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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.
Once the pain had subsided to manageable, Stefan evened his breaths and sat up.
    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.
In slow painful steps, Stefan moved toward them, all the while scanning the blood-soaked ground for Rhys.
    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