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

two of them had thwarted and killed several of the Order’s knights. To capture the two men, particularly Reynard, who had evaded the Order for many years, would bring glory to Sir Aguillard Chevalier’s name in the Hall of the Blooded Cross.

   “Where are they?” he asked eagerly.

   “They recently landed in the port of Gijon and are currently headed south,” answered Garcia. “We have already despatched a detachment of men to intercept them.”

   “What sort of detachment?”

   “We have prepared an ambush for them on the northern borders of Castile,” the Cardinal said proudly.

   “Who did you send?”

   “Men who will do anything necessary when the coin is right,” replied Garcia.

   “Men of action?”

   “Men who have done this before,” sighed the Templar, bored of the topic.

   “Then you mean local bandits,” stated Aguillard.

   “And your point?”

   “My point is that your reckless, incapable fools will be dead by morning.”

   “You almost sound as if you admire these men Chevalier. You certainly seem to hold them in high regard?” said Garcia.

   “So would you if you had known some of the men these mercenaries have slain over the years. And I am not talking about bandits or other mercenaries Sir Alejandro. I am talking about some of the strongest and most skilled knights in Christendom along with some of the finest assassins known.”

  Chevalier began to make his way toward the door again.

   “So what would you suggest we do?” asked Garcia.

  The knight’s tone was insolent but sounded doubtful.

   “We take them when they drop their guard. When there are other distractions, so they lose focus. He should know that above all of us,” said Chevalier, pointing at the Cardinal.

Chapter 5

 

Southern Asturias

The company of mercenaries had been riding south for three days, leaving Gijon behind to battle through a storm that would likely destroy both town and harbour. However, ahead of them, from the weather beaten road they had taken, Robert could see nothing but a plain of dry, arid scrubland.

  Fine sand and dust hung in the gentle breeze and gathered in their mouths making them cough and continually reach for their water skins. On the second day, their guide recommended an alternative route through a valley further ahead. He assured them they would be more protected and the route would save almost two days’ worth of travel.

  Although he was still suspicious of their guide the Commander agreed to the man’s suggestion, eager to reach the Forgotten Army’s camp. More importantly, their water rations were running low and their horses were starting to suffer in the dehydrated conditions.

  Robert wore only a light coat of chain, which finished at the waist and elbows, with a leather waistcoat over the top of it. His mouth was parched and he almost craved for the storm they had left behind.

  He dismounted lightly, sliding from the saddle. His first task was to check the condition of his mount. Jupiter had done well and he stroked the animal’s neck gently.

   “You’re doing well lad, just a little further,” he said quietly.

  Leaning over, he raised the horse’s left hind leg and inspected the hoof. The strong beast had persevered in the dry heat but his shins were cut and bloodied from the hard, rock covered track.

   “He suffers?” asked Ruscar.

   “Some cuts and bruises on his legs but his hoof soles remain strong,” replied Robert.

   “That is good, for he is a fine beast.”

  The Moor had been impressed by Robert’s care of his mount and regardless of his newly appointed station, Sir Robert still valued and respected the opinions of the mighty warrior.

   “A canyon lies yonder my lord. There is a likely chance we will find water and shade,” called their guide.

  The Commander nodded his consent. The men and horses could do with some comfort after their long journey.

  Robert finished nursing Jupiter’s cuts with a damp cloth, wiping away the dirt and bandaging them to protect them from infection. He too had begun to have suspicions about their guide. Paulo would answer any question with as little detail as possible and on occasion, Robert was certain that there was a trace of deceit and tension in the man’s eyes.

  Walking casually to Reynard, he drew up next to the mounted knight and stroked the neck of the Commander’s great charger.

   “You remember our journey to Genoa all those years ago?” he muttered.

   “I remember,” replied the Commander.

  On their journey to the gathering at Venice, the last calling for a Crusade, the Forgotten Army had taken a route through the great mountain range, which divided the old Angevin territories and the kingdom of France from the Papal States. Whilst in the mountains, their convoy had been set upon by a mass of tribesmen, who had caused havoc on their column of men and supply wagons.

  Looking toward the canyon up ahead, sat between its two rocky hilltops, the Commander finally spoke.

   “Ruscar.”

  The Moor rode up on his own mount and listened to his new orders.

   “Is there something wrong my lord?” asked Paulo nervously.

  He had seen the dark skinned warrior turn his horse and go back along the route they had come.

   “I have sent Ruscar back to the village we passed through this morning. If you’re wrong about the water, I fear we are going to need more otherwise we may lose some of the horses,” replied the Commander casually.

   “Do you wish us to wait for him my lord?”

   “That won’t be necessary, Ruscar will catch us up in quick enough time.”

   “Very well, shall we continue?”

   “Please, lead on.”

  The mouth of the canyon was eerily quiet and forbidding.