The Crusader's Crown (Tales of the Brotherhood Series Book 1) by James Mercer (ink ebook reader txt) 📗

   “We are mercenaries my lord. We go where our investors request. But rest assured, my code still stands. The Forgotten Army will never turn its sword against the King of England. Even the current one!”

  Sir William grunted at Reynard’s answer.

   “You happen to be in luck. A convoy of supply ships leave the east dockyards for Southampton on the morrow. I will arrange passage for you and your men.”

   “You have my grateful thanks my lord,” said Reynard bowing his head.

  The two men then emptied their goblets, nodded their respect to the Earl and turned to leave.

   “Commander.”

  Reynard stopped at the door and turned back to the protector of the realm.

   “My lord?”

   “I wish you well with your future campaign. But while you and your companions are in London. Stay out of mischief!”

  There was a hint of amusement in Sir William’s voice and the Commander smiled.

   “I shall do my very upmost, but you know mercenaries. They do like their drink. Farewell Sir William. No doubt we shall meet again.”

That night the Commander and his small company of scoundrels took lodgings in a tavern near the eastern dockland. While the Gutsberg brothers had gone off in search of women to warm their beds before the voyage, Robert and Reynard had removed their surcoats and mail and taken a quiet table near the window that looked out onto a wretched side street.

  A blanket of dark, grey clouds had enclosed the city in the early afternoon and now unleashed a cold and heavy rain over the whole capital, washing away the daily filth that littered the streets. Robert looked out at the torrential rain. There was a cut of mutton, only half eaten, still on the plate in front of him.

   “Something troubles you?” asked Reynard.

   “I was merely thinking of what is to come. I know little of Iberia and its different kingdoms. But if it’s anything like Byzantium we’ll unlikely see rain like this for some time,” answered Robert, still watching the rain hammering against the rooftops.

   “That’s for sure. By the time we reach the kingdom of Aragon and start the campaign, the summer months will be upon us and the sun will plunder the lands of its water.”

  Robert glanced at his friend and then gave a sarcastic smile.

   “What a marvellous thought,” he replied.

  He looked over to the table where Jimmy was playing dice with some local sailors. The young man, who was the same age as Robert, had been the first to befriend him when he had joined the Forgotten Army.

  Earlier that day, Jimmy had made a small fortune, selling his latest plunder to local traders and merchants. It was a skill that Robert had never been quite able to master. Like any other man on a battlefield, Jimmy would take plunder from his fallen enemies. But unlike his comrades, who would usually search for coin, rings, amulets, maybe the odd blade, Jimmy would strip his dead foe bare whether it be a fine pair of boots, a good coat of chainmail, strong helmets and an assortment of weapons. It certainly made it easier pickings for the carrion who would hover above, ready to dine on the corpses.

  Then as soon as the opportunity came, he would sell the lot. Since their last conflicts, he had sold most of his goods already, however what was left he had flogged earlier in the day. He had bartered a good price for a well-crafted pair of greaves, two short swords and a fine silk cloak with a fur collar. Now however, as the dice continued to roll again and again, the coin he had made that day was depleting fast.

   “Are you sure we can’t persuade Ruscar to leave the horses in the care of the stable hands?” asked Robert.

   “The stable hands in these parts are as bad as the thieves who skulk in the shadows. Probably the same people. Ruscar will feel more comfortable knowing the horses and our supplies are safe.”

  Robert pitied any fool who tried to rob them, considering the first thing they would encounter, would be a Moor the size of a bear, sharpening his long, scimitar sword.

   “So Iberia?” said Robert.

   “What of it?” answered Reynard as he picked at some of the meat that still remained on Robert’s platter.

   “Educate me.”

  Reynard took a gulp of his ale.

   “The Moors and the Berbers call it Al-Andalus,” he started.

   “Al-Andalus?”

   “The lands in Iberia that belong to the Moslem. They have held it for nearly five hundred years, its borders changing constantly. When they first landed on the southern shores, their advance north was so fast, some thought they would conquer all of it. However with their supply lines stretched and the loss of men, the Christian kingdoms in the north were able to hold them at bay. Seventeen years ago, King Alfonso of Castile led his army south but they were annihilated by the Caliph’s forces.”

  Reynard took another draught of his ale.

   “Then last year, Muhammad-al-Nasir crossed the sea with an army and seized more territory on the Christian-Almohad border including the castle of Salvatierra. The stronghold of the knights of The Order of Calatrava.”

   “Another Holy Order?” asked Robert.

   “Correct. On hearing that the Order of Calatrava had been driven from their lands and an army of Moors and Berbers and God knows who else was on the march. Pope Innocent called for another Crusade and appointed King Alfonse to lead it.”

   “But you said that the alliance of the Christian Kingdoms is fragile?” said Robert.

   “They are. Each ruler of each realm, whether it be Castile, Aragon, Navarre or Portugal all yearn for more wealth, more power and more land. Hence