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

   “The Forgotten Army,” bellowed the men in unison.

  Led by their Commander the survivors of the mercenary cavalry swept into the enemy encampment and began their rampage.

What was left of the Almohad armies were either cut down or captured and herded into groups. The Crusaders started to explore the countless disciplined rows of tents. Some of the survivors had lost the will to fight and simply dropped to their knees in surrender.

  Robert stayed close to the Commander, as did his small company of horsemen. Ruscar sheathed his blade and now rode with his Persian bow, an arrow notched and ready. They battled to the centre of the camp against those few who still resisted capture.

  Trying to get their bearings, they were taken off guard by three horsemen, wearing the colours of the Caliph’s personal bodyguard. Two of the Commander’s men were struck from their horses, blood spraying from the mortal strokes.

  They were quickly dispatched, one by an arrow from Ruscar’s bow, the second, a fine thrust of Ridley’s spear and the third by the Commander himself. Seeing two of his men fall after a whole day of slaughter, the Commander was beyond rage and felt the crazed blood lust re-emerge.

  Rotating his horse to face the last of the three, the Commander roared fiercely. The Almohad was well built, nearing the size of Ruscar. He carried a crescent shaped shield and a three-pronged spear which looked more like a trident.

  Robert raised his hand to halt the men. It was obvious the Commander was determined to dispatch this man himself. Even Ruscar had lowered his bow. There would be no quarter given.

   As the two engaged in combat, the Almohad warrior aimed his spear straight for the Commander’s chest. He knew it was a difficult target, but if he punched hard enough into the Christian savage it would finish him. Just as he was about to strike, the Commander moved his shield closer to his body. The strong thrust glanced off the shield of yellow and black. Standing in his stirrups and launching himself forward the Commander brought his sword across into the Almohad’s collar, almost severing his head.

  Blood erupted from the warrior’s neck and sprayed over the Commander and his horse. Nearby they could hear the screams and sobs of the dying and the yells and cheers of the victors. But here there was an awed silence amongst the men who had watched the spectacle. Like so many times before, Commander Reynard, knight of Sancerre had proved to his men why he was the leader they would follow into battle.

   “Well?” he said through heavy breaths, eyes ablaze and grinning madly. “You think we’re finished yet? Come on, move you heathens, move.”

  The men shouted and cheered as they continued to follow the Commander onwards. Nearing the camp’s centre, the Commander shouted out new orders.

   “Robert, take a dozen of the men and veer left. Ruscar do the same to the right. We meet at the middle.”

  As Robert reined in Jupiter and steered him left, his men and another half dozen followed. They rampaged through the untouched passage, lined with the handsome tents of the Caliph’s noblemen. They were by far, more extravagant than the others spread across the vast camp.

  Robert had no doubt that his fellows behind him were greedily eyeing up the flamboyant and luxurious pavilions. But they all knew better than to disobey the Commander’s orders – namely, to ensure the enemy had been well and truly crushed. Such actions would earn them at least a flogging, maybe even a banishing or worse, a hanging.

  They rounded the final tent in the line and found themselves in front of one even more magnificent than all the others. The sun gleamed off golden pillars and rich silks embroidered with silver and gold thread. Caliph Al-Nasir’s tent looked like a small palace surrounded by thickly woven carpets. Even more extraordinary were the palms in massive pots and a small fountain gently splashing in a blue tiled basin, giving an impression of an oasis in the desert.

  But that was not what stopped Robert and his companions in their tracks.

   “Halt!” he shouted at the top of his voice, although it sounded more like a croak.

  The exhausted horses whinnied and reared up. With such a fierce and abrupt stop one of the men’s palfreys collapsed to the ground, unable to stand any longer. The fall of the beast would have trapped the rider’s leg had he not jumped from his saddle. But Robert was oblivious to what was happening to his left as were the rest of his followers.

  Silently they stared in astonishment at a sight none of them had expected.

  To their left, a troop of King Sancho’s knights were butchering the last of the Caliph’s bodyguard who had remained loyal to the end and stayed to allow their liege time to flee. To the right was Reynard and his party, who had arrived only moments before.

  The Commander looked as stunned as Robert. This was a man who had witnessed and experienced all manner of customs and conduct across the realms of Christendom, all the way to the furthest borders of Palestine.

  Surrounding the tent, moaning and pleading for mercy, were at least a hundred slaves chained together. The ring of men, who circled the entire royal enclosure, were dressed in no more than a loin cloth to cover their manhood. Some had collapsed, a few were obviously dead, but still manacled to the men on either side of them. Their plight looked even more obscene against the backdrop of such luxury and splendour.

  Muddied and filthy, it was still possible to ascertain that these slaves were from all corners of the known world.