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

  Without another word, the messenger turned his horse and started to make his way back to the camp. Robert smiled to himself. He knew instantly who he would choose. If Wilfred hadn’t been a captain, he would have chosen him but the old bugger had rank.

   “Well Jimmy. Looks like we’ve a little more riding to do,” he said.

   “You can’t be serious?” replied Jimmy in shock.

   “We’ve been through worse. Come on, collect your gear and do your best to look presentable,” answered Robert.

   “You can stick that up yer arse. I’m a mercenary. I’m not prancing around you, holding your reigns and all that other bollocks!”

   “You’re a fine fighter Jim, but looks like you’ll have to play at being a squire for a few hours. And sort out that hedgerow you call a beard,” said Wilfred more seriously.

   “Otherwise you could always go and refuse in front of the Commander?”

Sir Robert looked a fine sight when he arrived at the Commander’s tent dressed in his full armour and wearing his family’s regalia. A young recruit, about the same age as Robert was when he had first joined the Forgotten Army, was standing outside the Commander’s headquarters, holding the reigns of three horses.

  Jimmy, who had brushed up well, sat on his horse sulkily, trying to hide his face from his fellow mercenaries. Meanwhile, the new recruit, looked eager to ride at the Commander’s side.

  Reynard soon appeared, wearing his Sancerre colours of yellow and black, followed by Alfonso, who also wore the surcoat of yellow, with its black diamond upon it.

   “Well, don’t you scrub up well Jimmy Houghman?” smiled the Commander.

  Jimmy only grunted and then scowled at Robert. Maybe he had gone too far with some of his jokes and taunts on their travels.

   “Now remember. We’re not off to meet with a count or a baron. We’re off to present ourselves to a King,” the Commander said, while pulling himself up onto his horse. “So for starters, Houghman, wipe that childish scowl off your face.”

  The Commander’s tone was cold and stern and Jimmy didn’t need telling twice. He quickly sat up straight and adjusted his baldric and sword.

   “Aye Commander, sorry sir.”

When they reached the boundary of the Forgotten Army’s camp, Robert could see the Navarrese sentries, standing less than fifty feet from their own sentry posts. Both men wore matching uniforms, one carrying a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to his back, while the second, a seven foot pole-axe.

   “You’ve never cared about the appearance of the men before. As long as they fight well, what does it matter? So why this time?” Robert asked.

   “King Sancho is said to be an honourable and traditional ruler. He’s one for traditions and standards. If all goes well, the Army will be well rewarded. So a bit of effort on first impressions only adds to a positive, first introduction.”

   “The men won’t like it,” answered Alfonso.

  Robert remembered the reaction from the men when they were on Crusade to Constantinople and their distaste in having to wear the surcoats of the Count of Amiens.

   “They’ll like it once they see the gold that will come their way. Half before and half at the end of the campaign,” replied the Commander.

   “Whenever that’ll be,” answered the captain.

As they neared the two guards, the Commander allowed the captain to do the talking, Alfonso had a talent for languages.

   “We are here to present ourselves to the King of Navarre,” he said in their own language.

   “Who do you represent?” asked the guard, brandishing the pole-axe.

  The pike man had slightly lowered his weapon, while his comrade had taken a stance as if he were about to take aim with his bow.

   “This is Sir Reynard Sancerre, Commander of the Forgotten Army. And this is Sir Robert Spurling of Bridgenorth.”

  The guard raised his pike back to its former position, while the other lowered his bow.

   “Forgive me my lord, we have been ordered to contest all who approach His Majesty’s camp.”

   “No apology is necessary,” said the captain. “We would expect our men to do the same. Now if you would instruct us in the direction of the King’s headquarters, we would be most grateful.”

  With such a disciplined row of tents, it wasn’t long before they reached the King’s command tent. It was a handsome and proud structure with two banners, one flying from each of the poles that held the tent in place. Two gonfalons, carrying the King’s royal coat-of-arms, were planted either side of the entrance. They were decorated with an embroidered red shield with bright yellow dots, joined together with yellow thread and above it, the depiction of a crown.

  Like most command tents, two guards stood either side of the pavilion’s entrance, both well-armed, standing in conjunction with the gonfalons. Unlike their comrades who had been guarding the perimeter. These two wore a different uniform.

  Whereas the sentries had been granted the comfort of discarding their mail coats in the heat, relying only on the protection of their leather gambesons beneath green surcoats, these men had full chainmail and wore a red short sleeved surcoat with a yellow crucifix upon the chest. On their triangular shields were the arms of the royal house of Navarre.

  The five men dismounted and the Commander instructed Jimmy and his young compatriot to water the horses.

   “Then I’m sure you’ll find men close by who will fancy a game of dice,” smiled the Commander.

  As the squires departed, the two knights and captain approached the tent.

   “We are here on the request of King Sancho of Navarre,” Alfonso announced to the