The Crusader's Crown (Tales of the Brotherhood Series Book 1) James Mercer (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📖

back to where the Commander and his men were now engaged. The fool had lost nearly all of his men, either impaled on the spearheads of the Almohad infantry or skewered by arrows.

   “Fall back,” ordered the Commander, as the Almohad barricade started to approach them.

    Nearby, Robert could hear Sir Carlos shout.

   “Leave some of your men to hold them off while we fall back,” he screeched.

  If he had not been amongst the line of men, he would have turned and rammed his sword straight through the royal knight’s gullet.

  Through the chaos Athaelstan’s deep voice was heard over the din.

   “Clear the way, clear the way!” he shouted in warning.

  The Almohad infantry suddenly halted and started to shuffle backwards. Thunderous echoes behind Robert meant only one thing, and he had barely seconds to dive for the side of the street.

  Hospitallers, the mighty mounted knights on their huge horses, hurtled past, massive hooves crushing any dead and wounded Almohad, Aragonese and mercenary fighters lying underneath as if they were fallen leaves. They smashed into the enemy shield wall, shattering their spears and pikes, reducing them to splinters.

  In a matter of minutes the heavy cavalry had decimated the Almohad barricade, leaving few alive. Any that did survive were quickly dealt with by the mercenaries who almost as quickly started to rifle for plunder.

  The last to die were three men who had cornered the Commander and quickly paid for their temerity with their lives. Ruscar charged them like a raging bull. The first of them was crushed between the Moor’s shield and the wall behind him, the force so powerful it shattered his entire rib cage. By the time the other two had regained their footing their throats had been sliced open by the deadly scimitar. The giant warrior from a proud African tribe was coated in their blood and his fellows edged away slightly as he stood in front of his Commander, his eyes as cold as ice.

  Shortly afterwards another troop of mounted Crusaders charged past, soon followed by a fresh batch of men-at-arms on foot, flying the banners of Castile.

  Robert leant against the wall, in the shade, concentrating on slowing his breathing.

   “Are you hurt Sir Robert?” came the concerned voice of his new squire.

   “Nay John, Thank you, I’m fine. And you, how do you fare?”

   “I am well sir. Do you wish me to fetch you water?”

   “No John. I want you to join your comrades and strip those bodies of anything of value and be quick because Jimmy is like carrion when it comes to plunder.”

  The all-too familiar sounds of screaming and suffering could now be heard deeper into the city but the sounds closest were the groans of men dying slowly. Sir Carlos stood at the centre of where his company of one hundred men now lay dead or dying. Only thirteen of his men had survived the slaughter and nearly all of them carried wounds that would likely change their lives forever.

  The Commander walked up and stood alongside the pig-headed knight. He had lost eleven men following the arrogant popinjay into the enemy’s trap.

   “I think ‘tis time for you to return to your King, Sir Carlos,” said the Commander coldly.

  Royal blood or not, he had no time for such men and he knew this cousin would hold no influence now, for that he was certain.

  After the departure of Sir Carlos and the remnants of his royal guards, the Commander shouted orders for the men to get back into formation and continue into the city. As they reached its centre, they received word that the castle on the southern side had fallen, the city had surrendered and the allied Kings of the Crusader armies had triumphed again.

*****

Robert sat near to the fire as Selva carefully threaded the needle and readied herself to sew up the thick gash on the back of his shoulder. He had no recollection of when the injury occurred and he didn’t really care. He had survived and his men had survived, and that was what was important to him.

  Nearby he could hear his comrades speaking of the victorious battle, each man describing the part he had played. They were in fine spirits. The plunder had been good and they had full bellies once again.

   “This may hurt a little.”

  Robert smiled.

   “I think I can bear it,” he replied.

  He was the last of his band of rogues to have his injuries tended to by her. As tired as she had been, she had seen to every one of them. She had run to him on his return from the city and for a shocking moment, when he had first seen her, he thought she too had been in the midst of the battle.

  Her apron was drenched in the blood of the men who had been carried back to Clutter and his attendant. The two had worked tirelessly, doing their best to stop life ebbing away from several dozen of the men. Although his own small party had not lost any men, the assault on the walls had not been kind to the rest of The Forgotten Army.

  He hissed as the sharp pain of the needle entered his shoulder. Finally she cut the thread and wrapped a bandage over the freshly sewn gash.

   “You need rest,” she said firmly.

   “We all need rest,” he answered.

  His whole body ached as he got to his feet and gingerly tested his arm. He looked down at her and smiled.

   “Go to them,” she smiled.

   “They don’t need me to drink themselves stupid.”

  The feeling of her soft hands on his cheek was enough to urge him to pull her closer and as