“I’m here now. I’m here. Shhh.”
She raised her hands to his face, feeling his cheeks, his new beard. “It’s you. You’re safe.” Dinah was babbling now, close to hysteria. “I’m sorry, Wardley, I’m sorry, please forgive me. Forgive me for hurting you, for stabbing you.” She pressed her hand against where she knew his wound to be. “I’m so sorry!”
Wardley’s eyed filled with tears. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who is sorry. I’m a coward. I should have left with you. I should have found you sooner. You are the rightful Queen, I should have protected you.” Wardley crushed her close to his chest.
“You did, Wardley. You saved my life.” They leaned their foreheads together, their hearts hammering loudly in the damp wind. Dinah wiped away her tears, suddenly aware of making a scene in front of throngs of armed men. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. Wardley looked down at her, his eyes the color of warm chocolate, eyes she had loved her entire life. Her heart was captivated by him, even after all this time.
“Dinah, don’t you know? I’m here to command your army.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. Dinah looked out at the sea of soldiers in black, all standing motionless: warriors, murderers, and prisoners. The Spades had arrived.
A smile crept across her face.
With these men, she could crush the King.
Chapter Fourteen
Sleep was of paramount importance, yet Dinah couldn’t think of anything she needed more than to let her eyes feast on Wardley’s slumbering face. She watched silently, mesmerized by the way his lips parted slightly with each deep breath, with each rise and fall of his chest.
After their joyous reunion, once they returned to camp, Dinah had seen how exhausted Wardley was. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He was thin, thinner than Dinah had ever seen him, and there was a tortured ache present in his face that broke her heart. The Spades, eight hundred and seventy-two in number, had marched for a week under his leadership and arrived hungry, weak, and irritable. They possessed a begrudging respect for Wardley, but the Spades as a group were independent and unruly, and he held onto his command by the skin of his teeth and the ferocity of his blade. After he made sure that the men were settled into their makeshift tents, he promptly collapsed into Dinah’s open cot and fell asleep within minutes. Dinah perched on a stool nearby, her hands folded together, her sword across her lap, her black eyes drinking in every breath of him. He’s here, she thought, he came for me. I wasn’t wrong to believe he’d find me. Wave after wave of relief washed over her, a flood of penetrating joy. It wasn’t just that he was alive and unhurt—not on the surface, anyway—but that she had someone here she trusted without hesitation. Sir Gorrann was a fine companion, but Wardley had known Dinah her entire life, in the intimate way that only a childhood friend could.
She continued to watch him sleep until her own weariness closed her eyes. She curled up beside him and they slept. She awoke to Morte’s impatient, thundering steps outside the tent. He was hungry; he was always hungry. So Dinah found a live chicken and gave it to Morte, who enjoyed chasing his prey around, toying with it, before he mercilessly speared it through the middle with one of the bone shards encircling his hooves. He then settled into the dirt to feast on its still-flailing body, and Dinah returned to the tent with a distaste for breakfast. Wardley, however, awoke starving and Dinah couldn’t feed him fast enough. She knelt by his bedside as he devoured dried bird meat, loaves of bread, and apples. Crumbs drifted down onto his long legs. His brown eyes bore into hers, overjoyed to see her, and yet filled with a terrible guilt. Wardley insisted that Dinah tell him everything, down to every last detail. She took a deep breath and recounted her story, alarmed at how dangerous everything seemed in retrospect. She started when she was awakened in her bed by a hand over her mouth and continued on through the details of Cheshire’s affair with her mother. The night on the mountain with the cranes and the shadows she kept to herself. That moment was hers alone, concealed close to her heart, next to the place where she held Wardley. He watched her with amazement as she told her tale, his face reacting boldly to each turn. When she finished, he sat quietly for a few minutes before speaking.
“So Cheshire is your father?”
“So it would seem.”