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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?”
“Nay, but should I, ’twill no doubt fetch a handsome price. The knights you speak of are the Conqueror’s finest. He will pay a king’s ransoms for their return, eh?”
    “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.
“Hello, my good friend,” he softly said, rubbing Apollo’s velvety nose.
    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.
With those final thoughts, he closed his eyes, gave in to the pain of his body, and slept.
    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