Since Sapphira still was not certain what she thought of the pleasant-looking blond lad beside her, she focused upon her food instead, taking another bite of the fresh, colorful medley of raw vegetables Philippe had called salade. That, she knew for certain she liked.
However, the excess and extravagance surrounding her were not to her personal liking. Especially not when they were supposed to be on a religious crusade. How she wished to trade her elaborate blue gown for one of her utilitarian tunics.
She took a piece of soft flat bread and dipped it into a tan mushy substance, which was surprisingly tasty. The food in Tripoli nearly burst upon her palate with bright and bold flavors. Not to mention the rich, aromatic spices sprinkled across the chicken and rice. Perhaps she was just tired of dried meat and hard bread, but she suspected even the best English food would taste bland next to this decadent spread.
Her curiosity got the best of her, and she spoke to Philippe once again. “What did you say this was called?” She nodded to the mush.
“What is in it?”
“Um . . . it is made of a small tannish bean, which we also call hummus, but I am not certain what else is in it,” he said. The sun had set as they supped, and torchlight now flickered across his pronounced cheekbones.
“What is that bright, sour sort of flavor that I noticed in so much of the food?”
“That would be lemon. After dinner, I shall take you to the orchard and show you a lemon tree, if you like.”
Sapphira decided she would indeed like that, although she did not wish to be alone with this boy. “Perhaps we can all go.”
She grasped at Sadie’s sleeve to the other side of her and then nodded down the table toward the rest of the children. Philippe’s younger brother entertained the twins, Garrett, and Jervais.
Meanwhile Humphrey sat across from Philippe’s sister and stared at her wistfully with his chin in his palm as she chatted with Issobelle. Good thing Brigitte and Lillian were at the next table with one of the cousins.
“So are you your father’s heir?” Sapphira asked.
“No, my older brother, also named Bohemond, is in Cyprus right now.”
“I see.” Sapphira nodded. “We long to learn more about your land.”
Philippe chuckled.
“What is so funny about that?” Sadie asked. She seemed uncomfortable in this elegant setting and had spoken little all night.
“Please do not be offended.” Philippe pressed a hand to his heart. “It is just that I want nothing more than to hear stories of Europe. I have been begging my father to let me visit our relatives in France for years.”
Sapphira had noted that he was the only member of Bohemond’s family dressed in purely European attire. “I am afraid you would find it quite drab and boring.”
“Never! That reminds me. I have a surprise for you.” He scrambled to his feet and took off toward the musicians in the corner.
In a moment he was back, and the music transitioned to a familiar European carole. Philippe held out his hand to her. “My lady, might I have this dance?”
“Oh.” Sapphira sank deeper into her cushion. “I am not really much of a dancer.”
His face twisted in concern. “But you have learned the carole, have you not? Or are we desperately behind the times?”
She offered him a smile. “The carole is a classic, although there are many variations. I hope to join a convent someday, but my sister still insists I learn to comport myself as a proper lady.”
He sighed. “Good. Then humor me with a dance, if you will.”
Compassion stirred in Sapphira’s heart. She did not wish to disappoint this kind boy, who so badly wished to be European, though the night had proven that clearly he was not. “I suppose.”
He led her to an open space, and before long other couples joined their circle as they moved through the patterns and steps. She spied Issobelle bouncing prettily next to one of the nephews. Rosalind danced with an exotic-looking fellow, although she kept glancing over to Randel where he sat engrossed in an animated conversation with some of the young Tripolian men. And it appeared that Humphrey had gotten his fondest wish, for he now danced with Philippe’s pale, sylph-like sister.
While Sapphira attempted to keep the dance light and friendly, Philippe stared at her in a way that filled her with buoyant little bubbles. For some reason she did not find him a pest, as she did the boys on the ship. Mayhap because he was several years older than her. When she settled her hand into his once again, she noted the way they fit so nicely together.
Odd thoughts for a future nun. She was not at all certain that she liked them.
For a moment she considered cutting the dance short. But having been trained as a noblewoman, Sapphira understood the value of currying favor with one’s allies. She must not offend Philippe or his powerful father. And so she stiffened her spine and attempted to complete the steps without falling back under this boy’s confusing influence.
