,” Sapphira said, crossing her arms over her slight chest.

“Of course He is. But has He not been on the side of the crusaders all along? War comes at a high cost. There is no avoiding that, holy vision or not.” He swallowed hard, and a shadow of sadness flickered across his face.

Rosalind recalled that Father Andrew’s young brother had been killed in a skirmish against the Scots, along with most of his troop. Father Andrew understood the cost of war more than most of them. Yet he stalwartly supported their cause.

The priest continued to quiz them about the types of Moslems they might find in the Holy Land as well as their prophet Mohammed, their Allah, and their holy book, the Quran. They were about to enter a whole new world. He reminded them how the Moslems had swept through that region in the seventh century with their reign of terror, taking much territory that had formerly been held by Christians, and even daring to capture parts of Europe.

“I know why we wanted to retake our land in Europe,” said Garrett, “but I still do not understand why we are so determined to rule the Holy Land.”

“It is an important piece of earth.” Father Andrew spoke reverently of the place. “Our Christian roots lie deep in the Holy Land. Christ himself was born, died, and rose again there. We cannot leave it in the hands of Moslem infidels.”

Rosalind searched out Sir Randel to note his opinion. However, he was gazing at the sea, as he so often did during the lessons.

Perhaps he found her silly for wishing to learn with the children. No doubt he had been provided an excellent education as the son of an earl. But he never made her feel foolish. Instead he treated her with the greatest respect as they worked side by side. Initially her job had only been to watch over the Lady Sapphira and young Sadie, but knowing of her skill with weapons, he had recruited her to assist him in training all of the children.

Movement caught Rosalind’s eye as twelve-year-old Issobelle scooched closer to Jervais. She batted her copper-colored lashes a few times before sliding her hand so that her knuckles grazed his. His eyes popped wide with surprise, but he did not withdraw, rather leaned in closer to the lovely young Issobelle.

“Issobelle!” Rosalind whispered, but the girl paid her no heed.

Ugh! Keeping their childish affections in line might well prove the hardest challenge of the entire crusade. Forget pirates and tempests. Battle with the Saracens would seem a playful romp after this. Rosalind scrambled to her knees and reached over Lillian to tap Issobelle on the shoulder.

Issobelle turned to her and bit her lip, snatching her hand back to her lap.

Rosalind shook her head and indicated the empty spot next to her. “Now,” she whispered again, trying unsuccessfully to avoid causing a distraction.

Sadie and Sapphira, neither of whom had much use for boys, both giggled.

Contritely, Issobelle stepped over her friends and settled next to Rosalind. A tear slipped down the girl’s lightly freckled cheek. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

Rosalind patted Issobelle’s hand. She did not wish to shame her, but a little sting might serve as a reminder. They must stay focused upon their mission. They were a troop, and they could not risk their unity by forming romantic liaisons.

Matters could get messy with women on the journey. But they were not the first crusaders to include women. This holy cause drew all sorts of people. Male, female, rich, poor, fit, and sickly alike. Sometimes whole families. She had even heard tale of the blind and the lame heading off for crusade. Twice in the past decade, hordes of children had followed visionary young adolescents on crusade. And although neither campaign succeeded, the stories had struck the fancy of would-be crusaders throughout Europe.

Rosalind sighed. She would not struggle over romantic distractions on this trip. She had made too many mistakes in that area and would not allow herself to fall into those sorts of temptations ever again.

She had learned her lesson the hard way from Sir Hugh, Gwendolyn’s brother, who had used her so casually, then tossed her to the gutter when she needed him most. If her sins were known, some might consider her unworthy of leading this group of innocent young girls, but Rosalind would guard their virtue with more fierceness than the most stalwart Mother Superior.

Despite her failings. Or rather because of them.

But still . . . a part of her did not understand how parents could risk their children on crusade, when she would do anything in her power to bring her own child back.

She had let her thoughts linger around the murky waters too long. The awful waves began crashing over her again. Regret, despair, pain.

