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

  Reynard laughed and assured him that the nearer they got to the centre of the capital and the Thames River, the smell became bearable.

    “There she is, the Tower of London. Castle to the Kings of England,” said Reynard as their mounted party turned the last corner of the winding streets.

   “She’s impressive,” replied Robert.

  The castle certainly looked impregnable with her tall walls and thick bulky towers.

   “She’s invincible,” said the Commander.

  As they neared the open gates of the outer walls, they were halted by four guards who asked their business.

   “What business I have to discuss, is with the Earl of Pembroke and no other,” replied the Commander. “Inform Sir William Marshall that Sir Reynard Sancerre and Sir Robert Spurling wish to speak with him as a matter of urgency.”

  The guards were oblivious of the house of Spurling but the Sancerre’s were known by two of the guardsmen. Anyhow, regardless of their titles, the Earl of Pembroke was acquainted with these men and that was enough to allow them through. The last thing the guards wanted was to quarrel, or even be involved with, Sir William Marshall.

  Stepping aside, they allowed the company of horsemen to pass through into the vast open bailey which surrounded the castle keep.

Sir William Marshall was seated on a grand oak chair in his office. The ageing knight, famed for his skills on both battlefield and tourney ground, massaged his temples. An old bear skin was draped over his shoulders while a blazing fire raged in the hearth.

  Letters and scrolls, their wax seals broken, covered his desk. A mixture of threats from the Barons of northern England and others pleading for help to defend their lands.

  Sir William had given his entire life to the Plantagenet Kings but now he cursed the day he had sworn an oath of loyalty to that fool, King John.

  The Angevin territories in France had all but gone, while England itself was on the brink of civil war. John was no tactician, or leader. He was more interested in women, wine and sporting his new garments at court, paying no heed to the concerns of the few nobles who were still loyal to the crown.

  When the door to his study resounded with three heavy knocks, he answered from his chair, permitting them to enter. As the door opened, revealing one of Sir William’s attendants, he thanked him and requested he bring wine for him and his guests, who had remained in the cold hallway.

  After the departure of the attendant, Reynard and Robert entered the Earl’s chamber.

   “If you have come here looking for men Commander Reynard. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time,” Sir William said politely but firmly.

   “Not men my lord. I am fully aware that every able-bodied man and boy are already conscripted to the militia for the coming battles.”

   “Then what have you come for?”

  To try and lighten the conversation, Reynard turned to his companion.

   “My lord, may I present Sir Robert Spurling, son of the late Sir Roger Spurling. Sir Robert, it is my honour to introduce you to Sir William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke and protector of the realm.”

   “Enough of the pleasantries Commander,” replied Sir William as he rose to his feet.

  The Earl approached Robert, quickly measuring up the young knight and then stared him straight in the eyes. He was always sure you could tell a real warrior, if they could keep strong eye contact.

   “I understand I owe you a debt my lord, for it was you who I believe, warned my father of the assault on Bridgenorth?” answered Robert, keeping his eyes firmly on the Earl’s.

   “No debt is necessary Sir Robert. Not when it was I who supplied the men to serve the knights of the Blooded Cross in the first place.”

  Robert felt a cold shudder run down his spine, followed by a burning rage that seared in his chest. He had lost good friends at the battle of Bridgenorth. Men close enough to be called brothers.

   “You don’t know how to feel about that?” asked Sir William.

  He was testing him.

   “It is not my place to question your motives my lord. I lost friends at Bridgenorth but who doesn’t in war?”

   “A wise choice of words from a man who was a lowborn and now a knight of the Turin Shroud Brotherhood.”

  Robert’s eyes darted to the Commander whose face remained absolute.

   “You are of the Brotherhood?” he asked hesitantly.

   “I serve neither faction,” replied the Earl. “My allegiance is to my King and the realm. I was in debt to the Order, hence why I provided them with men for Bridgenorth. But my life was saved by the Brotherhood in Palestine. Although asked to join, I refused. But I will always be indebted to the Brotherhood. That was why I sent word to your father. Who knows, maybe one day you will be able to help me.”

   “It would be my honour my lord.”

  Sir William nodded and eyed the young knight shrewdly. He was impressed by the man’s decorum.

   “Now Commander, what is it you are here for?”

  Taking a sip from his goblet and smacking his lips in approval of the fine flavour, Reynard began.

   “We travel south to support King Alfonse in the Crusade to take back the lands that have been seized by the Almohad Caliphate. A ship awaits us in Southampton. I am here to ask if you could provide us a vessel, to transport the two of us, my four men-at-arms and our horses to the port.”

   “So the Forgotten Army will fill its coffers with coin from foreign Kings once more,” observed Sir William, none too