After the carole, the music shifted again to the more Oriental tones. Philippe taught her a repetitive stomping dance native to the area, and most of the children joined in. They seemed to enjoy the driving romp about the room far more than Sapphira did.
When the second dance finished, she rushed toward her seat at the table but was stopped short.
“Lady Sapphira,” boomed Count Bohemond from the front of the room.
“Yes, my lord.” She turned and curtseyed, once again using her best manners to please her sister and win favor with their host.
“Come and speak with me.”
“Of course.”
Philippe followed her to his father’s table.
Upon a mere nod of Bohemond’s head, several people left the table with a bow. Sapphira and Philippe took the seats across from the count.
“Looks as if the two of you are getting along quite well.” Bohemond winked at Sapphira.
“Your son has been taking very good care of me. There is so much to learn here.”
As they spoke, the room quieted, and all eyes turned their way.
“Ah, you can see my people are as curious about you as I am. If you would indulge an old man, please share with us about this vision of yours.”
Sapphira sucked in a sharp breath. Everything was happening far too quickly. The dinner, the disconcerting dance, and now this. She glanced to Honoria, who nodded calmly her way and then to Father Andrew, who smiled his support.
Yes, she must gather herself together and do this thing. In an odd turn of events, she had become a spokesperson for their crusade. She must show courage, even when she did not feel it.
Standing to her feet, she sought to find that wellspring of strength that resided deep within, attempting to allow the words to flow from her spirit, not merely her carnal mind. Much as she had done on the ship with Brother Francis, she recounted her vision.
But the result was quite different this time.
“Set the captives free,” Count Bohemond scoffed with a swipe of his hand. “I know what I would wish to free. My captive princedom, which my detestable nephew, whose name we do not speak in this place, has stolen. Can you assist me with that?”
A pit formed in the center of Sapphira’s stomach. Oh, how she hated to fail at anything, but she could never bear failing at this mission, especially not after bringing so many people all this way. Under her breath, she began to whisper prayers heavenward.
The exotic-looking fellow Rosalind had been dancing with spoke up. “Good count, if you will allow me to speak.”
The count nodded his assent.
“This cause is different than that of most crusaders. I think we should hear them out.”
Philippe rose beside Sapphira and took her arm in a show of support. “I, for one, am quite moved by the Lady Sapphira’s holy vision.”
Sapphira looked up at the tall boy with grudging respect, for he did not seem in the least intimidated by her odd spiritual gift.
“Of course you are impressed, Philippe.” Bohemond chuckled. “I believe that is apparent to us all.”
Bohemond’s young wife patted his arm. “Now, dearest, do not embarrass the boy.”
But Philippe did not appear disturbed. Rather, he grinned impishly at Sapphira, filling her with that bubbly sensation again. “Allow me to support the Englishmen, Father, even if you will not.”
Bohemond sighed and rubbed at his temple as if vexed by them all. “Can we not talk about silk? We have the best looms in all the crusader states. Let us load your ships with fine fabrics. You can return home unscathed and we shall all be rich.”
Lady Honoria stood as well now. “With all due respect, good count, you cannot expect us to be deterred from the call of God so easily.”
“Sadly not.” He frowned. “You crusaders never are. But I fell for the persuasion of the Hungarians a few years back, and it nearly saw me destroyed. I will not make such a mistake again.”
“What can it hurt to free a few prisoners?” The exotic fellow stepped forward to join Sapphira and Philippe. “Many of the prisons are not even well guarded.” He turned now to Honoria. “Do you know where your husband and your cousin, the rightful duke, might be held?”
“We know only that they were taken by the Druze in the area that used to be part of the County of Tripoli.”
“So perhaps in the Shouf Mountains or in Beirut,” Philippe said. “Father, I hear the mountain prison at Jezeer has only a small troop and one village nearby. They hold many of our own men as well. We should have attacked them long ago, except that we have been so busy rebuilding.”
The exotic fellow, who she thought had been introduced as being from Cyprus, though she did not remember his name, stepped closer to the count. “My lord, I think it would be wise to join with the Englishmen, at least for a time. The Maronites have been asking for help to free their soldiers from Jezeer. They will join us. And if your wife agrees, we can lend you the support of the Cyprian forces as well.”
Count Bohemond pulled at his beard, as if he were considering it.
