Chapter 14

Rosalind gasped as she watched the crusaders thundering toward the prison and the enemy preparing to face them. But she could do nothing about any of that. And so she surveyed her own troop. They looked impressive in their crusader surcoats on their fine steeds.

Only Randel, Philippe, and Humphrey wore the heavy, encumbering chain mail of a knight, but they all sat at the ready. Eyes determined. Weight shifted forward on their horses. Even Lillian and Brigitte, the most girlish of the females, appeared intense and focused with their bows and quivers strapped across them.

Sapphira, the slenderest and frailest of them all, seemed to be imbued with some celestial power as she began to lead them in the Lord’s Prayer. The others took up the chant with a sense of urgency, and Rosalind joined them.

After several minutes of prayer, Rosalind dared to look again at the frightening sight below. A group of soldiers were battering the gate with a giant cedar trunk, and it seemed the doors were buckling beneath the weight. Apparently the enemy had not had time to reinforce them, although a crowd of men provided counterweight at the other side, and she saw others running toward the doors with support beams.

A few of their men climbed up ladders and quickly overtook the guards who had been standing watch on the walls, but again, more seemed to be moving that way.

At that moment, the huge cedar trunk shattered the gates with a reverberating crash that could be heard clear across the valley. That sound awoke something deep within Rosalind. A fierce exhilaration she had never experienced before. Her pulse thudded hard, and her blood seemed to race through her veins at an astounding speed.

It jolted her to her core. All fear melted away. She felt oddly tethered to the world around her, every sense awakened to high alert. Time seemed to slow. This must be it. The battle fever she had heard of. And in that moment she understood.

The children’s prayers around Rosalind took up an even louder volume, a greater fierceness, for others must have sensed it as well.

Knights poured into the prison gates, and soldiers continued scrambling over the walls. The courtyard was filled with guards now, and as the knights could only enter a handful at a time, many of them tumbled from their horses and fell to the ground.

But the enemy guards were not wearing armor. They did not have shields or horses, and soon the tide seemed to shift.

Rosalind pressed her hands tighter together and continued to shout her prayers. At this distance she could not see blood, could not spy the horrid sort of injuries they had been warned to be prepared for. But she could watch the general ebb and flow of the battle. Their crusader forces now seemed to be taking the upper hand, and hundreds were yet awaiting to reinforce them from outside the fortress walls. Men were moving across the courtyard now and beginning to break through to the actual prison.

Surely within moments a new flood of prisoners would be freed to help with the battle from within.

And just when she thought their cause was secure, Sapphira shrieked from down the line. “Sir Randel, look!” She stood in her stirrups and pointed to the far distance.

A giant cloud of dust headed their way from the Druze village beyond the fortress.

The soldiers on the ground had no way of seeing it, for it would be blocked from their view by the broad prison walls.

“Dear God in heaven, no!” slipped from Sapphira’s lips, even as she pressed her hand against them.

She must not show fear, could never despair. She must remain strong for the rest of them. But what could she do to help? What could the dust cloud mean, except that many men from the city were rushing their way to support the enemy?

Even the women on the other ridge likely could not see the threat approaching. At least not yet.

Ice-cold fear sliced through her. All this morning she had managed to keep it at bay, but now the truth struck her all over again. Hundreds could die. Her friends, her sister, and now dear Philippe, all because of her vision. Her so-called gift, which on most days she doubted she even wanted.

But thanks be to God, Randel took over, even while she stood frozen in the stirrups.

“We must warn them. Humphrey, Philippe. Go. Go now, and go fast.”

By the time he had uttered the final words, the two oldest, bravest boys in their armor upon their large war-horses were already crashing down the hill.

A sick lump settled its way into Sapphira’s belly—different, more soul crushing, than the shiver of fear that had struck her moments ago. As Philippe rushed into danger, she felt as if a piece of her went with him.

How? When did that happen? Surely it was just that she had come to lean upon his support. She sat down in her saddle now. Felt her body withering, crumpling, beneath the weight of this war. And this was only the first battle.

She closed her eyes. No, this was not right. Of course she could never do this in her own strength. None of them could. Chants from her visits to the convent of St. Scholastica came back to her. A desire welled up within her to sing them. To surround this battle with sounds of praise. But she had not thought to teach them to the other children. A wretched failure on her part.

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

The words floated up from that place deep within her, although she had lost her way for a moment. They came as if they were not conjured by her own devotion, her own prayers. Rather as if they were given as a free gift. And then she felt more words welling up.

“For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

That was it. Within her mind, the two simple lines began to morph into a lyrical chant. She prayed through them three times, loud and clear, before the others caught on and joined her.

The cloud yet thundered closer and closer, and the shapes of men on horses became clearer and clearer.

Sir Ademar galloped toward them. “Quick thinking, Sir Randel. We did not see them at first, but when the young men went flying down the hill, we spotted the source of the trouble.”

“I think they will reach them in time.”

Sapphira did not stop the chant, but she lowered the volume that they might better hear their instructions.

“Keep praying.” Sir Ademar waved to them. “It is working. But move down the hillside into archery range and ready your arrows. Whichever side of the prison they pass by on, we must offer support. I love you, son,” he called to Garrett, with what could well be his final farewell.

Garrett nodded bravely.

Then Sir Ademar hurried back to the women under his care on the other ridge.

They all continued the chant as they moved their horses carefully, stealthily closer. They were more exposed now. But looking down the line, Sapphira saw that they all remained focused and determined. She had thought some of the flightier girls might have floundered. But they appeared ready.

