"We beg your Grace's pardon for the clamor. We shall put this wretch to the question or the crow-pole. As for you...up," muttered one of the guards, his fingers digging into the prisoner's neck as he signaled his fellows to drag the man toward the shadows of the secondary tents.
"Release me, you ham-fisted fools!" the captive shrieked, his voice cracking like dry kindling. "I am no spy! I am a messenger!You dumbwit!"
"A messenger?" mocked a man-at-arms, shaking him until his teeth rattled. "And where is your ribbon, boy? You've the look of a gutter-rat and the smell of a stable-floor."
"I know nothing of ribbons! I come from Kakunia! I bear word for the Young Bull!"
At the mention of Kakunia, the heavy velvet flaps of the command tent parted. A man stepped into the light, the golden sun glinting off the raging black bull emblazoned upon his breastplate. Sir Latio, heir to the high seat of Kakunia, stared down the length of his nose at the shivering heap of the young man.
