MARKS- Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

I finish Ward’s tunic - stitched fairly well and without any blood, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see. Saints forbid. I fold it extra carefully and hold on to it, hoping he’ll return and I can present it to him with a flourish and a fake smile like the ones I used to give Scarlett every morning.

But whatever he’s doing drags on and on, and finally I set the tunic on a crate amidst Nolan and Blair’s possessions. Perhaps when Ward comes out he’ll see it and I can smile sweetly and tell him how big and strong he is and bat my eyelashes.

I help Blair with dinner and all the while my brain is picturing stitches and hems. I wonder how often Ward rips his tunic, and how, and if he always expects someone else to stitch it up for him and make good of his mess. He doesn’t contribute to the people here; he’s not around to fish or hunt or bring back food. He doesn’t slice potatoes or boil them, and clearly the sufficient but simple meals we have here aren’t the only meals he’s getting. His tunic is practically a tent. I could’ve made a sail with it and drifted away somewhere flying the King’s colors. I hack off the end of a carrot Blair has me dicing with such fervor that she gasps beside me.

Saints above. What did the poor carrot ever do to me?

My brain blurs with the image of stitches again. I wish I could write a big rip in Ward’s pants while he’s guarding the King’s court or something else important. The idea of him exposing himself in front of the King sends me into a fit of giggles.

Blair pauses from her work and arches her brow at me. I concentrate on the carrots as though slicing them requires more skill than plotting a war, my grin held at bay by the clamping of my teeth on my lip. Eventually Blair’s head drops to her own work. Other women bustle around me, preparing the meal we’ll all eat later. Every day I attempt to help, though the Saints know I hardly know a thing about cooking. But I can stir and chop and do whatever I can to stay out of the way and not sit still.

One of the women bumps into me, and I mumble an apology, her name one that doesn’t jump to mind. I can’t keep a handle on all the people here. Different families. Clarks, Fishers, Allens. Blair and Nolan’s last name is Hancock. Ward’s last name is Green.

A color, of all things, is his last name.

The men are in and out, some hunting, some standing guard. The women and children are all over. Cooking, disappearing down to the spring to bathe, following their way through the tunnel to take care of personal needs outside. Sometimes they go in pairs or groups. And sometimes alone. My own whereabouts don’t seem to be noticed by anyone. But Liddy is my constant shadow. And anyway, as much as the idea of a guard invasion scares me, I have no idea where I’d go.

The men reappear from the tunnel in time for dinner. Ward doesn’t even notice his tunic. Just takes his plate and sits.

I plop beside him and paste on a huge fake smile and nod to the crate. “I finished your tunic.”

“Good.” He shovels a forkful of food into his mouth.

Good? No thanks or appreciation. Well, at least he isn’t going over to scrutinize the size or evenness of the stitches. Good heavens. I don’t bother trying to talk to him again, though I’m dying to know what his story is. I just eat my boiled vegetables and bread in silence. Liddy joins us, wedging herself between Ward’s bulky frame and mine. When she’s done eating, she hands her plate and its remains to Ward. He gobbles the food up without so much as a thank you to her. I finish my food before he can steal mine, too.

Ward wipes his mouth and takes his empty plate to Blair, kissing the top of her head as he does. He towers over her like an ogre over its victim. “That was good,” he tells her. “Thank you.”

Well, at least someone gets a thank you from him. His tunic still sits where I left it, and a sudden twinge of panic that it’s not sewn well enough springs to life inside me. Do guards get beaten for sloppy uniforms? I wait to catch his eye, but he ignores me, instead going over to talk with Reid and Mason. They clabber up his back and he rough-houses with them, their laughter echoing off the walls. They’re as desperate for his attention as Liddy.

After dinner, Ward disappears down the tunnel to the springs, pulling the ribbon of fabric from its place by the entrance. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, but the ribbon is pulled down to indicate the spring is occupied. I haven’t visited the springs again, and wonder if it’s all right to do so even though I’m not that dirty. Ward is obviously filthy from his activities on behalf of our King today. And traipsing through sewage. Though from the look of his boots when he arrived, there’s another route here that doesn’t involve wading through crap. How nice that I got to experience that on my journey here.

Story time starts soon after dinner. Clive isn’t the only one who shares a tale, but so far he’s my favorite. When he stands tonight and a hush settles over the crowd, I sink onto a blanket close to the fire. Liddy crawls into my lap. I snuggle my arms around her and listen as the smooth timbre of Clive’s voice fills the room. From the corner of my eye, I watch for movement coming out of the spring tunnel. But Ward doesn’t emerge. Perhaps he took a back tunnel out.

When the stories are done, everyone scatters to their own sleeping spots across the room. Mine is beside Liddy’s and Reid’s, closer to the wall than the fire. I crawl onto my side and curl up, my eyes closed.

Murmurs and late evening chatter echo off the rocks as everyone settles down, and they’re as jarring to me as yells and screams. For years I’ve grown accustomed to my own silence, nothing but the words in my head to keep me company. It’s not overly loud here, but noises bounce off the walls and stay hemmed in, with nowhere to go but the rock walls above us. Everyone here is thrown together, like different dyes in one pot - a hodgepodge of people all trying to fit on the same cloth. I’m not sure where the color of one person ends and another begins.

