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

He had no time for sentiment. Their mission was all that mattered and they could not afford to lose track of Garcia or Esca.

  As Sir Guarin departed, Chevalier ordered another man to be executed. He watched with gratification as another of the Caliph’s men was dragged forward. There was a look of defiance and hatred in the prisoner’s eyes, until his head was wrenched down by his hair, exposing his neck. The sharpened blade whipped through the air, removing the head cleanly. At that moment Chevalier had a clear vision of the head that dropped to the floor to be that of Garcia or the conniving serpent, Esca.

*****

Dusk had almost fallen and the campfires had been lit. Around them came the raucous shouts of the Christian victors. Although exhausted from the day’s battle, a renewed energy and excitement pulsated through them.

  The men of the Forgotten Army raised their tankards to honour and remember their fallen. Cheers roared across the plain soon followed by songs as they often did. Late arrivals and the wounded returning were embraced and congratulated on their survival.

  Robert had remained separate from the celebrations. Alone, he sat on a stool outside his tent. He rubbed a whetstone down the watered blade of his sword, grating away the fresh clefts that had been inflicted over the course of that day.

  His thoughts were jumbled and unsettling. On his return to the camp he had watched captured soldiers being herded like sheep. They were strong and healthy looking troops, but that would soon change on their journey. Some would live but many would die. He had felt a wrench of guilt for them, remembering the Christian prisoners who had surrounded the Caliph’s tent. Was that what lay ahead for them?

  The loss of Wilfred suddenly overwhelmed him and grief was replaced with fury and a desire for further bloodshed and revenge. A nearby cheer snapped him out of his reverie, bringing him back to his senses and he realised his sword blade had returned to its smooth and razor sharp edge. The cheering men passed by him, oblivious of his presence. They were beyond drunk, shouting something in their local dialect.

  Their passing was not quick and they stumbled and laughed. Robert felt irritated and for a moment was tempted to shout at the drunks, using his title to silence them. He stopped himself – this was normal behaviour after victory in battle, and no doubt they would have little sympathy for a foreign mercenary. It was common for fights to break out late in to the evenings and these drunks may even attack him, if provoked.

  Finally, after their sluggish departure, he put aside his whetstone and placed another log on the small campfire. He remembered back to the times he had sat round just such a fire with Wilf, Old John Crook and Jimmy. Now only he and his young friend were left. Suddenly he felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

   “I’ve already told the others. I don’t want to drink. I just want to be left alone,” he said staring ahead.

  The hand was removed and he sensed the visitor moving away slightly. He turned and saw what he initially thought was a slim youth dressed in trousers, a shirt and leather jacket belted at the waist. A small sheathed dagger was looped to the belt.  It only took a second for him to realise he was mistaken.

   “There is no need for drink or celebration. But company can sometimes be a good healer,” replied Selva.

     “Selva! I’m sorry. I thought it was one of the men,” he said astonished.

  Her long thick hair had been pushed under a cap and her feet were encased in soft felt boots.

   “There is nothing to be sorry for, may I sit with you a while?”

   “To be honest, there’s nothing I would like more.”

  He was about to stand and give her his seat before she pulled up another stool. They sat in silence for a while before she held out her hand and placed it on his leg.

   “I am sorry about your friend Wilfred, he seemed a good man.”

   Robert swallowed hard. “Aye he was that. He was a fine warrior. Brave, fearless … and a good friend.”

   “Even the surgeon Clutter seems to mourn him and he seems to mourn for none.”

  The remark made Robert smile.

   “Clutter has never been one for sentiment,” he answered.

  He nodded his head towards her outfit and raised his eyebrows in query.

  “Working with the wounded all day, this is far more practical, and I feel less exposed,” she explained, looking at him intently.

  “I want people to see that I’m of use, not just a little woman following her lord wherever she goes. This way I can, in a small way, earn my keep.”

  He nodded and gave a small smile. “You never cease to surprise me. Please don’t ever stop.”

  They continued to talk companionably for some time, the topics changing.

   “Will the army continue south?” she asked finally.

   “I think the generals will give it a week or so and then continue to pursue the enemy. Where they go exactly, I don’t know.”

   “And you will ride with them?”

  Robert did not want to lie to her. But he was bound by his oath.

   “I am not sure what my orders will be. We will be sent to scout ahead of the army again, that I have no doubt.”

   “The Commander will send you ahead again?”

   “It was why he gave me my own men.”

   He had sheathed his sword and placed it beside him. The feeling of doing nothing made him uneasy. Reaching for the broken shaft of a spear he stoked