Geoffrey spoke up again. “‘Tis plain she is a lady, sir, by the quality of her clothes and by her bearing and speech. I talked with her at length on the road, and she is well educated. She can read and write and has some knowledge of accounts, too.”
“And yet she does not remember her own name?” Campion asked.
“No, sir,” Geoffrey said. Campion held his gaze for a moment, a silent question passing between them, but Geoffrey did not flinch. Without putting the query into words, Campion knew his son believed the woman spoke the truth. Campion then glanced at Simon, to get his opinion, but the older brother obviously did not think the lady worthy of further conversation. He was already fiddling with his scabbard, impatient to be off.
“And who christened her? You?” Stephen asked, laughing at his own jest. Campion shot him a look and did not miss the replenished wine cup in his hands. Stephen was becoming difficult.
“We have called her Marion,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Stephen’s contemptuous chuckling, “for we found the name in one of her books.”
“Oh! And are you smitten with her, brother?” Stephen taunted.
“Geoffrey’s in love!” Nicholas shouted. A round of jeering followed that announcement, and Campion let it play itself out. He could tell with one glance at Geoffrey’s disgusted expression that his son had no interest in the girl other than compassion.
“No?” Stephen said. “Then perhaps ‘tis our Simon who has felt Cupid’s prick?” There was some laughter at Stephen’s play on words. Lord, he was a clever boy. If only he would use it to advantage, instead of wasting it. “Our good brother likes his women short and well rounded, I see!”
Suddenly, the room quieted as Simon shot to his feet. “Wish you a fight?” he growled, looming over Stephen, who leaned back against the wall in a casual pose.
“Lord, no,” Stephen replied. He affected a yawn. “It has been positively peaceful without you about—crowing like a cock at the veriest whim.”
“That is enough,” Campion said. “Simon, sit down. And Stephen, you will be kind enough to keep a civil tongue in your head concerning our guest.” Stephen’s penchant for finding fault with anything and everything was beginning to annoy his father. The girl might not be breathtaking, but she was pretty in an arresting way.
If Stephen could have seen past the current fashion for boyish figures and golden ladies, he might have noticed that the unruly brown curls framing her heart-shaped face would be a riot of thick locks when freed. He might have noted that her skin, although not as ghostly white as some, was pale and pure, and that those great dark eyes could hold their own against another’s of brighter hue.
Campion kept his thoughts to himself, however, having no wish to watch his sons battling one another for the favor of their visitor. Let them ignore her comeliness, but he would not have them treat her rudely, and the look he gave them made that clear.
After a long, threatening moment, Simon sat down, sending a scowl at his black-sheep brother, who grinned shamelessly. One day, Stephen would get his deserts, Campion thought to himself with a flash of premonition, then he focused his attention on the matter at hand. “We shall continue to call her Marion,” he said. “Now, tell me where you found her. Perhaps she was only going to a village or visiting amongst her neighbors.”
“Nay, sir,” Geoffrey said. “A cart held supplies for a long journey, perhaps a pilgrimage.” He paused, as if uncertain how much to say, and then continued on determinedly. “I wanted to go back along the road and ask about her, but Simon...did not feel the issue warranted a delay.”
Campion nodded, but said nothing. Geoffrey’s words held no censure, but Campion knew that the two must have been at odds over the fate of the lady. Simon had no use for women and would have put the return of his company before the mystery of a lone female. And who was to say he was wrong? Perhaps, if they had probed the area, they could have returned her safely to her home. Perhaps not. And with the unpredictable weather and poor state of the roads to contend with, Campion hesitated to second-guess Simon.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could not hurt to discover who lives in the area and to send out inquiries, but with winter nigh, I am not certain how much success we shall have. Ask the lady for something of her own, something identifiable—a piece of her jewelry, perhaps—and we shall send it along with a messenger to court.”
Campion sighed softly, his decision made, and put his palms on the table. “Until we discover her identity, however, the lady shall stay with us and shall be treated as such,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the circle of his sons.
He noted, with chagrin, that the members of this womanless household did not look very well pleased by his verdict. Only Nicholas seemed intrigued by the idea of a visiting female, and Campion could see a wealth of problems in the youth’s healthy curiosity. Simon and Reynold looked positively dour, Robin and Stephen rather amused, and Geoffrey somewhat pained. He obviously was feeling sorry for the poor girl.
Campion, on the other hand, had no fears for the lady. Though small, she looked strong enough to withstand much—even the fierce pack of de Burghs—without flinching. There was more to the mysterious Marion than met the eye, he would swear to it. He remembered her huge eyes, soft as a doe’s, and he sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Perhaps, he wondered, smiling himself...perhaps she might even tame the wolves to her hand.
* * *
What beautiful beasts, Marion thought, admiring her own handiwork. It had taken her all winter, but she had finally finished the tapestry last week, and now it brightened the great hall with its bold colors.
It was her own design, a rendering of eight wolves—the de Burgh device—rampant across a field of green, with Campion Castle rising behind them. Of course, the work had been greeted with much humor by the brothers, who taunted Nicholas for being depicted as the runt of the litter and complained loudly about being turned into creatures of various hues. The only de Burghs who did not voice their disapproval were the earl, who was as polite as always, and his eldest son, Dunstan, who did not live at Campion.
For the past week, the hall had been filled with mock howling that would have deafened another woman, but Marion was undisturbed. She took in stride Simon’s grunts, Stephen’s baiting, Robin’s tricks, Reynold’s sharp words, and Nicholas’s curiosity, for they were like brothers to her now.
Seated by the fire with some sewing, Marion mused on her good fortune. A total stranger, without name or fortune or family, she had been taken in by the de Burghs and accepted. She now served as chatelaine in almost every capacity, and the joy of purpose in her life was heady. But Campion and his handsome, dark-haired sons had given her more than a home and a position—they had given her their grudging affection. That was what made her smile and kept the smile upon her face so much that they teased her unmercifully about it.
Startled from her pleasant thoughts by the sound of the great doors banging open, Marion looked up, the needle still in her hand, to see a giant of a man stride into the hall. He was dressed as a knight and accompanied by others similarly garbed, though none was quite as imposing as the man who led them.
Mercy, but the fellow was huge, Marion thought. He looked to be even bigger than the de Burghs, who towered over everyone at Campion. Who was he? He walked into the hall as if he owned it, arrogance apparent in every step.
Suddenly, Marion felt an odd sensation of recognition. There was something familiar about that gait, strong but graceful, and yet it was like none she had ever seen before. While she watched, trying to place the massive warrior, he lifted his helm to shake out a head of dark hair that gave away his identity in an instant.
Dunstan.
For a moment, Marion remained in her seat, studying him with blatant interest. Although the family often spoke of Campion’s firstborn, he lived at his own holding and Marion had never seen