Read Knights of the Blood for Free Online Page A

men had long since cast aside any such prejudices, though each man knew his place within the structure.
    It was time. Feeling the rising tension that always preceded going into battle, de Beq turned and went with William of Etton down to where the rest waited, mentally checking each man’s equipment: as he moved among them and assessing the condition of their mounts. The horses looked fit enough for the gallop down to the village, after their long march to get here; the men looked no worse than their horses.
    He had done almost all he could do to prepare them. Drawing his sword, he sank to one knee to do the rest, grasping the blade of the sword with both mail—mitted hands and holding the cross—hilt before him, as the others did the same all around him. The archers lowered the top ends of their bows to the ground in salute, heads bowed, and the knight who held the standard, Sir Myles Brabazon, dipped the colors to trail in the dust.
    “Not to us, Lord, not unto us, but unto Thee be the glory!” de Beq prayed, as generations of crusader knights had prayed, bowing his head at the men’s answering, “Amen,” as it whispered around him.
    Then he was kissing the relic in the pommel of his sword, rising to slip the weapon into its sheath, setting his boot in the stirrup of the horse that one of the serjeants brought up, while his men mounted all around him. Beside him, the brilliant banner of the Order unfurled above Myles Brabazon’s fists–a blue cross patonce outlined in gold, floating on a crimson field. Between the arms of the cross were four golden cramponned crosses, turned forty—five degrees, so that a distance, they looked like X’s within a golden circle.
    Beneath their flowing mantles of white linen, the knights bore this device on their red surcoats, with their personal arms displayed on short, open sleeves at either shoulder. The serjeants bore the same device, but without the demi—sleeves .. The men—at—arms displayed the device as well, but in a roundel on the left breast. It was a noble and inspiring device, and had never been dishonored.
    Picking up his horse’s reins, de Beq turned in the saddle and surveyed his command, waiting until everyone was mounted and settled, awaiting his orders.
    “Quietly, now, mes confrères,” he said with a wolfish grin inside his helmet, holding up a mitted hand for silence. “We have an appointment with Ibn—al—Hassad, and we would not want to alarm him prematurely.”

THE WIND coming up off the Syrian plain brought with it a fine grit that worked its way between skin and padded gambeson as the Knights of the Order of the Sword rode across the desert floor towards Chalice Well. The gates to the settlement were open, and de Beq led his men quietly through, drawing them up to dismount inside the village.
    Leaving four of his men—at—arms to guard the horses, de Beq quickly formed his serjeants and remaining men—at—arms into skirmishing parties of three to four, each led by a knight. Should they need to beat a hasty retreat, he sent his four archers up onto the walls to provide covering fire. Spread out at ten—yard intervals, the archers could prevent even the most determined enemy from making any headway between the tightly packed houses and the perimeter wall. Each man had thirty arrows, and at the distance they had to cover, there was no doubt that each shaft would find its mark. With his protective cover in place, de Beq raised his sword and gave the signal for his men to advance down the narrow paths between the houses.
    The skirmish parties started to move out, boar spears at the ready, each followed by the knight who had command. In the event that anyone was foolish enough to offer resistance, the men—at—arms and serjeants would stab and slash with their broadbladed spears. If attacked from the rear, the knight would turn and hold the enemy while the men behind him raised their spears, turned around, and pressed forward to assist the