The Black Storm (De Reyne Domination Book 4)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Ridge reflected on something he’d not thought of in a while. “My first tournament was in Lincoln,” he said. “I had just left the royal service and, for lack of anything else to do, I joined the competition. And then I destroyed it.”

  Payne’s dark eyes twinkled. “That is why they call you The Black Storm, my friend,” he said. “You blow through a tournament and leave destruction in your wake. I was one of the ones in your path until I decided to join forces with you. In fact, that is why all of us joined forces with you. ’Tis better to be at the right hand of the devil than in his path.”

  He was referring to the men who were part of Ridge’s team of knights, four in all, who traveled with him, competed with him, and shared in the spoils. They all wore the black tunics of de Reyne, plain and without adornment, signifying the most powerful competitor on the tournament circuit today.

  They were the team to beat.

  The storm and his tempests.

  “Devil, am I?” Ridge cocked a dark eyebrow. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose. Where are Tavis and Osbert, by the way?”

  Payne looked over his shoulder at the encampment as the soldiers they employed finished setting everything up.

  “They’re around,” he said, referring to the two other knights who made up their quartet. “The are probably already over with the field marshals. They will not want to miss out on the exhibitions later today. Lots of pretty women to impress, who will then fawn over them tonight at the feast.”

  A smile tugged the corner of Ridge’s mouth. “Until they see me,” he said. “It is always quite satisfying stealing women away from those two.”

  “And me,” Payne said with disapproval. “Men must hold on to their women when you’re around.”

  That brought laughter from Ridge. “As well they should.”

  Payne shook his head at the man’s attitude and began to turn away when he abruptly remembered something. “I forgot to tell you,” he said as he paused. “Renard de Luzie is here. I saw his banners myself, in the line of men waiting to be admitted.”

  Ridge’s mood went from joyful to disgruntled all in one swift motion. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Not him. I was hoping he’d had enough after the tournament in Gloucester earlier this year. He took a beating. I hoped he’d gone home.”

  Payne shook his head. “No such luck, I’m afraid,” he said. “The Bastard of Bayeux is still here.”

  Ridge snorted. “Bastard indeed,” he said. “Damnation. I should have cut him off at the knees when I had the chance. Now the tournament just became a little more deadly with that man and his nasty tricks. I wonder whose leg he’s going to break this time.”

  “Or neck.”

  “Exactly.” That realization gave Ridge pause. “When you send de Wolfe the missive, warn him about de Luzie. I do not normally go about speaking ill of other competitors, but de Luzie is different. He’s out for blood and pain, not money. You’d better tell de Wolfe that.”

  “I will,” Payne said. “But what about tonight? Do you wish to be part of the entertainment?”

  Ridge shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “I do not want to chance being injured simply for entertainment. But if you or Tavis or Osbert wish to, then you have my permission.”

  Payne lifted his eyebrows. “I just might do that,” he said. “I shall see you later.”

  With that, he turned away, heading off to send a missive to de Wolfe and Teviot before moving on to the event marshals. Ridge watched him go before returning his focus to more arriving houses, some of the largest in the north. The day had all the earmarks of something glorious.

  It was going to be a grand tournament, indeed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Look at the glorious colors!”

  A young woman with a delightfully heavy lisp in her speech was trying not to make a spectacle of herself, but the visions before her were so exciting that she could hardly contain herself. The party from the House of de Tuberville had arrived at the tournament fields south of the city of Durham for the famous Durham tournaments. These were tournaments that went on annually, except for the previous year. Those games had been postponed because of a terrible accident the year before, but that meant this year’s games had been meticulously planned and greatly anticipated.

  There were more sights to see then she could possibly take in.

  Catherine de Tuberville was trying to make a conscious effort not to look like a fool. Everything around her had her attention, from the Durham guards at the entry to the grounds to the acrobats that were already entertaining the attendees. The food vendors were already feeding the crowds that were wandering in under sunny skies and fair winds. There was so much to see and do already that Catherine was close to leaping from her carriage and leaving everyone behind.

  In truth, she had anticipated this day probably more than her brothers had. All three of her brothers were seasoned knights and the Durham tournament was something to be greatly looked forward to because they could show off their skills. There wasn’t often an opportunity to do that where they lived, so when the occasion arose, they were ready to display their prowess alongside some of the very best knights in England, Scotland, and Wales.

  The various houses were being checked in by field marshals, who were waiting on the edge of the encampment area as the great houses arrived. When it came to an event of this size, it was always important to have enough marshals to tend to the guests because, inevitably, there would be houses that did not get along.

  No one wanted a battle in the midst of the festivities.

  Catherine’s family was an old and a prestigious one, but it wasn’t one that could be considered at the top of the social ladder. De Tuberville had a decent reputation, a quiet Cumbria family whose fortress was out of the way in the green and rolling dales. It didn’t guard any great roads, nor did it see great action or have terrible neighbors. Keswick Castle, their seat, was off the beaten path, in a quiet little village so that all Keswick really did was watch over its own lands. No wars, no conflict.