A bright red stain of blood . . . that awful night when she had taken the potion at her mother’s prompting and selfishly chosen her own well-being over the life of her unborn child. Except that she had not saved herself. She had nearly destroyed herself along with her child. She pushed the images away and stumbled to her feet.

Unable to focus on Father Andrew’s lesson, she moved toward the rail of the ship and gulped in fresh sea air, focused on a single bird soaring overhead.

Though sixteen might be considered by most to be fully grown and well old enough for marriage and childrearing, in that difficult moment last year she had felt so young and helpless. Far too young to make the weighty decision herself, and so had leaned on her mother’s wisdom. But Mother had led her astray, and now she was hundreds of—or was it thousands, by now—miles from home and all alone.

A gentle hand came from nowhere and brushed her whipping black hair from her face. As she turned toward it, Randel’s crooked grin bolstered her.

“Shh, no crying.”

She hadn’t even noticed the tears that trickled down her cheeks, but now she awoke to the cold bite of the wind against them and gripped tightly to the rail of the ship.

“Push back the shadows. Forward, ever forward!”

Precious words he had spoken to her often during the trip. Randel did not know her secret pain. At least she hoped he did not. But he always noticed when the darkness washed over her—and was quick to offer encouragement.

Likewise she knew he carried some heavy burden, although she never questioned him about it. Perhaps someday they would share their tales of woe. But for now, just being there for each other was enough.

She swallowed back the pain. “Yes, forward. Ever forward.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze where it rested against hers along the rail.

He chuckled. “Did you not just reprimand Issobelle for a similar gesture?”

She bumped him with her hip. “We are not foolish children.” They had both done far too much living for their ages. “I know not what I would do without your friendship aboard this ship.”

“We shall make it, you and I. Never fear.”

She turned her face back out to the sea. To the salty mist and the slight scent of fish. To the haze of land at the distance. Having skirted varying coasts along their journey to insure safer passage, they would next follow the shoreline down to Tripoli, and there the true adventure would begin.

As she turned to look back toward the bow of the boat, an odd sight met her eyes. Shadowy blotches upon the horizon. She had yet to see anything like it along their voyage. Pointing that way, she said, “Randel, quickly. What is that?”

He jerked to alert. Shielding his eyes, he studied the anomaly. “Ships. A fleet of them, I would guess. Moving this way on a course to overtake us. And look, that one is approaching even more quickly than the others.”

“What in the world? Why has the lookout not alerted us?”

“He is probably asleep on the job again. We have had little enough action along the way.” Randel hurried up to the higher, defensive deck over the cabins and took it upon himself to shout the warning. “Invaders! To the northwest!”

Sailors and soldiers alike began to dash about as the word spread.

And that is when the situation fully registered. Rosalind’s stomach tied into a hundred small knots. Her shoulders tensed.

She rushed up to join him and catch a better view. “Pirates?”

Randel’s hand instinctively went to his sword. “Let us hope not. The threat of excommunication has kept most of them from attacking crusaders, but I do not like the speed with which they approach.” Something flashed through his dark eyes, not quite fear, but certainly great apprehension.

As the ships approached—at least seven vessels to their four—Rosalind could better make out the distinctive sails. Soon the ship leading the way would be near enough for them to read its flag. “We must be prepared for anything.”

“I agree,” Randel said. “Move all the ladies and children to the armory below deck, and place two guards outside the door. All the men will be needed above deck for a show of strength.”

“The Lady Honoria will never hear of hiding away, but I shall do my best with the others.”

“Of course. And, Rosalind . . .” Something about the way he said her name broke through her haze of fear and tugged at her heart as if it were a string.

“Yes.”

“Take a care for yourself as well.”

Heading off to gather the children, she smiled reassuringly but made no promises. So many crusaders were thwarted along their paths. She was not so important, and would gladly offer her life if it meant the others might reach the Holy Land safely. Some might consider that courage, but she was not so sure.

“Come! All of you.” She gathered the frightened youngsters like a mother hen, and they huddled about her.

Randel would offer his life if needed as well. She knew that, but as she considered the possibility, the string at her heart pulled tight once again.

