Nothing. His stomach tightened. He had never noticed.
How did I not notice?
Without another word, Damien folded the paper again and strode back outside. The afternoon sun struck his face as he descended the tavern steps. He stood perfectly still, his mind working furiously through possibilities. Gantry would never have sent an unsigned message. Never. The man was cautious to the point of obsession. Every report bore his mark.
A movement near the stables caught Damien's attention. Someone ducked behind a stack of hay. His eyes narrowed.
In two long strides he crossed the yard. The hidden figure attempted to flee, but Damien caught the young man's collar before he had taken three steps. He hauled him upright with effortless strength. The lad could not have been older than seventeen, dressed in patched breeches and a worn linen shirt. Terror flooded the boy's face as his boots barely touched the ground.
"P-please, sir!"
Damien released him just enough for the boy to stand.
"Who are you?" Damien demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.
The youth trembled so violently that his teeth chattered.
"My name's Thomas, Your Grace," he stammered, wringing his cap between shaking hands. "I'm... I'm only a farm lad."
Damien held up the letter. "You're the messenger that delivered this to me."
"Y-yes, Your Grace," he stammered.
"Who gave it to you?" Damien demanded.
Thomas swallowed hard. "I don't know his name."
Damien took one deliberate step closer. "Describe him."
The boy squeezed his eyes shut as though trying desperately to remember.
"He was well dressed," he whispered. "Like yourself, Your Grace. Fine coat. Gloves. Proper gentleman." He shook his head helplessly. "I'd never seen him before."
"Did he say anything?" Damien asked.
"He only said if I gave the letter to the Duke of Wexford exactly as instructed, I'd earn a sovereign."
Damien's jaw clenched. "Did he ride away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Which direction?"
Thomas pointed vaguely towards the western streets. "I wasn't paying much attention."
Damien studied the terrified youth for another moment. Every instinct told him the boy spoke the truth. He was frightened, unsophisticated, and completely out of his depth.
"This was not your doing," Damien said at last.
Thomas blinked.
"Go home."
The lad needed no second invitation. He practically sprinted across the yard before disappearing around the corner.
Damien remained motionless. The letter crackled softly within his fist.
Why? Why send me here? What purpose does it serve?