Footsteps echo off the rock floor and I snap my eyes open. Ward rolls out a bedroll beside me, closer to the outer wall of the room and the tunnel he and I first came through. His huge frame could no doubt halt any intruder and give me time to run, and I feel a release of tension knowing he’d be able to stop someone from getting me. He plunks down on his blanket without a word. His leg brushes against my knee and I scowl, but he only throws an arm over his eyes. Must be exhausted from all his work for the King. I curl myself tighter so he’s not touching me

I glance over to the expanse of space on the other side of Blair and Nolan. Ward would have much more room to sprawl out his huge frame there. Though I guess I can’t blame him. There isn’t a lot of privacy in the big room. And though I’ve seen more than one couple disappear down to the springs together after evening meal, the gentle writhing underneath bedclothes at night has taught me not to search for the reason behind sounds.

Still, irritation pulses adrenaline through all my muscles and I can’t settle down. I toss and turn and nearly smack Ward’s leg with my foot. The big lug. He’s taken up most of the space without asking, just assuming his big bulky frame is welcome.

I sigh and turn toward him. His chest rises and falls and his mouth hangs open when he sleeps. At least he doesn’t snore.

Not a breath later, a loud rumble bubbles out of him.

You have got to be kidding me.

#

Ward is still here when I wake up in the morning. Must be nice having off work two days in a row. He disappears with Nolan, following some of the men down one of the tunnels. Meanwhile I’m stuck in the cave. Washing dishes. Mending one of the dozens of thick rugs that cover the cavern floor, protecting us from the cold that seems trapped in the rock. All the while, I’m trying not to think about the life I once had, one full of work and steadiness. Not like the one I have now, stuck down here with these people living, quite literally, under a rock.

If they hate the King, why aren’t they doing something instead of hiding here?

Saints help me, I wish I knew if we’re really safe here. I’m a sitting target in this cave. If guards find out we’re here, I might as well skewer myself over the King’s dinner plate and serve myself up to him with a side of corn. I hate staying, but I can’t leave. If I really am being watched by Breck, I can’t go back to the city. Saints curse you, Ward, for bringing me here.

The men return around lunch. They eat and some gather weapons. During the time I’ve been here, they’ve only ventured outside the cave in pairs. Sometimes they return with game they’ve killed. Other times with bundles underneath their clothing. I have no idea what they bring back. Food of course. And cloth and thread and other essential things. But these people hiding out aren’t the only secret this cave holds.

Ward never came out with the men. Blair pushes a plate of food into my hand and nods to the tunnel. “He never rests. Can you take this to him?”

I bite down a smile as I head to the tunnel. Finally, a good reason to see what’s down here. Torches are placed close enough together that I can see well enough. It’s cooler down here, away from the fires. The tunnel spills into a room, not as wide as the big one, but tightly stacked with weapons and barrels of who knows what. Ward sits on a crate, sharpening a dagger.

He looks up as I get closer.

“Blair sent me with food,” I tell him.

He glances at the plate in my hand without missing a stroke on his metal. The dagger practically glistens already. The King’s emblem adorns the top. This is the weapon Ward uses as a guard. I have a vision of a blade coated in blood. My brother’s blood. Only that blade was a Blackfeet sword and not a guard’s dagger. My heart thumps wildly. I wonder if Ward’s ever had to kill someone. Or if he’s ever failed to keep Breck from putting his hands, or more, on a girl.

I put the plate down on a table. “How do you do it?”

Ward stops and looks up at me. “Do what?”

“Work for him and do all those horrid things he makes you do?”

Ward stands and puts the blade down on the table “Do you know what happens to people who refuse their guard draft?”

I do, but that doesn’t matter. He could’ve hidden. Everyone else in his family is here. I tilt my chin up. “Some run away.”

“Well, I don’t run away from things.” He spits the words out through clenched teeth.

“But you’ll do whatever he tells you and take advantage of your position as guard? Why don’t you use it for good?”

Ward takes a step closer to me. “What do you think I did the day Breck dragged you into an alley?”

He towers over me and all I want to do is shove him until he topples to the floor. “Why don’t you find a way to kill the ones who are bad?”

“You’d condone murder?”

Hell yes, I would. “If the person deserved it.”

Ward scoffs in disgust. “Well, hate to burst your bubble, princess, but that’s not what we do.”

Anger pulses through me. “Why’d you save me if I’m so intolerable?”

“Because people are worth saving regardless of their personality.”

“Good thing for you,” I tell him. “You have the personality of a boil or a tiresome wart!” I pick up my skirts and stalk past him.

“Well you’re as likeable as a rash on my backside!”

His words echo off the rock walls, boiling my hot anger into a rage. I turn around and rear back my hand, but before it can fly forward Ward captures it in his.

I jerk my arm away, but he keeps hold of it and steps so that he’s right against me, just a sliver of air between us.

He squeezes my arm, his gaze unflinching. “You’ve got more than just a spark of anger hidden beneath all your accusations. Be careful who you fling those on.”

Ward pins me with a glare and I can’t move, caught in his arms and against his huge frame. Powerless. He drops my hand and strides off. A tremble explodes in my stomach. I ball up my fists. Saints above help you, Ward Green. If I had pen and paper right now, I’d write a rash on your backside the likes of which the world has never known.

Sentences burst in my brain. But they’re not curses on Ward. They’re truth.

The sentence he just spoke, and the words in it and the horrible, awful truth that’s in them.

I don’t run away from things.

It’s as if he knows - running away was all I did.