“I would be agreeable,” the count’s young wife said. “Although I defer to my husband’s judgement in such weighty matters.”
“The Maronites have been your staunchest supporters,” Philippe added. “We should aid them in this.”
Sapphira had no idea who the Maronites might be, but she would take any assistance offered. “So many languish.” She gripped her hands together in petition. “So many despair. My uncle and my rightful duke might well be among them. Please, allow us to pass peacefully through this land, even if you cannot join us in our quest.”
Count Bohemond glanced at his family members who had come to Sapphira’s defense. “It seems you have won over my people with your impassioned speech, young lady. I admit that I am impressed.” He leaned forward with a scowl. “And I am not easily impressed.”
He sat back again and appraised Sapphira, then Honoria, then the English earls. “Yes, perhaps we should join together in an attack on Jezeer. Strength in numbers and all that. I suppose I shall have to face them eventually, with or without your help, although I had not planned to do so this soon.”
Philippe possessively wrapped an arm around Sapphira’s shoulder and tugged her closer. “You shall not regret this, Father.”
A part of her wished to pull away, but a different part liked having this bold young man at her side, while an even bigger share recalled that she could not risk offending any of them. Instead she forced a sweet smile at Count Bohemond. “Thank you, my lord. We welcome your support, and we shall not let you down.”
“You had best not. I have been disappointed by crusaders too many times already. And”—he pointed to Philippe and the Cyprian who had dared to challenge him—“we shall only help with Jezeer. I am not risking my troops deeper into the Saracen-held territories.”
“Yes, Father,” said Philippe.
“As you wish.” The Cyprian bowed.
“Enough talk of politics for now.” The count clapped his hands. “Let us enjoy some sweet treats. I promise that you have never tasted anything like our sugar cane.”
And just like that the most powerful man in the region declared their fate and returned to his meal. Sapphira pressed her lips tight and turned them into another false smile, although she feared smoke might be escaping from her ears and nostrils.
Philippe took her arm and led her back to the table.
Once they were seated again, he leaned close and whispered. “You are angry.”
“I am trying not to be. I hope your father did not notice.”
“Father notices little, unless it fills his pockets with denarii or adds to his power.”
“Oh.”
“It is just his way. I am afraid the religious fervor of the crusades holds little appeal for him.”
But the man was the head of a crusader state. His sole purpose should have been to promote the cause of Christ, not to fill his pockets or his belly. And most certainly not to promote his own agenda of power. Sapphira’s righteous indignation continued to burn.
“Do not worry, though. Father says our troops may not go beyond Jezeer, but we shall see about that. I shall fight for your cause, I promise you, and I shall win the others to our side.”
He took Sapphira’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. And for some reason she did not mind one bit.
She liked the way he took control, and the way he spoke of “our” side. Her tension began to drain away, and a warm comfort took its place. This boy would support her. And it seemed others from this region would as well.
A servant leaned over to place a platter of pastries in front of them.
“Try one,” Philippe instructed.
She reached out and picked one up, turning it over in her hand to study it. It seemed to be made of grain and crushed nuts, not so different from home. A sticky substance, lighter and clearer than the honey of Britannia, covered the top.
“Go on.”
She took a bite into the concoction, which was sweeter and more delicate than anything she had ever tasted in her life. Her eyes grew wide.
“Oh, Sadie, try this.” She turned and offered a bite to her friend.
“Heaven must taste like this!” Sadie exclaimed. Finally looking more at ease, she scooped up her own pastry.
Philippe grinned. “I have heard there is nothing like our sugar cane in all of Europe. And few have tried our cinnamon.”
“You almost sound proud of your heritage.” Sapphira raised a brow to Philippe, who claimed such interest in all things European.
“I suppose it has its merits.”
Sapphira let go of the last of her anger and smiled now too. She took another bite of the pastry and savored the sweet and spicy flavor in her mouth. “After sampling this, I can almost forgive your father for being more concerned with his sweets than our crusade.”
Almost.
At least Count Bohemond would help them with this first step. Perhaps by then they would be acclimated to this new land and ready to strike out on their own deeper into the area held by the Saracens. Or perhaps Philippe would prevail in his quest to assist them. Either way, this mission was in the hands of God.
Ultimately their success or failure would depend on Him.