The Black Storm (De Reyne Domination Book 4)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Ridge pulled off the dirty, sweaty tunic he was wearing, catching a whiff of himself in the meanwhile. “Christ,” he muttered, changing the subject. “Someone get me some water to wash off in. I smell like my horse.”

  Payne pointed to Osbert, who begrudgingly left to find water as Tavis dipped into Ridge’s wine. He poured himself a cup as Ridge headed back over to his trunk to search for his soap.

  “The exhibition went well, Ridge,” Tavis said. “Looks like the knights from Northwood are the men to beat.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Ridge said. “Payne told me that de Luzie tried to take out one of them.”

  Tavis nodded. “There was a scuffle because of it,” he said. “I think the Northwood knights injured a couple of de Luzie’s men, though it is no great loss. It will, however, make the joust interesting should one of the Northwood knights be paired against Renard de Luzie.”

  Ridge found his soap. “If it is de Wolfe, it’ll be a blood bath,” he said. “Who else was at the exhibition?”

  Tavis took a long drink of wine. “I saw men from Beverly Castle,” he said. “Richmond Castle, Helmsley, Alnwick, Bowes, Netherghyll. Quite a few, actually. Some of the greatest houses in the north are here.”

  Ridge sniffed at the soap, which smelled heavily of pine and rosemary. “De Royans of Bowes?”

  “The same.”

  “Did you see Blackbank?”

  Tavis shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “But surely your old friend, the Earl of Annan and Blackbank, will be here. I’ve not known Andrew d’Vant to miss a tournament in the north.”

  Ridge grinned as he pulled out a rag to go along with his soap. “Nay, The Red Fury would not miss it,” he said. “His wife would not miss it more. Josephine loves the sport of it. But I’ve not seen them in a couple of years. It will be good to see them both.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Osbert entered the tent again, this time with a bucket of water that was sloshing out. He carried it over to a table and set it down heavily, wiping the water from his hands.

  “They’re already heading over to the great hall of Durham Castle,” he said, gesturing to the encampment. “I need to get over there before the food is all gone.”

  Ridge glanced at him. “Wear the colors,” he said. “We will make a show of it.”

  Osbert waved him off. “The Black Storm and his tempests,” he said. “We’ll make a show of it, don’t you worry. But why are you coming? You don’t normally come to these things.”

  Ridge lathered up the soap in the fresh, cold water. “Because I want to show my face,” he said, rubbing the slimy white froth all over his face. “Is that truly so shocking? I used to attend the opening feasts all of the time. That’s how I met you lot.”

  Osbert grinned. “You stopped coming once you met us,” he said. “Attending those things will only bring you friends from the dregs of society.”

  He snorted as Ridge scrubbed his face and then splashed the water on it. “Quite true,” he said, blowing water out of his mouth. “But there are some men I wish to see. Northwood, Beverly and the like. Also… what do we know about the House of de Tuberville?”

  Osbert went to the wine where Tavis had nearly downed his cup. “De Tuberville,” he muttered thoughtfully. “I am not certain I know them.”

  “I do,” Tavis said. “They were at the tourney in Lancaster last year. Remember? Three brothers. The younger two didn’t do much damage, but the elder one – I think his name is Charles or Charlton or something like that – managed to make it to the final round of the joust. An unspectacular house, however. I do not know much more about them.”

  “We met their sister this afternoon,” Ridge said, using the soap and rag to wash his chest and under his arms. “The one with the little dogs that sent Odin running for cover.”

  Osbert and Tavis looked over at the big dog sleeping in front of the brazier as Payne nodded in recognition. “Ah,” he said. “She was a pretty lass.”

  “Pretty? She was astonishing,” Ridge said.

  The men looked over at Ridge with some surprise. “Now I know why you want to attend the feast tonight,” Payne said with a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. “Mayhap to speak with that pretty young lady again?”

  Ridge scrubbed his neck, thinking about Catherine de Tuberville. In fact, astonishing didn’t even cover what he thought about her. From the very first moment he spoke to her, he was drawn in by that adorable lisp when she spoke. There was something so sweetheart and endearing about it. Coupled with her long, blonde hair and big, brown eyes, there was something incredibly angelic about her. When she had smiled, she had big dimples in each cheek, something that made Ridge forget about the fact that he simply wasn’t a social creature.

  With her, he was willing to be quite social.

  But he wasn’t sure he wanted his men to know that – yet.

  “I told you why,” he said, drying off his torso and arms. “Stop acting like a fishwife and trying to marry me off. I simply said she was astonishing and nothing more.”

  Payne wasn’t going to surrender so easily. “She has three brothers, Ridge,” he reminded him, fighting off a grin. “You may have to be nice to them so that you can speak with her.”

  Ridge cast him a warning glance. “Enough of that.”

  “If you beat them in the joust, she’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Payne, Tavis, and Osbert enjoyed a chuckle at Ridge’s expense, but they didn’t push further. To do so might bring a genuine wrath, so they knew when to quit. Besides… the idea that Ridge de Reyne might actually have his eye on a particular young lady was most intriguing.