  It was a bucolic life.

  That meant moments like this, seeing the excitement in Durham, was something unusual. Catherine had been looking forward to it ever since her brothers decided to compete in the tournament, and she was fairly certain they were doing that simply to stave off the mind-numbing boredom that hovered over Keswick like a fog. Charles, Geoffrey, and George de Tuberville were excellent knights and had been properly trained and educated, but they lived the life of farmers out in the wilds of Cumbria. This tournament was their opportunity to prove to themselves, and others, that they were still sharp.

  But their mother’s reasons for attending were quite different.

  In fact… the de Tubervilles had a dark little secret.

  Still, no one could tell and that was the beauty of it. No one could tell that things within the de Tuberville family weren’t quite right. On this bright and sunny day, everything looked completely normal. They looked like just another competing household arriving for the games. Catherine was enthralled with everything, not giving any thought to the life she normally led back at home or her mother’s reason for bringing her to the games. She looked among the many houses that arrived, seeing other young women dressed in their finest, either riding their palfreys or sitting in painted carriages as they awaited admittance and, for a moment, she was just like the rest of them. She was loved and cherished just like they were.

  But that wasn’t the truth.

  It was all part of the dark little secret.

  “Charles!” she called.

  When her brother heard his name and looked over his shoulder at her, Catherine motioned the man to her. Heir to the House of de Tuberville, Charles de Tuberville was a tall, blond-haired knight with a brilliant intellect. He was shy and quiet, speaking only when spoken to mostly, but the reality was that he was quite focused and ambitious, something that the shy exterior masked.

  “What is it, Moppet?” he asked, wrestling with his muscular Belgian
charger.

  Catherine was trying to be discreet about pointing to the group about twenty feet to her left. “Do you know who that is?” she asked.

  Charles glanced in the direction she was pointing. “Nay,” he said. “Unfortunately, I am not as well-versed in many of these houses as I should be. One of the disadvantages of living where we do. Out in the wilds where we languish as the world around us goes on.”

  There was a tinge of bitterness to his tone and Catherine looked at him, feeling his disappointment. Charles was the heir to a house that had no power in England. It was true that it was old and prestigious, but it was also true that there was little money and a big army, something that was purely for show.

  And it caused great contention between Edmund de Tuberville and his sons.

  The sentimental, gentle, and sometimes foolish head of the House of de Tuberville was a man who shouldn’t have been the heir to such an empire. He was perfectly content with his bucolic country life, but his sons weren’t. Because of them, every bit of money the family had went into the army because they felt it was important. Important in an area that had seen no action for years. But Charles and his brothers had always dreamed of a big army like Kenilworth or Northwood or Alnwick Castles, some of the biggest fortresses in England. They had big dreams, whereas their father didn’t. He hadn’t even come to Durham because he didn’t like the violence of the tournaments.

  It was a rather sad situation.

  “I think some people might like the peace that Keswick brings,” Catherine said after a moment. “It is a lovely place to live.”

  Charles snorted. “Lovely and lifeless,” he said, looking around at the crowds. He drew in a deep breath through his nose. “This is what I crave, Moppet. The smell of civilization, the activity of men. I have missed it.”

  She looked out over the same crowd. “It is exciting,” she admitted. “Do you recognize any of the standards?”

  They were nearing the edge of the great encampment where the tents of various houses were pitched. Because there was a line to enter, their party was forced to come to a halt and wait their turn, giving Charles more time to inspect the colors that were flying above every individual group. The problem was that living in the rural area as they did, he wasn’t completely current on all of the houses and banners. He knew those in Cumbria and most of Northumberland, but he was a little fuzzy when it came to the lordships further south.

  He scratched his head.

  “I see de Lara,” he said. “The Lords of the Trilaterals. You’ve heard me mention them.”

  Catherine was trying to look over his shoulder from her place in the wagon. “Aye,” she said, nodding eagerly. “You’ve spoken of them.”

  “I see Wrexham and Northumberland.”

  “Who else?”

  “De Longley.”

  The reply came from Catherine’s brother, Geoffrey, as he rode up with their youngest brother, George. Geoffrey de Tuberville was a big lad with a messy crown of dark blond hair while George, though strong and agile, still had that wiry look of youth. At only two years older than Catherine, he’d only been recently knighted and returned from fostering at Lancaster Castle.

  “De Longley is here!” George hissed excitedly, jabbing a gloved finger towards the encampment. “The knights of Northwood are here, but that’s not all. The Black Storm is also here. De Reyne in the flesh!”

  Both Charles and Catherine looked at him, his young face flushed with excitement.

  “The Black Storm?” Charles repeated. “You mean de Reyne?”

  George nodded quickly. “I saw his blue and black standard,” he said, pointing off to the north. “I’m surprised they let him return given what he did to Pocklington two years ago.”

  “What did he do?” Catherine asked.

  Charles glanced at her. “It wasn’t his fault,” he said. “The Earl of Pocklington was at the Durham tournament two years ago, a soft man who should not have been competing against professionals, but he insisted and he paid the price.”

  “What price?”

