“Bore da,” Roland said.
She butted her chin against his shoulder. “What?”
“It’s ‘good morning.’ Repeat it.” And she did. Their lesson continued until Roland drew Cantor to a halt beside a burbling stream. They were high in the Wye Valley and the air was cool, the sky the lightest of blues.
“We’ll be at Rhayader soon. They have a market, I’m told, and we’ll buy some food.”
“Am I still your brother?”
Roland merely nodded. “Keep your head down. You still don’t look much like a little cockscomb to me.” Just as she was beginning to smile at what she believed a scarce compliment, he added, “I don’t feel like fighting any more men who decide you’re female enough for them to enjoy.”
Rhayader was a sleepy little town that looked more English than Welsh to Daria. There were many sheep about and few people. The market was sparse, most of the goods having been sold much earlier in the day. Roland purchased bread and cheese and some apples. They weren’t approached or regarded warily. They were ignored for the most part. “We’re outsiders,” Roland told her. “It matters not that we’re Welsh. We’re not from here and that makes all the difference.” She
listened to him speak Welsh, marveling at how easily the words came to him, how he rolled the difficult sounds on his tongue, and looking, Daria thought, quite pleased with himself.
They ate their noonday meal on the banks of the Rhaidr Gyw, the Falls of the Wye, Roland translated for her, amidst waving wild grass and heather. It was beautiful and soft-smelling and the roar of the fierce rapids filled the silence. “This is a land more rare than the rarest jewel,” Roland said as he chewed on his apple. “When it isn’t raining, you want to stare, for the colors are more than just colors—look at the green of the Wye Valley, Daria, it looks soft and velvet it is so vivid.”
“Where are we going, Roland?”
“We’re traveling first to Wrexham, then to Lord Richard de Avenell’s stronghold, Croyland. Lord Richard de Avenell is a Marcher Baron and Croyland lies just beyond the Welsh border, on the road to Chester.”
She nodded. “How long will we remain there?”
“Not long,” and that was all he would say. He saw that she would question him, and said quickly, “Menyw,” and touched his fingertip to her chin.
She repeated the word for “woman,” then asked, “What is the word for ‘wife’?”
Roland looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Gwrang.”
She repeated it several times. One never knew. Besides, it made him distinctly nervous and thus she repeated it again for good measure.
Roland fell silent then. He remained abstracted throughout the remainder of the day. They stayed the night under the overhang of a shallow cave. It wasn’t raining and thus was pleasant.
“What ails you, Roland?” she asked him the following morning.
“Naught,” he said shortly. “Tomorrow afternoon we will arrive in Wrexham.”
They rode over a mountain that was topped with an ancient fort so old Daria thought it had probably been built before time began. They rode through wooded valleys and saw three waterfalls. It was magnificent, and Daria was enthusiastic until Roland’s silence wore her down. They looked back on the Black Mountains, stark and forbidding even beneath a vibrant sun.
Daria was enjoying herself. This was a freedom she’d never known.
It was evident that Roland was not enjoying himself.
“Tell me of your family, Roland.”
“I have a brother who is the Earl of Blackheath. He doesn’t like me, has never approved of me. It matters not; you won’t have to meet him. I have more uncles and aunts and cousins than I can even remember. Our stock is hardy and our men and women prolific.” He fell silent again.
“Why don’t you like me?”
He twisted about in his saddle and looked at her. “Why should I not like you?”
“You won’t speak to me.”
He merely shrugged and click-clicked Cantor into a trot.
“And when you do deign to speak to me, your words are sharp.”
“I’m weighing matters,” he said, and she had to be content with that.