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

   “There was an emblem on the pommel. The same as the sword over there,” answered Paulo, nodding his head in the direction of Robert’s destrier.

  Jupiter had been relieved of the weight from the saddle and supplies that he had carried all day and was happily dining on what meagre vegetation could survive in such dry conditions. Propped against the saddle that lay nearby was Robert’s two-handed Templar broadsword.

  The Commander got to his feet and looked down at the two men, who both trembled under his expressionless stare.

   “Ruscar, ask the hire-sword where he and his companions have come from? Ask him to describe the men who hired him?”

  The great Moor translated the Commander’s question, telling the prisoner that he would receive no further torture if he were to answer truthfully. Through heavy gasps of breath, struggling against the excruciating pain that crawled up his leg, the man started to speak. He spoke of a cleric, saying that they had been promised a horde of riches if they captured the two men alive.

  When the prisoner had finished speaking, Reynard beckoned Robert to join him, away from the rest of the men.

   “You think it is him?” he asked.

   “It would make sense. There has been no news of Matthias Esca since he fled Bridgenorth,” answered Robert.

   “His alliance with the Order must have shattered after the failure of our capture. Hence the reason he has sought the help of this rogue Templar.”

  Robert looked over at the magnificent broadsword that had been presented to him by a dying Templar knight during the battle for Constantinople. On its pommel was the clear insignia of the Holy Cross, which were worn not only on the Templar knights’ mantles, but on their shields and weapons as well.

   “Esca would likely have known that if the Forgotten Army were to join the Crusade then we were probably to be among them. You most certainly,” said Robert.

   “What vexes me is the description of the serpent Cardinal’s clothing,” mused Reynard.

   “Isn’t it likely that his superiors, who had financed his long quest in obtaining the Turin Shroud weren’t overly impressed when he returned with news of his failure? Surely he would be cast out in disgrace?”

   “Maybe,” nodded Reynard. “What do you suggest?”

   “We still need a guide to get us to the Forgotten Army’s camp. And I have no doubt that Anzac would like to interrogate this man further.”

   “Very well. But Robert, you know full well that the secrecy of the Brotherhood and its followers is essential.”

  The two men returned to where the interrogation had taken place.

   “Jürgen. There will be no more need of the rod,” said the Commander.

  Jürgen growled at the order but did as he was bid.

   “The guide we need. But you may avenge your mount.”

  Without hesitation, Jürgen drew a thick bladed hunting knife and thrust it into the hire-sword’s neck. The man gurgled while the blood seeped from his mouth and the last few seconds of his life ebbed away, his eyes wide open, as if surprised by the mercenary’s actions.

  Paulo looked horrified at what he had just witnessed. Then he recoiled back, whimpering as the pike man’s blood began to soak into his tunic.

   “Well Paulo. Seeing as we still need a guide and you know where my army is, you will live a little longer. And who knows? If you remain honest and truthful, you may live for years to come,” said the Commander.

   “Jimmy, you’re first watch. The rest of us will get some sleep, we’ve a long journey tomorrow.”

West of the City of Valladolid, Castile, March, 1212

Wilfred Sutton was by no means a young and spritely fighter anymore. But as aged as he was, he was still a formidable warrior of Saxon ancestry and one of the finest strategists in the Forgotten Army.

  Despite his aching bones, stiff joints and the loss of two fingers, when the battle exultation was upon him, he could still draw an English war bow and hit his target at two hundred paces. He could still wield a blade in battle for a whole day; and he could still outdrink almost every man in The Forgotten Army.

  He had served in the mercenary army almost from the beginning of its formation  ever since he had been banished by his lord back in England. Many of his friends had fallen over the years, but then again, that was what they were paid to do. To fight, to win and sometimes, if God wills it, to die.

  During the campaign in Constantinople the old war dog had been promoted to the rank of captain amongst the force, which currently consisted of over four hundred men. After Constantinople had been taken and the crusade to Palestine abandoned, they had started their journey back west.

  While the Commander had been absent, he and the other two captains, Alfonso and Hamish had adopted a new fighting formation. Wilfred would lead the left flank, the formidable Scotsman, Hamish the right and the fading Alfonso and his cavalry at the centre.

The veteran warrior was watering his horse when he spied the six riders coming over the ridge, approaching the river from the north. From his current distance from them, he couldn’t make out any distinct colours but it looked as though there was a man on foot, stumbling behind them.

  Sutton considered riding back to the camp, which had set up along the river west of the city. He briefly deliberated stringing his longbow, which was strapped to his horse’s saddle but decided to wait a little longer, to identify whether they were hostiles.

  As the riders neared, he finally recognised the black diamond on a dark yellow, the arms of the Sancerres. The wild,