  “He was killed.” Charles turned to look at her fully. “The old fool fell from his horse in a pass with de Reyne and was trampled to death. That is why there was no tournament last year. The rules have been changed and now pompous lords who do not normally fight or joust are only allowed to compete against one another. They are no longer allowed to go against younger, more skilled knights.”

  Catherine thought on the foolish old earl who lost his life to a knight who competed as his profession. “How terrible,” she said. “But this de Reyne – surely he must feel terrible for what happened.”

  Charles shrugged, returning his attention to the encampment. “It is part of the games,” he said. “And I cannot imagine de Reyne feeling badly about anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is not that sort of man,” George spoke up again. “He’s the fiercest competitor on the circuit with no heart, no feeling. I’d like nothing more than to topple the man.”

  Both Charles and Geoffrey snorted to that arrogant declaration. “He would more than likely make animal fodder out of you,” Geoffrey said. “Your goals are too lofty, lad. No one challenges The Black Storm and lives to tell the tale.”

  George frowned. “He’s a man like any other.”

  Charles looked at his foolish younger brother. “He is a man, but he is not like any other,” he said. “You know as well as I do that he was a knight for King Henry when he was gifted to the King of Scotland as part of a treaty years ago. The man was a royal knight, for Christ’s sake. Being gifted from one king to another does not make him like any other man. It makes him more elite than most.”

  George was still in a disparaging mood, as if he didn’t like hearing about a knight who was greater than he was. He shook his head and scowled. But Catherine had a pensive expression on her face.

  “I wonder why he left the King of Scotland?” she murmured softly.

  The brothers turned to her to varying degrees. “I heard he left because the king made him kill his own countrymen,” George said before anyone else could speak. “He made him kill Englishmen, so he left.”

  “Shut your lips, Mouse,” Charles said, referring to George’s childhood nickname, something he hated with all his being. “You do not know if that is the truth.”

  George was defiant in the face of a conversation that was going increasingly against him. “And you do not know that it isn’t.”

  Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Keep spewing gossip like that and de Reyne will come for you,” he said pointedly. “I will not protect you if he does, so you would do well to still your foolish tongue.”

  The threat of Ridge de Reyne having a vendetta against him for malicious gossip quieted George somewhat, but he was still defiant. “From what I’ve heard, the man only talks to the men who serve him,” he said. “No one knows much about him. If he has nothing to hide, why is he not social?”

  Both Charles and Geoffrey shook their heads at their ridiculous younger brother but were prevented from commenting further when the group in front of them began to move forward.

  “Quickly, now,” Charles said, waving his arm at the men-at-arms in front of his sister’s carriage. “Get moving so we can settle in the encampment before the sun sets.”

  Catherine sat back in her cab as the horses pulling it lurched forward, following the men forward. The marshals waiting at the encampment entry took down some information from Charles before waving the party through. More officials were inside the encampment, showing them where to set up their tents, which was at the very edge of the encampment overlooking the River Wear.

  Once they reached their designated space, Catherine’s carriage was pulled over to the side while the soldiers set up their tents. Her cab was a smaller one, only seating two people with the entire wooden structure fortified by iron. It was heavy and uncomfortable at times, but it was perfect for her and her two little dogs.

  Animals that went everywhere wi
th her.

  Listening to the men shouting and grunting as the tents were raised, Catherine sat on the bench of the cab, her legs curled underneath her and her dogs sleeping on their bed on the floor. But it wasn’t actually a dog bed as much as it was a plush pillow of silk and linen that the dogs had dragged off the bench seat to sleep on. Catherine gazed down at the pair, tiny white puppies that had grown into tiny white dogs with monstrous dispositions. At least, to everyone else they were devils in disguise, but to Catherine, they were her babies and she loved them dearly.

  But she still wasn’t brave enough to take the pillow away from them.

  Bando was the male, a pale dog with big, brown eyes, and Iris was his sister who had one blue eye and one brown eye. Bando woke up when the carriage came to a halt and jumped up on the bench seats for what Catherine called “petties”. It was simply a childish term for lavishing affection on the dog, who tried to climb up on her and lick her face. Bando wanted his petties and she kissed him and stroked his back, looking from the small window to the activity going on outside. It all would have been quite exciting had her mother’s carriage not come into the picture.

  She could see that big, wooden monstrosity from where she sat.

  Not strangely, the women of the House of de Tuberville didn’t travel together. Catherine had the little iron carriage while her mother had a massive one, so large that it had a bed built into it. Blythe didn’t like to share her comfort with anyone, least of all the daughter she never wanted, so they had traveled separately all the way from Keswick.

  It truthfully didn’t bother Catherine in the least.

  It was simply the way of things.

  Things she’d long learned to live with. Oh, she knew why her mother had brought her to this tournament, but she didn’t care. She was thrilled to witness the excitement of it while her mother would be on the hunt for a husband to relieve her of her girl-child. There weren’t many opportunities for suitors in Keswick, so Blythe viewed the Durham games as a prime opportunity to seek husbandly material for what she considered a defective daughter.