Authors: Karin Tabke
Once he could do no more to help his body heal, Stefan ate. Slowly, for it pained him, he chewed the dried venison and washed it down with the wine. Exhausted and barely able to move another muscle, Stefan lay down, wedging himself between a fallen oak and the damp ground it rested upon.
Bright rays of sun speared his eyes. Stefan squinted, and as his mind awoke his body did as well. Unbearable pain jabbed and speared his thigh and face. His body was warm, and his joints ached. His arms, when he lifted one to shield the sun from his eyes, felt as if they were made of lead. He tried to move his thigh, but it was stiff and throbbed for the effort. It had tightened overnight. He needed a poultice and more balm. When he prodded the swollen skin, he winced. There was nothing more he could do but clean it. What he would not give for a cool stream in which to lay his burning body and let the water ease the fever from him!
Once again, with supreme effort, he raised himself up from the ground and rested upon the log. The sight that greeted him in the light of day would have shocked most men, but he had seen looters before. Swarms of them picked over the dead soldiers, taking every stitch of usable clothing and weaponry from their bodies, as well as from the fallen destriers. Hundreds of naked bodies gleamed white and swollen beneath the high afternoon sun, hundreds more lay fully clothed and armed, too much booty for the craven scavengers. An all-too-common sight for a seasoned warrior. Yet it was the great black buzzards, hunched over the dead, tearing at the bloated flesh and innards, screeching at the looters who came too close, that turned Stefan’s gut.
There was no honor for the fallen warriors who lay prey to the human and feathered scavengers. He looked up at the gray sky and prayed to a God he rarely spoke to, begging him to spare his brothers this travesty.
Stefan’s impulse was to rush out onto the field, to find his brothers and bring them safely to the wood. But he could not help them unless he helped himself first. Prudence cautioned him. In his black mail he would be known, for only he and seven other men wore it—a gift from the Conqueror to his most trusted guards. As quickly as he could, Stefan divested himself of his mail. He pulled his short dagger from his belt and hacked at a thick branch from the log he’d slept beneath. Gingerly he rose, and tested his leg, using the oak stick for support. Awkwardly, he moved along the inside of the forest line looking for a dead Saxon or Welshman close enough for him to strip and not be seen by the looters.
Abruptly, he stopped and looked up and across the wide field, staring at the smoldering castle. It had fallen. Completely destroyed. Cold anger infused him. He dragged his gaze from the defeating scene back to the fallen that littered the field. Cautiously, he made his way through the carnage, and with each pained step, his fury mounted. The Welsh and Saxons would pay dearly for the attack. When William heard of the loss, he would come himself to see them pay with their blood upon his sword. And Stefan would be riding beside him. Revenge was sweet when it was served upon a silver platter. He could almost taste it. So intent was he on his thoughts that he stumbled upon a body. He twisted in the air to keep the brunt of the impact from his thigh and face. Landing with a loud thud, he lay perfectly still as wave after wave of pain coursed over him, so intense that it pulled the breath from his chest. He dared not move lest someone close heard the commotion. But the voices were farther off, taking advantage of the easy pickings.
He was in luck: the body he stumbled upon was that of a fat Saxon. In short order he stripped the man, donning his leather gambeson and silver mail. It fit well enough, though not like his own custom mail. Stefan kept his own sword belt and dagger, but grabbed the pike lying beside the dead man to use as a walking stick. He scanned the area for a sword, but found nothing but a broken bow.
He would find what he needed on yonder field. The thought turned his stomach. Never had he gone onto a field after a victory and turned into a buzzard preying on a dead man’s weapons. Now he had no choice. To survive, he must. And survive he would. Fortified with the clothing of the Saxon, he did not give too much concern to his clean-shaven face. His hair hung down to his shoulders in the Saxon mode, and if questioned about his bare face he could easily blame it on a Norman pig. ’Twas common practice amongst them to shear any defiant Saxon. Stefan limped out onto the littered battlefield, intent on getting to his horse and locating his own good sword.
