Page 68 of Triumph at Pemberley

“So I should keep riding, no matter what I think I hear or see.”

“In short, yes. Usually they leave us alone, but one can never tell. Once we turn to the west, into the hills, it will be safer.”

She glanced off at a small cottage by the side of the road, one with a well-tended garden. “Yet people live nearby.”

“The soil here is unusually fertile, thanks to the fae passing through. The families are careful to make daily offerings to them, but they are still subject to fae pranks.”

“Where is their glen?”

Roderick gestured off to the left. “The river runs through it after it veers off to the east here. It is lovely, and our youngsters have been known to visit it on a dare. The sensible ones cover their ears first. We will be turning west soon, following another tributary.”

Her curiosity got the best of her, and she turned to look that way. There was nothing to be seen but dense greenery and towering trees, some of the tallest she had seen here. Someday she would like to see it.

Nothing happened, though, as they passed it and turned to face the afternoon sun. Nothing, except the odd feeling of someone watching her. The back of her neck prickled, but she forced herself not to look back. It was easier since the road started to demand more of her attention as it deteriorated to a rough cart track, strewn with rocks and water-filled holes. Riding single file at a walk was the best they could hope for.

No wonder Roderick had not wanted to bring the carriage. It could not have stood up to this, and a broken wheel or axle could strand them for a long time when houses were so few and far between. As it was, her horse would have to take care where she stepped.

It was still full light when Roderick drew his horse up beside hers. “We will stop for the night at the next likely-looking place.”

“Already?” Not that she would object; her thighs were burning from the unaccustomed exercise. Riding dragonback was smoother and easier.

“It grows dark quickly here once the sun goes below the mountains. Better to be safe than to find ourselves on a long stretch of empty road.”

If one could call this a road. “Is there an inn up ahead, then?”

He shook his head. “Not until we reach the other side of the mountains. Many of the farmers along the road take in travelers, though. It provides them a bit of extra income.”

Frederica swallowed. Staying in one of the small cottages they had passed along the way, the sort she had never entered except to deliver baskets of charity? She refused to be a snobbish aristocrat, though, so she raised her chin. “It will be a good opportunity to meet some of your people.” And she would be grateful to get off this horse, even if it meant sleeping on the ground. From the feel of it, her legs might be chafed raw. Knowing how to ride astride and doing so for hours when out of practice were two different things.

He gave her an approving look. “They are unlikely to speak English.”

“I can smile in any language,” she declared.

His face warmed. “That is the spirit.”

Frederica dismounted and surreptitiously stretched her cramping legs as Roderick knocked at the door of the cottage. Why had he not asked the guard to do it? It seemed he did not even think of that option.

A man of middle years, his face worn with exposure to weather and hard work, opened the door. They both spoke Welsh, of course, but she made out Roderick’s name – Roderick ap Rhodri. The man’s expression went from cautious to welcoming. He bobbed his head to Roderick, not a bow but still some sort of obeisance, at least by appearance. He opened the door wide, gesturing them all in.

Frederica stooped to enter at the low doorway. The room inside was furnished with simple, clearly home-made chairs and a table, but it was clean and tidy. She breathed a sigh of relief; it could have been much worse.

She practiced her smile as Roderick introduced her to the family. She had learned enough to focus on picking out the first name rather than the patronymics, which she promptly forgot. Dafydd, Nesta, their daughter Bethan, and two little ones, Evan and Caris. Or something like that. That was good enough for now. She decided to forgo using her few words of Welsh here; better to save them for when she might need the element of surprise.

Bethan brought out dented tin cups filled with small beer and shyly offered them around. Frederica imitated Roderick as he lifted his glass, took a sip, and said something obviously complimentary. She managed to look pleased, or at least she hoped so, though she did not much care for small beer, and this was sourer than most. She finished it all as the others spoke incomprehensibly. Perhaps it would help dull the pain in her thighs.

Roderick turned to her as soon as he set down his glass. “I am sorry to leave you, but I must go out with Dafydd and work the land before it gets dark.”

“No need to fret. I will do perfectly well here,” she said, as if not speaking the language was no difficulty at all. As if she were not aching for even a few minutes alone with him.

His smile warmed her. “Good. I will not be long.”

As soon as Roderick left, Frederica invited Nesta into the bedroom with gestures. Closing the door, she held a finger to her lips, hoping this also meant silence in Wales. Since Nesta repeated it back to her with a smile, she hoped for the best.

She mimed riding a horse and then pointed to her inner thighs with an exaggerated expression of pain. When Nesta nodded sympathetically, Frederica pretended to rub something into the sore spots, then held out her hands as if searching for information.

Nesta’s face lit up. She hurried to a shelf near the bed. She rummaged around and produced a small tin. After prying open the top to reveal a pale yellow salve, she dipped her finger in and rubbed it into the back of her hand. Then she tipped her head, as if asking a question, and held it out to Frederica.

“Diolch,” she said. Thank you. One of her few words of Welsh. She sniffed at the tin. Lanolin from the smell, if she was not mistaken. And there was a bit of healing magic to it, if she was not mistaken. Well, Roderick had warned her that even the common folk here had traces of Talent. “This will be perfect.” She hoped her tone of voice would compensate for the language barrier.