Giric nodded encouragingly. “What else?”
For a moment, Davie looked confused. He glanced from side to side with a heavy frown. And then the clarity of enlightenment washed over him. All expression left his face. “Helms. They’re wearing helms.”
“They are indeed.” Giric stood toe-to-toe with the boy, towering over him and peering down at the blooded mark upon his brow. A good-size lump. “Why?”
“To protect their heads,” the lad said morosely.
“And where isyourhelm?”
“In my tent.”
Giric waved to one of the other soldiers. “Fetch it.” Then he smiled at Davie. “Describe the spy to me. Every detail you can recall. Leave nothing out.”
“He were a lad. Short and dark haired, wearing breeks and a woolen brat.”
“You’re certain it wasn’t a woman?”
“What?” Davie’s eyebrows soared. “A wench? Nay. Not a tittie in sight.”
Giric sat back on his heels. It was not the first time Davie had been brought before him. The lad was not particularly observant and errors in judgment were his forte. The spy might well have been Caitrina de Montfort. “Shoulder-length hair? Or longer?”
Davie shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. He had his brat over his head.”
“Of course he did.”
The soldier jogged back to the tent and handed Giric Davie’s helm. Giric turned it over in his hands, studying the craftsmanship. A basic raised dome with a nosepiece. No riveted reinforcements, no painted finish. Simple but solid, it offered reasonable protection to a fighting man.
“Put it on,” he ordered Davie.
The lad grabbed the helm and plunked it on his head. “I’ll wear it faithfully, Sir Giric. That I swear.”
“As you should.” Giric put his hands on either side of the helm. Hands that were, like the rest of him, large, scarred, and brutal. But reassuringly capable. “I don’t tolerate failure.”
He pinned the lad’s gaze with his own, then began to press.
Davie released a low, agonized moan.
A moan that quickly escalated into a bloodcurdling shriek as Giric squeezed his hands together with greater force and slowly bent the helm. It took every ounce of his strength to bend the metal, but bend it he did—until it cut into the boy’s flesh. When the lad began to thrash and tiny rivulets of blood were running down both sides of his neck, Giric thrust the screaming boy aside. “If I ever see you without a helm again, I will crush your skull like a grape. Understand?”
He glared at the two senior guards.
“Get him out of here.”
Returning to the table, he snatched up his goblet of wine and downed the contents in a single swallow. It would seem that Caitrina had not taken his threats at the abbey seriously. Perhaps it was time to send a stronger message.
“Bring me the girl!” he snarled.
Chapter 5
Caitrina was greeted at the door to the queen’s antechamber by a very worried Gisele. “Where have you been?” the older woman cried in French. “Her Grace has been feeling poorly all day. Tired and listless, barely able to sit before the fire. I had to call for the midwife.”
“I was in the cellars—”
“It no longer matters,” Gisele snapped. “She has been asking for you. Wash the filth from your hands and see to her.” Then she flounced off in the direction of the kitchens.
Caitrina nodded to Bran. “Just leave the items here. I’ll collect them later.”
“Is all well?” he asked.
