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Daria dutifully repeated the words. She tapped Roland on the shoulder. “Allt,” she said, nodding to their left. “Wooded hillside.”
He swiveled about in the saddle and grinned at her. “You are very good,” he said.
“Must I still be deaf and mute?”
“For the time being I think it the wisest course to follow. Be patient, Daria.” He started to add that she would be home soon, but he knew her thoughts on that and so kept quiet. He wished he personally knew if Ralph of Colchester was a good man, a man of hono
r. Deep inside, though, Roland imagined that Ralph of Colchester could very likely be a troll and a monster and still Daria’s uncle would wed her to him because he wanted to add to his own land holdings. It wouldn’t matter to him if the man had wedded a dozen women and killed all of them.
He pulled up Cantor and let his destrier blow and drink from the cold river water. “Would you like to walk about a bit?”
She smiled gratefully and slid off Cantor’s back. “Smell the air, Roland. And look at the sunlight on those maple leaves, it’s magic, all those hues and shades.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and twirled about in the small open meadow. “Glyn,” she called out, “fflur.” She pointed to some sweet-smelling honey-suckle. “It is for fidelity, you know, and the ivy yon, it’s for permanence.”
He grinned at her like a besotted idiot, realized it, and turned away.
“Ah, I wish we could stay here forever.”
“Just wait for an hour or so—until it rains again. When you’re wet and cold and thoroughly miserable, you’ll change your mind quickly enough.”
She waved away his words. “The gorse over there, it protects us against demons, or mayhap from the unending rain, if we wish it hard enough.”
He didn’t want to wish for anything right now except for the rest of his money. Then his wish for his own land, his own keep in the midst of the beautiful green hills in Cornwall, would come true. He watched her flit from a low yew bush to a lone birch, repeating the names in Welsh. So learning came easily to her. It meant nothing to him, not a thing. So she was bright and laughing. It meant nothing more than her ease of learning. His eyes were on her lips, then fell to her breasts and her hips. Nothing, he thought, turning quickly to pat Cantor’s neck. It meant nothing. His destrier turned his head, his mouth wet, and nuzzled his master’s hand. Roland said to his horse as he wiped his hand on his chausses, “You are the loyal one, the one who’s always known what I wanted, what I needed. You I trust with my life, no one else, particularly not a female. Not even a female who is pretty and bright and sweet.”
“You speak to your horse?”
She was laughing, a dirty-faced urchin in boy’s clothes, a limp woolen cap pulled low on her forehead. The dirt he’d rubbed on her face was long gone, replaced by new dirt, streaked and black, more authentic dirt, all of it Welsh. Even her smooth white hands were filthy. She didn’t look at all like a boy to him.
“Aye, it’s passing smart he is, and he tells me it is nearly time for lunch.”
Daria eyed the saddlebags hopefully.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing left. I must do some hunting.”
She looked back from whence they’d come, and slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “Nay, I’m not all that hungry, Roland, truly. Can we not ride until late afternoon? Then can you hunt? I’ve wasted time here and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“He’s not after us, Daria. There was no one to betray us. Even if the farmer did tell the earl about us, he still didn’t know where we were heading.”
Still she shuddered even as she shook her head. “He’d know, somehow he’d find out. I just have this feeling.” She added quickly, seeing him frown, “He’s very smart.”
Roland continued his frown, disliking himself even as the words came from his mouth. “So you admired him. Did you not wish to leave him, then? Did you wish to wed with him?”
Her head snapped up. “You are speaking like a fool, Roland.” And then, to her appalled surprise, she burst into tears. Roland stared at her.
The tension, he supposed, was finally too much for her. She’d finally succumbed, but still he was surprised. Until this moment, she’d shown unusual fortitude and grit. To fall into a woman’s tears now—when the danger was past—seemed somehow very unlike her.
“Why am I a fool?”
She shook her head, swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and turned away from him. “Nay, not a fool, just speaking like one.” She dashed her hand across her eyes and sniffled loudly. “I’m sorry. Has Cantor drunk his fill?”
He gave her a long look, then said, “Aye.” He gave her his hand and pulled her up behind him.
They were riding near to the River Usk and woodclad hills rose up on either side of them, hills covered with thickets of beech and sessile oaks. Firs towered behind them, thin and high, and many narrow streams snaked through the land, most shallow and a pale stagnant brown under the bright sunlight. But even with the warm sun shining down, there was still the feel, the scent, the sound of water in the air—the streams burbling, distant waterfalls crashing and thudding over wet rocks, unseen water deep beneath the ground booming and gurgling. Daria shuddered. “It’s overpowering,” she said, and clasped her arms more tightly around Roland’s waist.
“Be thankful it isn’t yet raining,” he said. “Why am I a fool, Daria? Nay, speak like a fool.”
He felt her tense up and knew to his toes that he shouldn’t push her for an answer, but he was perverse, he knew it, had known it for most of his years. “Why?” he repeated.
