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

horses were ejected from their stalls and led onto the solid stone platform.

  Their supplies and arms were next to follow and quickly strapped to the horses’ saddles, then finally they were ready to leave the dark vessel behind and make their way along the stone wharf. Amongst the bustle of sailors and traders, Robert noted the men-at-arms who bore the crucifix on their surcoats. They arrogantly, barged through the crowded platforms, their behaviour making it clear that they believed they were above the inhabitants of the coastal town.

  At the far end of one street Robert spied the standard of the French court, the gold embroidered fleur-de-lis on a fine, blue fabric.

   “French volunteers,” said Reynard.

   “Volunteers?”

   “King Philip of France has given his support to the Crusade in gold but hasn’t committed his armies to the cause. Not surprising from that cowardly bastard. However some lords have decided to show their support by way of steel instead of gold.”

  As they continued to watch the retinue of French knights and their entourage, Robert noticed how young they looked. Then he remembered his age when he first went into battle.

   “Pretty raw looking batch of lofty fools in my opinion,” said Jimmy from behind.

   “Probably the second sons of high ranking lords wanting to prove their bravery to their fathers,” mocked Cherik.

   “Bravery! Puh. I’ve never met a brave Frenchman in me life,” said Jimmy.

   “They’ll have trained for this moment most of their short lives,” continued the German. “A lot longer than you for certain.”

   “Aye, that they will,” agreed Robert, thinking of his nephew back home. “But the battlefield is no training ground.”

  He could see a young knight, no older than Nathanial had been when they had found him wounded and dressed in an oversized coat of mail, back in Constantinople. The young knight looked excited, dressed in the finest armour and sporting the colours of his family’s heraldry on his surcoat. But that excited expression and those rose coloured cheeks would soon turn pale and twisted with terror; the fine surcoat would turn into a dirty brown of mud, sand and blood.

  A group of twenty men-at-arms stood near the young lord, all of them older by at least ten years. It would be they who would likely give their lives to keep him safe, lest they wished to face the wrath of his father when they returned home.

   “Commander Reynard!”

  The Commander and his men turned to see a man clad in well-worn travelling clothes. He was in his late thirties, of a slender build, with a dark, brown beard. There was a small sword at his side but by the size of his arms, more likely for show than for use.

   “I seek the Commander Reynard of the Forgotten Army?” he asked again.

   “I am he.”

   “An honour to meet you Commander. I have been sent by captain Alfonso to guide you to the Forgotten Army’s camp,” said the stranger.

   “I gave no orders for an escort. I told my captains that I would rendezvous with them north of Burgos,” answered the Commander guardedly.

   “The Forgotten Army has moved from its former site. I was sent by captains Alfonso and Hamish to escort you to the new encampment.”

  Reynard said nothing for a moment and then turned to Robert.

   “Something does not seem right,” he said quietly.

   “You want him interrogated?”

   “Not yet. But have the lads be on their guard.”

  The Commander then turned to Chuma who had remained quiet but also looked at the visitor with suspicion.

   “Well, once again we must say farewell,” he said.

   “That we must Commander Reynard. I wish you well on your travels,” smiled the captain.

  The Egyptian then held out his hand with an open palm.

  The gesture made the Commander chuckle who then pulled a pouch from under his travelling cloak. Once the payment was exchanged, the two friends embraced. Robert too grasped the captain’s arm and wished him God’s speed on his journeys.

   “Sir Robert, one moment please,” the captain said quietly. “Reynard is no longer the young warrior he once was. He is strong, cunning and ferocious but that may be his undoing. Take care of him.”

   “You have my word,” replied Robert.

*****

Ponferrada Castle, March, 1212

Chevalier had been studying one of the volumes, stolen from the monastery of Saint Michael, when he had been disturbed by one of Garcia’s men telling him his presence was required. Following the sergeant down the narrow corridors, he realised that he had not ventured into this part of the castle since their arrival.

  The Order of the Blooded Cross knights and their men had been at Ponferrada for three weeks and would rarely see the Templar apart from when he wished it. To fill their time, he had led them on regular patrols to familiarise themselves with the surrounding plains of the Templar territory.

  He was relieved by the reassurance from Garcia that they were by no means indebted or under command of the Templar knight. They had been offered the hospitality of the Duke of Lemos at Cornatel castle, east of Ponferrada, but had declined the offer, preferring to keep a closer eye on Sir Alejandro Garcia. They had learnt that Cornatel would also soon be given over to the Templars after the Crusade was under way.

  Although bitter that he would lose revenue from the lands, the Duke of Lemos cared little for the small castle. Like Ponferrada, Cornatel had also been built on the remnants of an ancient Roman fortress and had only been acquired by the Duke through a distant cousin who had been slain in a battle against the Almohad Moors seven years before.

  However it made it increasingly clear that the Templars