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

blonde hair of the Gutsberg brothers started to glint in the lowering sun and the dark form of Ruscar was now clear. Growing nearer, he recognised the scoundrel Jimmy holding a spear with the Sancerre pennant. His heart swelled and he smiled with pleasure. But the sixth rider, who rode beside the Commander, still bewildered him.

  The man was wearing a different surcoat to the others. It looked to be black with a white shield over the chest. The stranger started to increase the speed of his dappled charger into a gallop, leaving the rest of the party behind.

  When the rider came to a stop he pulled off his helmet. A large grin was spread across his face. His hair was unkempt from the journey and there was a weeks’ worth of stubble on his dust covered face.

   “Still alive then Wilfred?” smiled the young man.

  The Anglo-Saxon had taken the young, half-starved runt under his wing when the lad had first joined the Commander’s mercenary band several years back. He started to laugh.

   “Robert bloody Oldfield!” he boomed.

  Robert slid from the saddle and walked toward his old mentor. The two men embraced and laughed.

   “By God lad, I thought you were dead and buried?”

   “If not dead from this way of life, I thought you would be finished with this living and found yourself somewhere to grow old and fat?” laughed Robert.

   “Nay lad. I’ve a bastard in every city throughout Christendom and no doubt one of those women would cut my throat quicker than I would see on a battlefield.”

   “Wilfred you grizzly tyrant. Good to see you again,” came the voice of the Commander.

   “Commander Reynard. Welcome back!”

   “Where are you camped?”

   “About half a mile upriver sir.”

   “Let us water the horses and then journey back with you,” interjected Robert. “The poor beasts haven’t had water for nearly two days.”

  While the men dismounted and shared their tales with the gnarled Saxon, Reynard approached the bound figure who was tied to a rope attached to Jürgen’s saddle.

  Paulo stared hungrily at the murky water but then shuffled backwards as the Commander approached him. Taking the reins, Reynard took the animal towards the water.

   “It would be of no use if you were to die of thirst,” he said to the prisoner. “You may drink.”

  Needing no more encouragement the man dived towards the water and started to guzzle it quicker than the horses.

   “So who’s your friend on foot?” asked Wilfred.

   “He was part of an ambush who tried and failed to capture us on our way here,” answered Robert.

   “Why is it that whenever there’s trouble, you’re always in the middle of it?”

   “Just lucky I guess,” smiled Robert.

  The men had been ordered not to mention the interrogation to a soul. Swearing an oath to their Commander, they, Robert and Reynard knew only too well that the failed ambush was no means by luck.

*****

The men cheered as their Commander and his entourage entered the mercenary encampment. He raised his arm and waved his hand in the air, calling out to men, acknowledging them by name with jokes and taunts.

  As more of the men gathered at the centre of the camp and roared a welcome, the Commander steered his horse to the middle of the crowd and raised both arms to quiet them.

  After a few moments silence spread through the assembly of bloodthirsty rogues.

  Reynard looked around, a stern expression etched on his face.

   “Are you ready to fight?” he shouted.

  The men cheered in approval.

   “Are you ready to win?”

  A second cheer followed.

   “Are you ready to follow me into battle?” he bellowed at the top of his voice.

  A roar from the men erupted, loud enough to shake the very ground they stood upon.

  Dismounting, the Commander made his way through the throng of warriors, toward the command tent. At its entrance stood Alfonso and Hamish. Hugging the Italian and then locking arms with the Scot, Reynard smiled. He was home.

   “Glad to be back?” asked Alfonso.

   “Back amongst these cutthroats? Too bloody right,” he answered.

Robert and his companions remained on the outskirts of the circle of over three hundred men. Once the Commander had dismounted and gone to join his two captains, he and his four comrades also descended from their saddles.

  As he looked amongst the mass of mercenary soldiers, he was saddened that he recognised so few. Had his old brothers-in-arms fallen in battle? Had they tired of the life and gone to find a different living? He would soon find out.

  While he watched the men disperse, he could feel a spasm of excitement creep through his body. When the men cheered, a part of him, that had remained dormant for some years, had stirred and the thrill of being back amongst them had returned.

   “As you can see, the wars of Christendom have been harsh on our forces these past few years,” came a familiar voice.

  Robert turned to face another of his mentors when he had joined the Forgotten Army as a boy. The armourer was the oldest of all the veteran warriors who still served. His face was a combination of scars and wrinkles, set on a weathered, bronzed skin. What hair he had left was thin and white.

   “I’ll admit I never thought I would see you again young Oldfield. Or should we address you as Sir Robert now?” he teased.

   “When it comes to being addressed by you Godfrey Morgan. Robert will suit me fine.”

  In an instant of emotion, the young knight stepped forward to hug the master-at-arms.

   “Easy now lad, I’m not as young as I once was,” he chuckled.