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

with Robert and Nathanial at the Bridgenorth siege looked as though he were about to charge off in moments. His daughter had been a victim of one of the village raids. When they had found her, her dress was ripped to shreds and she was weeping over the dead body of her husband. Trefor’s grandson, a boy of only three years, stood behind his mother, bewildered and confused by what had taken place.

  When she had seen her father she had ran to his open arms and sobbed for what seemed like an age.

   “What say you Robert? Do you think it the right strategy?” asked Nathanial.

   “About what?” he replied, snapping back to the present.

   “A mounted assault. Tonight or tomorrow. When they least expect it.”

   “We will attack on horseback. But only half of us.”

  There was a groan of objection which was quickly silenced by a glare from their leader.

   “The trees narrow our numbers and even if we were to make the camp without losses, over half of them will probably make off into the woodland and escape their just rewards.”

   “So what do you suggest sir?” asked Clyde Strong Arm, Trefor’s brother. He was the finest of Robert’s archers.

   “We attack before dusk.”

It had taken over an hour for Robert and his six men to circle the camp on foot, avoiding being seen or heard. Unlike Nathanial and his mounted company of six, Robert was certain that the horses were going to give their presence away.

  Finally when they took up their position, they were facing the opposite direction in which Nathanial’s mounted assault would come. Robert had strapped his sheathed sword to the back of the baldric that hung over his shoulder, while a loaded crossbow hung over the other. A second crossbow was cradled in his hands. Though he had the strength, he had always been poor at using a war bow and although his archers despised crossbows, they knew their leader rarely missed.

  Of the six with him, four of them were archers, including Clyde and they were all fine marksmen and carried a longbow and quiver of arrows a piece. With the two men-at-arms standing slightly behind them, Robert had told the men to spread along the camp’s western flank to try and box them in and disguise their numbers.

  The signal to start their ambush couldn’t have been more obvious and all Robert had said to Nathanial before they separated their small force was ‘You’ll know when it’s time to seek vengeance’.

  Now standing behind a dense clump of ferns, Robert aimed his crossbow at one of the raiders who was standing on the edge of the encampment taking a piss. The trigger on the devilish contraption clicked, and as the bolt sprung from it his strike hit true, mercilessly burying itself in the man’s shoulder.

  His victim dropped to the ground, screaming in pain, causing the others to jump to their feet. Before they could even make for their weapons, two more of the raiders were downed by arrows. The first, taking an arrow to the neck, killing him instantly. The second had fallen to the floor and roared in pain, when an arrow buried deep into his leg. He too was soon silenced when another thumped into his chest.

  For those who had them and been lucky enough to reach them, the Welsh raiders raised their shields while others notched arrows to their own bows, looking for the hidden attackers. Another two of them were killed before their own bowmen started to return fire.

  Robert heard a cry of pain from further along the treeline. One of his men had been struck. He could see the enemy trying to organise a rickety shield wall but not before he let off his second crossbow. This time however, although his aim was accurate and would have taken the man in the eye, the bolt sank into the thick combination of animal hide and wood of the Welshman’s circular shield. Where the hell was Nathanial? The enemy would charge them at any minute.

  As if he had heard him, there was a roar of triumph as Nathanial and his mounted party charged at the enemy from the rear.

  The seven horsemen crashed into the muddled line of raiders who still survived. Robert watched as Trefor flailed his axe mercilessly, splitting skulls as if they were egg shells.

  Drawing his own sword, Robert waited for the inevitable. After another seven of the enemy were cut down, they broke and started to flee from the mounted warriors. Better to take their chances from those hidden amongst the trees than face the men on their mighty war beasts.

  The first running in Robert’s direction was skewered in the back by an arrow. The barbed head had burst through the front of his chest, causing the man’s back to arch as he dropped to his knees, a trail of blood seeping from his mouth.

  The next was luckier. While his archers aimed elsewhere, the new attacker charged him with a long spear. As the spearhead was within inches of piercing Robert’s side, he moved to the left, causing the man to overbalance. With all his efforts set on impaling the Englishman, the attacker had left his entire side and back exposed. The man lunged past him while Robert brought his sword up and slashed it across the man’s neck, severing his head.

  After dispatching another by a swift thrust to the man’s stomach, the skirmish was almost over. Only four of the Welsh raiders were still alive, while others were clinging to the last minutes of life, groaning in pain.

   “Enough,” he bellowed. “Enough, they’ve surrendered. Bring them forward,” ordered Robert.

  Reluctantly, the men did as they were bid. They dismounted and dragged the survivors towards him and forced them