He handed Hercules’ reins to a groom with the completely unnecessary instructions to give him a good brushing. The men in his stable knew their business. His horse would be in good hands, even if he would have preferred to do it himself.
As he turned to leave, the sound of a melodious man's voice speaking an unknown language caught his ear. It was Roderick, of course, talking to one of the horses in his native tongue as he affectionately stroked his head.
Darcy waited until the horse noticed him before approaching the stall. “I am glad to see you back. Could I have a moment of your time? I have some questions about what happened yesterday.”
“Of course. I have just been to the Nest to ask the Eldest what she might know about it.”
“I would be interested in that, too. Perhaps we could speak on the way back to the house?”
Roderick inclined his head and gave the horse a last pat. “I am at your service.”
As they left the stables, Darcy asked, “What news from the Eldest?”
“She is displeased with all of us, which is hardly surprising, given that Pemberley has drawn the Wicked King's attention. She has spent her entire existence trying to avoid his notice, and now he is invading her territory. And her dragons actually engaged in fighting with the High Fae, when to her mind, they ought to have stayed far away from it.” He sighed. “Not that she is ever pleased with me these days.”
That was surprising. Everyone liked Roderick, especially dragons. “Why is that?”
“Oh, she found me tolerable enough until I bonded with Rowan against her express instructions. It is understandable. Perhaps I should have asked Lady Frederica to go today in my stead. She might have received better answers.”
Ah, yes, Frederica. Another thing he had to speak to Roderick about, and he was not looking forward to that part. “Did the Eldest have anything useful to offer?”
“Regarding Miss Darcy and Jasper, she said very few fae have healing abilities. Nothing about tears having unusual power, though she told me the story of Ysmeina the Fair, who was marked by the Wicked King's tears.”
He did not care about ancient legends. “Did you happen to ask her about the prophesied one the High Fae mentioned?”
Roderick frowned. “That was my main reason for going. Prophecies are dangerous things, according to all the old tales, and the fact that the High Fae thought someone at Pemberley was the subject of one... well, I wish I knew more of what it meant.”
“My wife thinks it must have referred to either you or me,” Darcy said slowly.
“I came to the same conclusion, and I do not like it, I will tell you that! That the Wicked King might be aware of my existence, much less following my movements, is enough to give the most courageous man pause. But ifthe Eldest had any insights, she did not share them, apart from pointing out that prophecies do not always come true.”
“Then what makes them a prophecy? I thought that was how they worked, that they always came true, though often in unexpected ways.”
Roderick shrugged. “Apparently people can tell a true one when they hear it.”
That much he knew. When Cerridwen had made her prophecy about baby Jenny, her words had possessed a distinct otherworldly air. He did not doubt it was a genuine prophecy, even if he did not understand it. “But some are false?”
“Hard to say. Fae prophecies are also exceedingly rare. The Eldest may be bitter, since one prophecy said that a mortal would come who would end the need for the Great Concealment, but they have been waiting for many centuries.”
Darcy's skin rose in goosebumps. Could that be part of Jenny's destiny, which had called her a bridge between the great powers? “So that is something that might yet occur.”
“Perhaps. The prophecy about the Wicked King's love for Ysmeina the Fair, that his love for her would plant the seeds of his destruction, never came true. He is still alive and well centuries after her death, so one assumes there was some error, either in the prophecy or the telling of it.”
Ysmeina the Fair again! He had heard the name somewhere, likely in a nursery tale, but remembered nothing about her. “When did she live?"
Roderick raised his brows, apparently surprised at his lack of knowledge. “Just after the Norman conquest. She was a Saxon, the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. And she caught the eye of the Wicked King himself.”
“In the eleventh century, then,” Darcy said, hoping to cut off the tale. Roderick was a fine storyteller and had entertained them on more than one dull evening, but this was not the time for it. “There is another matter, a somewhat delicate one, I wished to bring to your attention.”
A guarded look came over his face. “Yes?”
“It is about Lady Frederica,” Darcy said. “It is clear from her behavior that she is fond of you, which in my mind speaks well of both of you. You do not know her family, though. If word reaches her father that you have become her confidant, he will not take it well. Likely that would mean little to you, but he will punish her for it. And it would not be pleasant. He is not a kind man.”
The Welshman paled a little. “Does she know that?”
“Indubitably. She has apparently decided to take the risk, but it occurred to me that you might wish to consider that for yourself.” Darcy had prepared these words carefully, even discussing them with Elizabeth first. He did not want Roderick to feel blamed when he had no doubt Frederica had been the one to encourage him. Nor did Roderick deserve to have his hopes dashed. Nor his body. If Lord Matlock discovered a Welshman, of all people, was engaging his daughter's affections, he would be lucky to get out of it with no more than a beating.
But as Elizabeth had pointed out, Roderick was not the sort of man to be discouraged by a physical threat to himself. He would be more likely to wish to protect Frederica.