  “We’ll go change into appropriate clothing,” Payne said, motioning to the others. “We’ll wait for you outside and we can go to the great hall together.”

  Ridge simply nodded as they walked out, thinking he’d been quite clever in diverting their attention away from his thoughts of Catherine de Tuberville. But the fact that he ended up shaving and washing his hair while they were off changing their clothing clued them in to the fact that the young woman Ridge had his eye on was no ordinary young woman. The Ridge de Reyne they knew didn’t shave or bathe for anyone.

  But perhaps this young woman wasn’t just anyone.

  Tonight’s feast might give them such a clue.

  *

  “Welcome to Durham, my lord.”

  It wasn’t a greeting that came from the man’s mouth. It was more like a statement. Renard de Luzie stood in the open doorway of the entry to Durham Castle’s great hall, looking at the warmth and gaiety and music before him as a hunter would survey his hunting grounds. The words came from one of his men, standing beside him as they both eyed the extraordinarily lavish great hall.

  Durham was fresh territory.

  “Indeed,” Renard said, his pale eyes scrutinizing the attendees. “It looks quite ripe for the picking, Martin. This is one of the richest fields I’ve seen in quite a long time.”

  Sir Martin de Lamoreux stood next to his liege, knowing he meant the women. There were indeed many women present, dressed in their finest, jewels and furs and silks resplendent, here to see and be seen. There were fortune hunters in the bunch, as there always were at these things, mingled with lords’ daughters, wives, mothers, and aunts.

  It was a feast for the eyes as well as for the stomach.

  “Indeed, my lord,” he said after a moment. “It looks as if the whole of the north has turned out for this one.”

  Another man walked up, standing on Renard’s other side, as the three of them now studied the hall. Renard turned to see another of his trusted men, Sir Fulke de Vette, beside him.

  “Well?” he said to his man. “How are the wounded?”

  He was referring to the three de Luzie men whom the Northwood knights beat into oblivion earlier in the day. Normally, Renard wouldn’t give them any thought, but they were protecting him when the burly Northwood knights set upon them, so Renard
figured that he could at least spare a marginal amount of concern. Fulke nodded in response, although his gaze was on the hall before them.

  “They will recover, my lord,” he said. “They are battered, but nothing that will not heal. However, my thoughts are that we should probably avoid the Northwood knights tonight. Soldiers are not allowed at the feast, so it will only be the three of us. I do not want any of us injured before we are able to compete in the joust.”

  As reluctant as he was to admit it, Renard knew he was correct. Something in his pride wanted to make clear that they could easily take on four very big knights, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it because they all knew it would have been a lie. The knights from Northwood were enormous and powerful, and it was quite possible that the de Luzie men would end up in pieces should they encounter them again, so Renard simply nodded.

  “We will stay clear of them,” he said. “But let us hope I face one or more of them in the joust. They have a lesson to learn.”

  Fulke and Martin had heard that tone before. It was their lord’s ego speaking and it was a massive one. Renard de Luzie stood about six inches over five feet, an average man by some standards, and he’d spent his entire adult life so far trying to establish that he was the biggest man in the room. Renard’s father had been a tall man, his mother quite short, and it was unfortunate that he had taken after his mother in that area. But his nasty de Luzie disposition was purely his father’s.

  Renard de Luzie was a man with something to prove.

  But it did no good to comment on the fact or try to dissuade him. Neither Fulke nor Martin thought it was a good idea for Renard to try and seek revenge against the knights from Northwood, but they didn’t say so. Martin did the next best thing – he distracted his liege by pointing out a beautiful woman in a white gown as she glided across the floor in the company of another pretty woman.

  Beautiful women always had Renard’s attention.

  “Now, there’s a fine flower of womanhood,” he said, discreetly indicating the redhead in the white gown. “I wonder if she is attached to anyone?”

  Renard and Fulke inspected the beauty as one would inspect a prized mare. “Too bony,” Renard said. “I like my woman blonde and round. In fact, I have been thinking. Mayhap it is time for me to finally take a wife.”

  Both Martin and Fulke looked at him in shock. “You, my lord?” Martin said, incredulous. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  It was a purely self-serving reason. Much as Renard didn’t like to acknowledge that he was short, he didn’t like to acknowledge that his family funds were limited. His father, a French count, gave his three sons equal allowances, but Renard was always quite foolish with his. He spent money as if he had his very own private bank, which was hardly the case. He was reckless with his lifestyle, burning through his father’s money at a rapid pace.

  But a rich heiress would mean an endless supply of funds that he had full control over.

  “Because it is time,” he said. “Both of my brothers are already married, as you know, and they married well. I imagine that I should also marry well. A rich wife who would know her place and remain at home while I continued my chosen vocation is every man’s dream. It is certainly mine.”

  It made sense, but this was the first time Martin and Fulke had heard him speak of such things. The looked at each other over Renard’s head, something they did quite frequently, expressions of doubt on their faces. Renard was ruthless, with wild ideas at times, so they wondered if he was serious about it.

  God help the woman Renard de Luzie married.

  “It is well known that events like this are where many a maiden finds a husband,” Martin said after a moment. “There are enough houses here that surely there is a rich daughter, somewhere. Shall we inquire around?”

