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

   “Surely we would have received word if hostiles had passed the rally at Toledo?” replied the Italian.

   “Would make sense,” said Hamish. “The Christians gather at Toledo and then the Almohads and their allies pass right by into the undefended heart of the northern kingdoms.”

  The Commander considered both of his captains’ suggestions before he made a decision. He could now make out the clouded shadow of men, horses and banners. But still the sands obscured their insignia.

   “Halt the column and have the men form a defensive position. Alf, take a party closer to have a look at our new arrivals.”

  As the order was passed down the column, the men speedily took up their positions. Upon each wagon stood an archer, while the infantry unit formed a line in front. As well as their shields up, helmets strapped tight, most of them were carrying pikes or spears, with close quarter weapons at their sides.

  When the captain returned he speedily gave out his orders.

   “Robert, choose ten of the men to accompany us to take a closer look. Alan, have the unit form up in two rows. If there’s trouble, you only charge once they’re within bow range, understood?”

   “Aye captain,” replied Alan.

  Besides Cherik, Jürgen and Jimmy, most of his new detachment were still strangers to him. Introductions had been made but names often eluded him. However, the skills of leadership which he had learnt over the last eight years sprang into action. Regardless of their names, he started to point to men, ordering them to gather at the front of the mounted unit. He would quickly assess their armour and physique. He wanted strong men, well equipped and intimidating. Quicker than he thought, he was prepared.

   “Escort company ready captain,” he called.

   “Lines formed captain,” shouted Alan.

   “Right then let’s go have a look at what we’ve got coming our way,” said the captain, steering his horse to the front of the men.

   “Ok, listen up you bunch of ruffians. We approach only to find out who we’ve crossed paths with. Keep your blades sheathed and your mouths shut. No jibes, no insults, understand?” he ordered.

  The scouting party started to canter towards the ever growing mass heading their way. There was a variety of both mounted men and infantry. The horses’ hooves rumbled as they crunched onto the rock-hard ground. As they neared, it became clear that these weren’t Moors or Andalusian volunteers.

  Their armour and the emblems on their banners made it apparent that they were Normans and Franks. As they continued forward Robert spied a small mounted contingent, perhaps twice their number, detach itself from the thundering troop and start to approach them.

  They had travelled about half way when the captain raised his hand to signal the men to stop. Robert patted the side of Jupiter’s side. His own mouth was dry and parched so he knew his charger was even more eager for water.

  The approaching party also started to slow from a canter to a trot, before stopping not ten feet from them. The leader was dressed in a fine suit of armour which was half covered in a sky-blue surcoat. A visor was attached to his helmet concealing his face. By his attire, the man was without doubt a knight of high merit.

  Courteously Alfonso raised his hand in salute and waited for the masked noble to reply. However instead he merely lifted his visor and stared. He was about the same age as Robert, with a pinched face and hypercritical, beetle-like eyes.

   “Good morrow Sir, we mean you no harm,” said the captain.

   “Clearly,” smirked the young man, whose eyes quickly darted towards the Forgotten Army’s column.

   “We heard that the armies of Christendom gather at Toledo, yet you are riding north?” asked Alfonso.

   “It is I who shall ask the questions,” answered the man haughtily.

   “Is it?” replied the captain. “You are a knight of a noble house I assume?”

  Robert’s patience with the pompous young arse was already growing thin.

   “I am Sir Jean-Claude Gaspar, son of Lord Albert Gasper of Anjou,” he said loftily.

   “Greetings Sir Jean-Claude. I am Captain Alfonso de Mantes.”

  Sir Jean-Claude snorted at the title.

   “A captain of what exactly? A small trail of wagons and some foot soldiers?”

   “You will mind your tongue Sir Knight when addressing the captain,” growled Robert, forgetting the captain’s orders of keeping his silence.

   “Calm yourself Robert,” whispered Alfonso.

   “And who are you to speak to me?”

   “I am Sir Robert Spurling of Bridgenorth, vassal to Lord Montgomerie of England.”

  It was the first time Robert had used his title in front of his fellow comrades. So much for his declaration that his knighthood meant nothing while in the service of the Forgotten Army.

   “Do not test my patience man. A knight indeed,” sneered Jean-Claude.

   “Do not mock me Sir Jean-Claude, or I may have your father present your severed hand to Count Peter of Amiens, who, as it happens, fought side by side with this very captain and Commander of this force at Constantinople,” snarled Robert.

  There were several grunts of amusement from the men who were at Robert’s back. Meanwhile Sir Jean-Claude’s face had almost turned scarlet at the humiliation that had been dealt him in front of his fellows. The knight suddenly gripped the handle of sword.

   “Enough of this,” intervened Alfonso sternly. “Sir Robert you will hold your tongue. Sir Jean-Claude, if you are to draw that blade, I can assure you that it will be you who will come off worse.”

   “My lord would have no qualms about my men and I cutting you down, here and now,” the Frenchman spat.

   “And how would your lord feel,