The Crusader's Crown (Tales of the Brotherhood Series Book 1) by James Mercer (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📕

   “You’d better come with us,” answered Jimmy.

  When they reached Clutter’s make-shift hospital, men were still being carried through. Entering, Robert saw the familiar sight of the aftermath of battle.

  Clutter was a fine surgeon. But while his blades were as sharp, his honesty and opinions were as blunt as could be. If a man was not going to survive his wounds, he would not waste words. He placed a hand on their shoulder, looked them firmly in the eye and told them he could do no more.

  However, this time Robert could see the surgeon kneeling over his patient and it quickly became clear why Jimmy and Cherik had sounded so forlorn. Wilfred was lying on the ground, a blanket underneath him. His breaths were fast and shallow, and Robert could see Clutter trying to make the captain as comfortable as possible. But it was obvious there was little more he could do and the Saxon warrior was fading.

  Most of Wilfred’s body was covered in dirt and the dried blood of his foes. But on his left side a sword had torn through his mail and leather and cut deep into his midriff. No matter how much Clutter tried to stop the bleeding, it was no good. Noticing Robert for the first time, the surgeon shook his head gently and beckoned him forward.

  Robert knelt at his old mentor’s right side. Wilfred opened his eyes but said nothing, instead he raised his hand a little which Robert gripped with his own.

   “Back last again lad. ‘Tis a bad habit, aren’t I always telling ya?” The words came out through gasps.

   “Back first actually. But didn’t expect you to go and get yourself an injury like this,” replied Robert softly.

   “Last one I reckon Rob,” he wheezed.

   “Ah rubbish. It’s merely a scratch for an ogre like you.”

   “One scratch too deep this time.”

  Robert gripped the Saxon warrior’s hand tighter.

   “Come on you old fool. You haven’t even had your share of the loot yet,” he said.

  Wilfred managed a smile before his face creased as a spasm of pain crept up his whole body.

   “You can’t leave me in this God forsaken place Wilf. We’ve hardly even started the campaign yet.” continued Robert.

   “Sorry son. You’re going to have to do the killing for the both of us,” whispered Wilfred. “But I couldn’t ask for a better way to go. Felling the bastard who dealt me the killing blow and the knowledge that we were victorious yet again. It’s almost poetry.”

  He closed his eyes again and the rise and fall of his chest became fainter.

   “You were one of the finest of warriors, and the greatest of teachers that a lonely, half-starved, whelp could have ever hoped for,” said Robert, his eyes shining with tears.

   “You weren’t bad yourself lad. Now be sure to send me to me forefathers in style. Bury me with sword in hand, dressed for battle, so I’ll be welcomed by them in Valhalla.”

   “I swear I will.”

  Robert sat silently until finally his friend ceased breathing and the hand he gripped so tightly went limp. Robert knew that Wilfred was a Christian of sorts but still held on to the traditions of his ancestors. He fervently hoped the old warrior was on his final journey to drink and dine with his forefathers.

*****

Chevalier’s pulse was still racing as he hung the long kite shield onto the back of his saddle and sheathed his sword. He watched in silence, a glint of frenzied approval in his eyes, as the execution of the Almohad Caliphate’s soldiers took place in front of him. The loss of Sir Olbrecht was justified every so often when one of the helpless infidels would plead for his life.

   “Would they not be worth more as slaves?” Sir Guarin asked tentatively.

   “Probably. But such numbers would be difficult to transport, guard and feed. There will be ample enough slaves to take north. Besides, we will be long gone from here by the time the campaign finishes.”

  To their left, one such group of the enemy chosen for servitude was being escorted back toward the victors’ camp. The captives had been relieved of their armour and anything else of value. Their hands had been bound together, behind their backs, while another rope was tied around their neck. A further line of rope adjoined one man’s collar to the next in front.

  Only a few still stood upright, a defiant expression on their faces showing a will to exact retribution on the enemy. The rest had the look of despair, knowing a life of enslavement was ahead of them.

   “My lord.”

   “Sergeant?” answered Chevalier to his man-at-arms.

   “My lord, the Templar, Garcia, has sent word. He and his men intend to leave for Baeza.”

   “When?”

   “The messenger did not say my lord. His orders were only to ask us to be ready to join them when they sent word.”

   “Very well. Sir Guarin, go and join the others, and watch that Templar’s movements. Send word if you suspect they are going to depart without us.”

  There was a look of confusion on Sir Guarin’s face as the orders were assigned. Chevalier had already appointed two of his own men to watch Garcia’s actions. Even with the new orders, he still did not trust the Templar and wished to have him monitored at all times.

   “Such a message could be sent to deceive us,” he explained. “Gather our men who are still fit to ride. We will join them shortly.”

   “And the injured?”

   “Give them coin to pay for aid and have them join the escort back to Toledo.”

  Chevalier’s reply had been dismissive and without concern.