A special sort of charge. A certain hum and crackle. Odd little shimmers of light seemed to surround them.

Sapphira found the courage to look for Philippe and Humphrey. They had made their way down the hillside and were swallowed into the vast throng of the army. Which, in the next moments, turned outward in two directions as if preparing for the new threat.

The riders from the Druze village were nearly to the prison now, but approaching from the rear. They parted in two directions. There were more than she might have expected. Perhaps as many as two hundred, although it was hard to say. How had they known? Had someone betrayed them? But it mattered not now. Soon half the enemy reinforcements would pass their way.

“At the ready,” Sir Randel called.

Finally, she silenced their prayer. She pulled out her bow and notched an arrow in the string. Thank goodness Rosalind had taught them all so well. As yet they were somewhat hidden by small scraggly trees and a bit of brush. But Randel led them yet closer so that they might fire without impediments.

Sapphira tensed her muscles and pulled back her string. The men rushing helter-skelter about the side of the prison did not seem to look up and notice them, although they were not far off. She could make out individual warriors now, fierce with their baggy trousers and native head wraps. They wore no armor. Were likely just the regular men rallied at the last moment from their fields and businesses.

Yet she must do this thing. All of them must, before their own men were destroyed. Before they could reach Philippe or Humphrey or any of their soldiers. They had come this far, and there was no turning back now.

“Ready, aim,” called Randel, “fire.”

Sapphira pointed her arrow to the center of the mass thundering their way; she did not focus on faces, only the threatening mob, and she let her arrow fly. Then she reached back and grabbed the next arrow and repeated, again and again, just as she had been taught. Until not a single projectile remained.

Finally she paused to survey the aftermath. It seemed that perhaps a fourth of the men had been taken out by the arrows before they ever reached the crusader army. That meant dozens of their soldiers might be spared.

The knights and well-trained soldiers appeared to be quickly mowing down the group of villagers. Looking to the south, she could see that Honoria’s women had admirably dispatched with a good portion of the enemy fighters as well, and their soldiers were taking care of those who remained.

Sapphira took up the prayer again, but something had shifted. She could sense it. For a moment they had been in true danger. But now she felt a peace, an assurance deep within.

The battle would be theirs.

Her thoughts turned to Philippe. There was no way to find him in the midst of the throng, and she did not sense the same peace and rightness when she pondered his name. While the others continued their chant, she quietly turned her prayers to Philippe alone. The boy who had not been afraid of her gift. The boy who had made her feel so safe and so treasured. Who had showered his affections and compliments upon her in a way her tough, coldhearted sister had never thought to.

If the battle was won but Philippe was lost, would it even be worth the while?

Of course it would, she told herself. Today they would fulfill the call of God and free the prisoners. She must think like a warrior, a leader. Except she was not at all sure she believed herself.

Not long after, Sapphira again leaned forward on her horse. The battle was now over, but this time she anxiously awaited any report from the front. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her back in the searing afternoon sun. Her horse flicked its ear and tossed its head, chasing away a buzzing fly. She pressed her face into its neck despite the heat, and drank in its soothing, familiar scent. Not only did she fear for Philippe’s safety, but for the fathers of many of the children, and even for Humphrey, pest or not.

“They will be fine, just you wait and see,” said Garrett gently from beside her.

“And if they are not, you must not blame yourself,” Sadie whispered from close to her other side.

“Why ever would she . . .” Then looking closely at Sapphira’s face, Rosalind seemed to realize. “Oh, dear, dear Sapphira, you must not take such a burden upon yourself. Every person on this crusade made their own decision, of their own volition.”

Of course Sapphira knew that, in her head, but a part of her would simply not be convinced. That assurance she had felt deep in her spirit yet warred with emotions that were weighed down by such a heavy sense of responsibility. They had all begged Randel to let them proceed to the valley now that matters had settled. But he had only allowed them to go as far as the path to meet with the ladies and Sir Ademar, who had insisted they wait until he assessed the situation.

That had been nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute, Sapphira’s shoulders tensed into tighter and tighter knots, despite how many times she whispered to herself to have faith.

“Sapphira, please tell me you do not take the pressure of this crusade upon yourself.” Rosalind pulled her horse closer and peered at Sapphira with concern etched across her features.

Sapphira pressed her lips together.

Sadie laid a hand upon Sapphira’s back. “She will not lie just to please you, Rosalind. You must realize that by now.”

Rosalind grimaced but seemed not to know what else to say.

“They will be fine,” said Garrett again, taking Sapphira’s hand this time.

She smiled. Garrett had avoided her for much of the trip, choosing the company of the boys instead, but her stalwart childhood playmate understood that she needed him in this moment, even if their changing bodies had created a new shyness between them.

At long last a few horsemen broke away from the mass of humanity in the valley and headed up the hillside toward them. She made out Sir Ademar with his brown beard. And then Humphrey with his head of dark curls leaning heavily against his horse. Then finally, yes, a knight removed his helmet and she spotted Philippe’s blond hair and even spied his incorrigible grin.

She blew out a long deep breath she had not known she was holding. Her muscles began to unknot. At last, all would be well. Not that she wished to hear of death tolls among the soldiers, but if the boys were safe, she could survive this.

However, as they came closer, her feelings shifted once again. For Humphrey gripped his side. His face appeared pale and his lips tinged blue, as if he were freezing upon this hot day.