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

to tremble as he passed the first of the three corpses that were supposed to help him kill and capture the small group of horsemen.

   “Bind him.”

It was early evening when Paulo woke to find himself bound by his hands and feet. A fire was crackling and the small group of mercenaries were sat around it tending to injuries.

  Beside him was one of the hire-swords that were supposed to have killed the Commander’s men so they could have taken him prisoner. At present, the hire-sword was slumped forward, unconscious with a dry, bloodied lump on the side of his head.

   “Ah good, you’re awake.”

  The Commander came over and crouched down by the prisoner. Paulo’s eyes darted over to Ruscar who sat nearby, drawing a whetstone across the blade of his scimitar.

   “You didn’t send him back to the village?” stammered Paulo.

   “Obviously not, no. He doubled back and started to dispatch your friends one by one,” replied the Commander. “Anyhow, we’ll wait for your compatriot to wake and then we’ll have a proper talk.”

   “They weren’t my friends. I was only told to lead you to the ambush,” answered Paulo hurriedly.

   “All in good time. But I warn you, those men killed that man’s horse and he is very upset about it.”

  The Commander pointed towards Jürgen.

   “At the moment, there are two branding irons heating in the fire there and he would be very happy to place them upon your balls.”

  Without another word the Commander went over to join his men and once seated, took a water skin from Jimmy.

   “How much do we have left?” he asked after taking a small sip.

   “Maybe another day at most,” answered Robert

Night was upon them by the time the second prisoner was woken by a rough kick from Jürgen, who was in no mood to wait longer.

   “Right then,” said the Commander calmly. “Let us begin. Ruscar if you would translate please – my Andalusian is a little rusty.”

  The Moor nodded and started to say something to the prisoner in his native language.

   The Commander turned to Paulo. “Who sent you?”

   “He didn’t give a name,” replied Paulo in a stubborn tone.

  The Commander sighed, rubbed his eyes then after a moment nodded.

  Jürgen went to the fire to retrieve one of the iron rods that were glowing orange. Taking hold of the other end of a rod which was wrapped in leather, the German pulled it from the flames and brought it over to the bound captives.

  Robert remembered the first time he had discovered the Brotherhood back in Venice. That night they had captured a spy who was in the service of the Order. He had been tortured in a similar way and then despatched and cast into one of the city’s canals.

  At first he had been horrified by the Brotherhood’s actions, but was then told that if the spy had any information on members of the Brotherhood they were sure to later inform the Order. The Brotherhood had to be protected at all costs.

  Without hesitation Jürgen pressed the glowing rod onto the inner thigh of the pike man. The man howled in pain as the metal burnt through the man’s hose and hissed as it worked its way through to the flesh.

  Paulo looked in horror. The odour of the burnt flesh was soon in the air and made him queasy.

   “That is exactly what is going to happen to you, if you do not answer truthfully,” said the Commander. “And if you do not, I will ask him. And if he refuses to answer, you will also be branded. But if he does give us the name, I swear you will suffer so much more.”

  The Commander let the words settle for a moment before he continued.

   “Now, who sent you Paulo?” he growled.

   “They’ll kill me,” whimpered Paulo.

   “Jürgen.”

  Again the German barbarian pressed the golden bar on the inner thigh of the other prisoner. This time his scream was louder and he shook uncontrollably.

   “One more chance Paulo, before I ask your friend the same question and tell him, that the reason why he has suffered is because you are not co-operating.”

  Paulo looked quickly at the other prisoner who had now pissed himself.

   “They came to me six months ago,” he answered shakily.

   “Who?”

   “A man of the church and a nobleman.”

   “Where did they meet you?”

   “I was in Astorga.”

   “And where did they come from?”

   “They didn’t say.”

   “Jürgen.”

  This time Jürgen fished out the second rod which was glowing freshly. He stepped toward Paulo and started to lower the golden, iron bar.

   “It’s true, I swear it,” he pleaded.

  The Commander held up his hand to halt the mercenary. He glanced over to Robert who so far, had sat in silence, a troubled look on his face.

   “This man of the cloth. What did he look like?” asked Robert.

  Paulo was sweating, a stricken look of fear, etched on his face.

   “He had black hair, with white, pale skin,” he answered.

   “Go on,” Robert persisted.

   “His robes were worn and frayed.”

   “Keep going.”

   “The nobleman referred to him once as Cardinal.”

   “This Cardinal. How old would you guess he was?”

   “Maybe just passed his thirtieth year.”

   “And did he know of our names?”

   “He spoke of the Commander and his accomplice. A man by the name of Robert of Oldfield.”

  Robert looked to the Commander who merely nodded in agreement.

   “The nobleman. Was he a knight?” asked the Commander.

   “He carried a great sword. But there was no coat-of-arms on his clothing.”

   “And what of the