CHAPTER ONE
His sons were not coming home for Christmas.
Fawke de Burgh, Earl of Campion, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the evidence that swirled before him. Alone in the solar, he had opened the shutters to one of the tall, narrow windows, only to be buffeted by a blast of chill air and its accompanying snow. The weather was worse than in living memory, and he could only shake his head at its fury. Travel during the winter was never easy, but no one would be fool enough to tackle the frozen roads in the week past, marked by a blizzard such as he had never seen. And Campion would not endanger his family simply to indulge a father’s whimsy.
Still, he could not deny his disappointment, for he had become accustomed to a yuletide surrounded by his offspring. It was the only time they were all together these days, and Campion had yet to meet one son’s wife and see his newest grandchild.
Perhaps the holiday would have been more bearable if so many were not away, but out of his seven sons, only two were here at Campion Castle, the most meager gathering yet. And although he loved them all, the earl knew that Stephen and Reynold were those least likely to cheer him. A clever lad, Stephen had so far squandered his talents in too much wine, while Reynold, cursed with a bad leg, went through life with a grimness that belied all his accomplishments.
With a sigh, the earl shifted, welcoming the bitter wind that reflected his mood. He had never expected all of his sons to stay at Campion, but neither had he thought so many would settle elsewhere. Who would take over when he was gone? His heir was Dunstan, but the eldest de Burgh was busy with his own demesne, in addition to his heiress wife’s holdings. Both Geoffrey and Simon had recently taken wives and were content to live in the homes that marriage brought to them. Robin was overseeing one of Dunstan’s properties in the south, and Nicholas, eager for new adventures, had joined him there.
Campion was proud of their achievements and their independence, and yet he knew a certain melancholy at their absence. Not only would he miss them, but the holiday itself would not be the same. Such celebrations were the venue of women, as Campion, who had buried two wives, knew well. In the past few years, Dunstan’s lady had made sure the hall was decked in greenery and all the traditions observed, but without her, who would see to it?
They had managed to drag the Yule log inside during a break in the weather and, of course, there would be feasting, but who would take the time to make a Christmas bush and insist upon all the games and gifts and songs? Campion pictured himself stepping into the breach, but he could not rouse much enthusiasm for the prospect, especially since Stephen and Reynold would little appreciate his efforts.
The sound of footsteps made him lift his hands to the shutters. It would not do for the earl of Campion to be seen mooning out the window like a dispirited lad. Worse yet, he did not care to have a servant hurrying to shut the cold away from him as if he were enfeebled. Lately, he had noted a certain subtle fussing over him that did not sit well. He might not be as young as he once was, but he was lord here, and he could still hold his own against his knights, if not his brawny boys.
Campion’s fingers stilled at the sight of dark movement among the swirling white outside, and he leaned closer, but the snow obscured his vision of the land below. Although it was probably nothing, he would send a man out to check the grounds, he decided, just as the sound of his steward’s voice rose behind him.
“My lord! My lord! Ah, there you are! Have you seen them? A small party is at the gate, struggling against the elements.”
Not a trick of the eye then, but arrivals in these conditions and so late in the day? It was nearly nightfall. “Let them in,” Campion said. Closing the shutters, he turned even as he wondered who would be abroad so recklessly. If it were one of his sons, the earl’s enthusiasm for the company of family would be tempered by dismay at such a misjudgment. But who else would be about? Certainly no enemy, even one foolish enough to attack the famous stronghold of Campion, would dare the elements, while pilgrims and anyone else with any sense would be inside.
Perhaps a messenger from court, he mused, but such missives were ill news more often than not, and he left the solar with a distinct sense of unease. Still, he knew his duty, and he would welcome any traveler who braved this weather to reach the haven that was his home. He moved down the winding stairs into the great hall, where he gestured for a servant to light additional torches and called for food and lodging for those who soon would enter.
The steward, having delivered his message to a waiting knight, returned. “My lord Reynold has gone to meet them,” he noted, and Campion knew that his son would see that those at the gate made it to the hall no matter what the conditions outside. Despite the leg that pained him—or perhaps because of it—Reynold’s will was stronger than any of the others.
“Shall I have the hot, spiced wine brought out?” the steward asked, and Campion nodded, tamping down his annoyance at such mundane questions. When Dunstan’s wife had lived at the castle, she had served as chatelaine and handled all the details of food and household so well that Campion missed her woman’s touch.
In more ways than one, the earl thought, frowning at the thought of the Christmas ahead. Someone would have to place the holly and ivy and bay about the hall in celebration of the season. And although the castle was cleaner than before Marion’s tenure, Campion saw that the walls could use a good scrubbing. After Epiphany, he would set the servants to a thorough wash, he decided. Meanwhile, the Yule log burned in welcome in a hall that was spacious and well-appointed, and visitors this night would be grateful for any kind of shelter.
Outside he heard horses, while nearby the murmur of voices rose expectantly. Among them he recognized that of Wilda, one of the female servants, who eyed the entrance anxiously. Always superstitious, Wilda was staring at the doors with great significance, and Campion smiled. Not only did Wilda hold firm to the old belief that the first person to cross the threshold after midnight on New Year’s Day was a harbinger of the year ahead, but she thought that those who appeared on Christmas Eve gave an indication of the holiday’s happiness.
The arrival of a dark-haired man was thought to be lucky, and since Campion had been blessed with seven such sons, the comings and goings of his own family had provided plenty of omens of good fortune during winters past. Of course, he did not put faith in such nonsense, but his household was more peaceful when the credulous among it were appeased.
And so he watched for Reynold, who was well aware of the servants’ expectation, but when the doors were thrust open, it was not his son who was first to step over the threshold. Several people burst inside, shivering and stomping with the cold, and in the lead was a slight figure in a voluminous cape that fell back with a movement to reveal a swish of skirts. No man at all, but a woman, Campion realized, as the servants gasped softly. While they all stood gaping, she flung back her hood, and a mass of black curls spilled out over the green mantle of snow-dusted wool.
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