  Renard shrugged. “Discreetly, of course,” he said. “I think I should like to see all of the women in his hall first and decide whom I might pursue if she is eligible, of course. What do you think about that woman over near the hearth in the blue dress?”

  Martin and Fulke could see the backside of a lady in a royal blue gown, her dark hair elaborately arranged. They were about to comment when she turned around and smiled at someone, showing off two large, protruding front teeth in an otherwise plain face.

  “Nay, not that one,” Martin said quickly, turning to look at some women over near the dais. He pointed. “How about the woman in red?”

  Attention turned. Renard focused on the woman he could barely see, mostly because there were people in the way.

  “Mayhap,” he said. “Let is go over to the tables and find a seat. I see a lovely yellow garment on a blonde near the dais that I’d like to take a closer look at.”

  The hunters began to move.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I will say that you look very fine this evening,” Charles said, his eyes twinkling with humor. “It is distasteful for a brother to compliment his sister, but you should know that the yellow dress is very becoming on you.”

  Catherine grinned. She stood at the end of a long feasting table, with all three brothers standing near her with cups of wine in their hands. They were gazing out over the hall, which was becoming increasingly crowded as more guests poured in through the doors. A haze of smoke lingered near the ceiling in a hall that was festive with warmth and laughter, with knights from the finest houses displaying their best tunics to announce their loyalties.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking down at the beautiful silk brocade she wore. “Papa paid for it because Blythe insisted. She said that I must put on a show at this tournament, after all. The more wealthy I appear, the more chance that a potential suitor will recognize me.”

  Catherine always referred to her mother by her name – Blythe. Sometimes “Mother”, but never “Mama”. It was indicative of the barbed relationship between them and the expression of mirth on Charles’ face faded.

  “Any potential suitor must get through George, Geoffrey, and me, and do not think we will make it easy for them,” he said flatly. “We shall find you the finest husband in all of England, Moppet, I promise.”

  Catherine smiled at him, but it was without joy. It was one thing for her to know their mother had insisted she be trotted out like a show horse to any marital prospects, but it was entirely another for her brothers to be aware of it also. There was something humiliating in that, even though she loved her brothers dearly. Something about being put on display was damaging to her pride even though her entire life had been filled with such humiliations.

  She just tried to make the best of it.

  “Then do,” she said, pretending that the situation didn’t bother her. “Find me the richest man in the room, Charles. What about that man over there?”

  She was pointing to a group of knights standing at the table directly across from them, four of them. Charles looked over at the group, the light of recognition coming to his eyes when he noted the tunics they were wearing.

  “The red stag of Teviot,” he said. “Those are the knights from Northwood.”

  Catherine’s gaze moved from one to the next – there were four of them – noting that one was enormously tall and dark with an eye patch, while another one was shorter, with dark blond hair. That man’s shoulders were enormous. There was also a blond man, quite handsome, and finally an exquisitely beautiful man with cropped, dark hair and a devilish grin. She could see it from where she stood.

  “Are they married?” she asked.

  Charles looked at her. “Which one?”

  “All of them. Any of them.”

  He chuckled. “Greedy girl,” he said. “In truth, I do not know, but I shall ask around.”

  Catherine flashed him a rather hopeful grin but was cut short from replying when someone grabbed her by the arm and yanked her down into the nearest chair.

  “Sit down,” Blythe de Tuberville hissed at her daughter. “Standing up to be seen is so obvious. Sit down and let them come to you for a closer look. Do you know n
othing, girl?”

  Embarrassed, Catherine sat next to her mother as Charles handed her his cup of wine along with a sympathetic expression.

  “She was not making a spectacle of herself, Mother,” he said steadily. “We were simply talking about the different houses.”

  Blythe eyed her eldest, a man who was the apple of her eye and one she hardly dared to argue with. She went to great lengths to ensure the situation between them was always smooth. That became difficult in the situation with her daughter because Charles always defended her. As far back as Blythe could recall, Charles had never sided with her on anything when it came to Catherine. Therefore, she backed down a little, eyeing her daughter with disapproval before gazing out over the hall.

  “There are many, to be sure,” she said. “I saw de Royans over at the feasting table near the entry. There is an eligible son in their retinue, so I’ve heard. Walton or Dalton or something like that. Will you find out, Charles?”

  Charles nodded patiently, noting that Geoffrey and George had been introduced to a pair of well-bred ladies down the table. Undoubtedly, they forced the introduction because George in particular looked quite eager to speak to the young women who didn’t seem quite open to his enthusiasm.

  “I will,” he said, his eye on a redhead in a flaming red dress. “You needn’t worry, Mother. We will take care of Catherine.”

  Blythe snorted, collecting a cup from a hovering servant. “The girl needs a husband,” she said. “Pray we find one here because it would be one less burden upon me. I should like it if we did not return home with her.”

  Both Catherine and Charles looked at her in horror. “That is a terrible thing to say,” Charles scolded. “She’s right here, Mother. She can hear what you are saying about her.”

  Blythe didn’t like to be scolded by her son. She looked at Catherine, who was glaring back at her, before sighing sharply.