He kept his head low and his eyes open, searching the face of each fallen soldier in his path, praying none of them were his brothers’. Rhys had been right beside him when he fell, the others ahead. It took considerable effort to navigate over the heaps of bodies, and as he passed each one his gratitude grew. None was familiar. He found a sturdy bow and slung it over his shoulder, then several quivers full of arrows. From a Norman, he pried the man’s sword from his stiff fingers. ’Twas not nearly as worthy as Thor, his own good sword, but ’twould do until he reclaimed the weapon. Slowly he moved to the spot where he had fallen. As he approached, Stefan growled low.
A Saxon whooped in glee. Buzzards scattered. In his hand, Thor. The soldier held it high in the air, showing those nearby his treasure. Stefan’s anger grew when another Saxon dog pulled his saddle from his cherished destrier’s back and rifled through the bags.
A commotion broke out. A fight between the two Saxons for the good sword. Stefan stood and watched, hoping they would kill each other. The one who had picked his horse clean fell to his knees, Thor buried deep in his gut.
“I warned you, Edwin, I would have the sword!” The victor of the spoil kicked the body from the blade and set about stripping Fallon clean of his bridle and mail. The greedy Saxon stopped when another man, a Welshman, from his quality attire a noble, stopped to watch the Saxon wrestle the saddle onto his shoulders.
He reached down and picked up Stefan’s black helm that had come loose from under Fallon’s bloated girth. He traced his finger over the back slope and what Stefan knew was the engraving of a skull and plunging sword through it. “ ’Tis the same mark on the same type of helm as the knights Rhiwallon captured,” he said in thick English to the Saxon. Stefan’s heart lurched against his chest at the news. His brothers captured? The Welshman looked across the sea of dead men, as if searching for the owner of the helm. For a breathless moment, his eyes locked with Stefan’s before they moved past him to the others who picked the carcasses clean. “Legend says there are eight. My liege captured six. The other two must be here amongst the fallen.” He speared the Saxon looter with a sharp glare. “Have you seen another helm such as this one?”
“He will pay with more than gold for their release.” The Welshman tucked Stefan’s helm under his arm. “Should you discover the other helm, or any other man with black mail, bring it to me. I am Morgan ap Cynfor, my tent is just past the crest. I will see you well fed and well paid for your effort.”
Stefan did not know whether to laugh or cry. His brothers lived! But, as Rhiwallon’s captives, for how long? He scanned the field, certain that Rhys, who had been close to him when he fell, was the other Blood Sword who managed to avoid capture. Did he live? Or was he buried beneath the spoiling corpses? Keeping to himself, Stefan scoured the field for Rhys until his leg was so swollen, and pained him so greatly, that he did not know if he had the strength to return to his place in the woods. But somehow he managed. Collapsing on the loamy ground, he lay on his back and closed his eyes.
When he awoke, it was not to the glare of the sun, but to hot wet breath upon his cheek. He started and moved away but in the low light of sunrise he burst out laughing. ’Twas Apollo, Rhys’s horse! He was fully tacked and stood patiently, as if awaiting Stefan’s command.
Barely able to rise, Stefan pulled himself up by the stirrup. He rummaged through the saddlebags and found a pouch of venison, a skin of wine, and another smaller pouch of herbs and balms, more thread and another needle.
He sank to the ground, pulled off his mail chauses and tended his wounds. Though they pained him greatly, once cleaned and with fresh balm spread upon them, the throb eased enough for him to sit back against the log and take several long breaths, then eat and drink. Fatigue overcame him. He closed his eyes, wondering if he would find Rhys, if he lived, and how he would free his brothers from the greedy hands of Rhiwallon.
When he next awoke, the sun was behind him to the west. The air had cooled and the field of corpses had quieted. He decided to give himself one more night of rest before he made his move. Apollo was content to munch on the greenery surrounding them; hidden as they were and the fields now void of looters—though the buzzards still feasted—he was not over-worried about being discovered.
With nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, Stefan’s mood turned morose. The deep void in his heart widened. Without his brothers, he had no purpose. They were as much a part of him as his hands, his arms, and his legs. They accepted his lot in life with no judgment. Indeed, they all suffered the same damned fate. Bastards all of them, mercenary knights who had found a sovereign worthy of their loyalty in the Conqueror. And he would not let William down, nor his brothers. He would find a way to free them from Rhiwallon even if he had to single-handedly deliver them.
The next morning, after tending to his wounds and taking his meager meal, with great effort Stefan stood. He ventured out onto the field one last time for a change of clothing. And from the man whose sword he stripped the day before, feeling like a craven but with no other choice, Stefan lifted a wicked seax from the dead man’s sword belt, then stripped him of his leather-studded gambeson, undertunic, and other clothing.
While the clothing and weapons were not his own, they would more than do for a change. He hobbled back to Apollo and rolled his own mail and the borrowed clothing up into Rhys’s prized wolf pelt. The knight had killed the beast with his own bare hands, and used the soft pelt to sleep upon when they were on the road, which was often. Then he tied the full pelt to a saddlebag. With great effort, Stefan mounted the destrier and carefully navigated the dense wood, keeping to the thicker brush to avoid Saxon and Welsh, who he was sure roamed the forests looking for men such as he, lone Normans. In four days’ time, for he traveled slow, he came upon an old Druid monastery where he had spent a night not so long ago. He tried not to smile but could not help it. ’Twas the place Wulfson had tracked down his lady, one night.
An ease began to settle over him in this familiar ground. He would go to Wulfson’s estate where his lady awaited word. From there, they would strategize and find a way to bring the Blood Swords home. He would not rest until he saw each of them alive with his own eyes and returned to English soil. ’Twas he who was responsible for their capture; therefore it would be he who, at all costs, would secure their release!
Just past the ruin there was an old Druid trail, and he knew it led to a stream that filled a hidden pool farther in. He stunk of blood, sweat, and dirt, and he could not bear to be so unclean. As the small oasis revealed itself to him, Stefan let out a long breath. The cool water would feel good upon his skin, and his wounds, though healing, could use a thorough cleansing.
He dismounted and allowed Apollo a long drink, then moved to the back of the inviting pool and through a copse of fern and bush to a small clearing. There he tied the horse to a branch and stripped. Taking only his sword with him, Stefan waded into the cool water.
For a long moment, he closed his eyes and reclined against the edge, allowing the water to cool his body. Though the wound in his thigh showed no signs of festering, such was always a concern. And despite the savagery of the wound to his face, it did not pain him as much as his thigh. With no soap, he grabbed a handful of springy moss and scrubbed his skin clean. He broke off a sapling branch that hung over the water, splintered the end and vigorously cleaned his teeth. He rinsed and spat, and once clean, he climbed to the bank and lay upon a large flat rock, to dry himself naked beneath the warm rays of the afternoon sun.
He dreamt of days gone by, of his time in the Saracen prison fighting for his life with his brothers, of his troubled boyhood in Normandy and of the one bright light in his dark life, of Lisette, the maid who stole his heart, then tossed it in a dung heap when a better offer came along.
“Stefan!” Lisette laughed, dragging him by the hand toward the stable he had just come from. “You promised to show me the foal.” Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of a young girl in love, and her eyes did not deceive him. ’Twas not the foal she wished to see.
“Your father has forbidden our meeting. There are servants with loose tongues in the stable,” he cautioned. But he could no more resist her than not breathe. Ducking behind a tree, he pulled her into the circle of his arms. “Come with me to the creek,” he whispered. “I will go ahead now, meet me as soon as you can.” He released her and ran as fast as tenand-six-year-old legs would carry him, to their secret place. The place where they had spent idle hours professing their love for the other. The place where he had learned the secrets of her body.