Randel located Lady Honoria and her fellow commanders. She, along with the two earls and her chief knight, conferred on the doubly raised castle deck at the stern of the ship. The lady stood with her feet wide and braced. Her firmly set shoulders and the tilt of her head bespoke a natural-born leader, although once in the Holy Land, Lord Haverland would be the official spokesperson of the group, and Sir Ademar, a seasoned crusader, would make most of the military decisions.

“What do you think?” Randel nodded to the ships as he approached.

Lady Honoria took a deep breath. “For now we wait. Are the children secured?”

“Yes, I sent them to the armory as we previously discussed. And your ladies?”

“They should be there as well, although no doubt some of them shall dawdle to fetch their jewels and trinkets.”

Lady Honoria wore only her crusader surcoat over a simple tunic and black leggings. Her thick brown hair was pulled into a severe twist at the nape of her neck. This woman would never be distracted by trinkets.

’Twas for the best, he supposed, to give an appearance of the men being in charge. Especially since Sir Ademar assured them that the Saracens were even more determined to keep females in their place than their Western counterparts. While Randel would be willing to follow Lady Honoria, most of the soldiers would not tolerate a female at the helm.

Even in North Britannia, many still grumbled over the widowed Duchess Adela holding too much power. Thus the citizens had been more than happy to fund this crusade that might bring her brother, Lord Richard DeMontfort, back to serve as their rightful duke.

Lady Honoria laid a hand to the hilt of her sword, much as Randel himself had upon first spotting the vessels. “If they are pirates, we can fight. But the more subtle threat could lie in crusaders from hostile lands, or a fleet from Rome, which might try to deter us.”

The truth was, North Britannians had little respect for the corrupt politics of Rome and disagreed with the official church on several issues of doctrine. But rarely were such sentiments spoken aloud.

“Perhaps we should have stopped for the Pope’s blessing after all,” Sir Ademar said, rational and calm as always.

“We do not take orders from Rome!” A fiery young lord, the Earl of Rumsford, spat the words toward the ships. He shot a glare Randel’s way, for the two had never much liked each other. Although Randel could not recall what had begun the offense.

Lady Honoria held up her hand to halt any further tirades. “I believe we made the right decision. The Pope would have tried to send us to Egypt to join the crusaders there, and the duchess did send word of our intentions.”

The man offered a slight bow of respect, as the lady’s very demeanor demanded. Lady Honoria had earned her strength. She had ruled her region for the past six years in the absence of her husband, who had been lost on crusade. Her only child had died years earlier of the pox. The one joy now left in her life was her orphaned young sister, the Lady Sapphira.

“They are coming upon us fast.” Concern etched across Lady Honoria’s austere features.

“No doubt the new Genoan taridas we’ve been hearing about, elsewise they could never outrun us.” Ademar rubbed his bearded chin. He looked much like his beloved son, Garrett, only taller, older, and beginning to grey.

“But our ships are huge and sturdy. And full of soldiers and weapons,” Honoria said. “We will manage.”

Randel turned back to ascertain that the children had been safely stowed away and spotted Rosalind running toward him. Much like Honoria, she wore a simple tunic slit over leggings. But she did not belong here.

He jogged to meet her and caught her shoulders in his hands. “Rosalind, what are you doing? I wished you to stay and watch the children.”

“They are settled with the women and their guards. I will return to them once we have assessed the threat.”

Randel looked to the safety of the hull, to Rosalind, and back again. Truly, he wished to see her tucked away below deck, but her reasoning made much sense. “Fine, but if they are enemies . . .”

“I shall run like the wind. You have my word.”

For a brief moment her bright smile chased everything away. But problems like invaders bearing down upon them could not be forgotten long. Realizing he still gripped her shoulders, he finally let go. “Soon we shall know what we face.”

As the ships approached, his senses spiked to high alert, as they so often did during a battle.

A flash of sword. A splash of blood. A body crumpled against the battlement . . .

Rosalind clasped his wrist and gave it a tug, pulling him out of that dark place.

He blinked the impressions away. He could not afford to dwell in the past. There would be enough trouble to face this day.