Caitrina poured a small amount of red wine into Yolande’s silver cup and then lifted her head to help her take a sip. As the queen lay back against the pillows, the cart rumbled again, louder this time and accompanied by the creaks and groans of an empty wooden wagon.
A few moments later, it stopped, and one of the ladies at the window gasped in shock. Another sank to her knees, genuflected, and began to mutter a prayer.
“Mon dieu,”said a third, turning from the window.“C’est barbare!”
Caitrina’s throat closed tight and a wave of dizziness washed over her. What was so terrible that it shocked women who’d seen almost everything?
Yolande grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “A queen cannot shy from that which offends others. Be my eyes and ears—go look for me. Tell me what barbaric display has appeared in our courtyard.”
Caitrina swallowed the lump in her throat. The women were not weeping; they were flinching with disgust. Surely that meant the cart in the close had nothing to do with Marsailli? She nodded to the queen, then crossed to the window, knock-kneed but determined.
The group around the window parted to let her pass.
Taking a deep breath, she peered through the cross-shaped hole in the thick stone wall.
The ox-drawn cart stood in the center of a group of soldiers. Three wooden hay forks had been planted in the flatbed of the cart, two of them acting as poles for the severed heads of the two murdered guards. But the heads were not simply staked—the eyes had been gouged out, the skin flayed, and the mouths stuffed with what could only be the guards’ genitals.
Caitrina’s mouth soured.
The third fork carried a message meant only forher. It was a torn white sark, rent right down the middle and emblazoned with a dark red-brown bloodstain. Bile rose in her throat. It was Marsailli’s sark. The blood was Marsailli’s blood. Another wave of dizziness struck Caitrina and her knees gave out. With a low keen of despair, she slid to the floor.
Her worst nightmare had come true.
Giric had raped her wee sister and was proudly displaying the evidence.
Chapter 7
Bran glanced up at the narrow window slits on the third floor. He could only hope that Caitrina wouldn’t recognize the significance of the torn kirtle. But given the age-old tradition of hanging the bridal sheets after a wedding night, that was a slim hope.
“Depole the men’s heads and bury them with the bodies,” he ordered crisply. “They deserve an honorable burial.”
Dougal met his gaze, hard and meaningful. “What of the gown?”
“Burn it.”
The constable directed his soldiers and then returned to Bran’s side. “The men are angry. They know the Sassenachs are out there somewhere, taunting us.”
Bran eyed the flushed cheeks and clenched fists of the men around him, and he nodded. “Their anger is justified. Gather a troop of your bravest men and mount them on your fastest horses. Let us run these scurrilous rats to ground.”
Dougal smiled thinly and turned to make good on the request.
“But, Dougal,” Bran said, halting him in midstride, “take care. These men are black-hearted knaves, and we cannot afford to bury any more men.”
The constable nodded. “Aye.”
With leaden feet, Bran mounted the steps and reentered the manor. Caitrina was due an explanation, but he was not looking forward to the conversation. How could he comfort her when his assurances had thus far proved false at every turn? He had not kept Marsailli safe. He had not even kept her close. Now her sister was in mortal danger and the culprit responsible was waving gruesome banners under their noses. Any vows Bran made would be meaningless.
He rapped his knuckles upon the door to the queen’s chamber.
“Who goes there?” her guard demanded.
“Marshal Gordon,” he responded. He slid his ring under the door as proof of his identity. “All is safe, for now. You may move about freely.”
From within, he heard the scrape of moving furniture, and then the door unlatched. Two stern-faced guards wielding sharp halberds greeted him when the door swung open. “He is alone,” one of them confirmed.
“That is indeed the marshal,” Caitrina confirmed, stepping into view.
He eyed her carefully. Pale face, dark eyes. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles white, and a small piece of rush from the floor was entwined in her hair. He did not need to ask her if all was well; the answer was obvious. Giric’s message had been delivered straight to her heart.
