Chapter Three
Trudging through the halls with Will, Dermot clenched his fists.
There was nowhere to look. The walls were barren, the only paintings in the entire castle being portraits of Lord Stanley and his forefathers, or tapestries of beasts strung across the dining room designed by a man who had evidently never seen the creatures in his life.
He gritted his teeth again. After days of scrubbing chamber pots and disembowelling animals by way of their rectum, Dermot felt the vial heavy in his pocket.
The bishop was coming to sup, and his mind was hazier than he could ever remember it being.
‘Say, we haven’t really talked much in the last few days,’ Will said. Dermot could feel eyes boring into him. ‘What have you been up to?’
There was nothing to discuss. Their days were comprised of simple drudgery, something Will knew well enough. It made talking a chore; all they had were monotonies to be repeated.
‘You know, I overheard something last night. A rather interesting titbit about a certain someone. If you’d care to listen,’ Will said.
Dermot shrugged. ‘Go on then.’
‘Well, after I cleaned up from an exertion, I had to pass the grand staircase. I heard two distinct voices, Lord Stanley and Aubrey. They were shouting back and forth. It’s a wonder the whole castle didn’t hear. Poor Aubrey. He’s always so soft-spoken.’
The fire beneath Dermot’s skin was lit. The body he imagined under him each night, though lately his partner took a different form; black hair turned ashen blond.
‘What were they arguing about?’ Dermot asked. He could barely muster the enthusiasm Will wanted.
‘The bishop’s dinner tonight, of course.
Lord Stanley said Aubrey doesn’t show the bastard proper courtesy, that he brings shame on the family.
I can’t imagine what he meant,’ Will whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.
‘Aubrey said he couldn’t help it, that the bishop was just as bad. That didn’t go over well.’
Dermot looked away, fingers brushing against the bulge in his pockets. Lord Stanley’s affairs weren’t his concern.
‘But I’m sure you like that he’s got some fight in him, don’t you?’ Will laughed. They were nearly in the kitchen, and a joke that should’ve left Dermot fumbling turned him cold.
The two of them entered together, and Dermot thanked any magic that existed for it. They were late. Will, ever the favourite, won them a glare and not much else.
‘The cockentrice,’ Béchard said with utmost seriousness.
‘I’ve already scalded the bird and piglet.
I wouldn’t trust any of you when it comes to cleanliness.
Your nations don’t know a damned thing about it.
’ He huffed and looked pointedly between the two creatures.
‘Dermot, we’re in need of your strength for the pig.
Stephen, you’re cutting the chicken, and Will, you’ll run for the needle and thread from Mrs Aisling. ’
As if slicing through the wisp on the table required strength. His was best served in fantasy, enjoying Maldred with the stamina won from years in service.
‘Why are you standing about? Get to it, Dermot!’ Béchard shouted. He was off to the side, close enough to observe the butchery. No doubt armed with a litany of abuse should they stab wrong.
Approaching the piglet, Dermot seized the knife.
He hadn’t known himself to be so hazy, fragments struggling to coalesce into one complete thought.
The knife was all he had to steady himself, and finally he brought it down.
The tiny body collapsed, yielding like butter underneath his attentions.
With the lack of force required, it was likely it’d been snatched before suckling the sow that bore it.
‘A good cut, Stephen,’ Béchard commented. He said nothing to Dermot, which was tacit approval. If something had gone awry with the butchery, Béchard would’ve boxed him round the ear. ‘And William, stop that malarkey and get in here with the thread.’
Dermot jolted as Will came to stand next to him. He hadn’t seen him come in. Something was amiss, that was for certain, but simple lust hadn’t made him act out before.
‘Will, get to threading.’ Béchard turned to face Dermot and Stephen. ‘The yolks, you sorry bastard. And you, Dermot, I expect some initiative from a man who’s been working for so long in my kitchen and has more than half a brain in his head. Or do I have two invalids on my hands?’
As usual, Béchard enjoyed Will’s shenanigans, and he was fair in his treatment of Stephen. But when speaking to Dermot, his voice belied an antipathy that couldn’t be made sense of.
They’d stitched corpses together before. Lord Stanley and Aubrey’s brothers enjoyed it immensely. Not for the taste, of course, but the sheer absurdity of it. Whether it was simple desecration or the pains taken to create it, Dermot couldn’t say, but the sadism was the same.
‘Salt, suet, saffron, Dermot! Sans ton père, je te battrais. C'est ce qui arrive lorsque les peuples se mélangent.’
Dermot rushed to the shelf without another word. When the bastard started speaking his native tongue, there was bound to be trouble. Imported from France, though how Lord Stanley tempted his pets, Dermot couldn’t guess. Anyone fool enough to come to the island made a mockery of those born to it.
He grabbed the suet only to find a giant handprint etched into it.
The saffron, salt, and ginger were all within arm’s reach, and they kept the breadcrumbs in an affected box Béchard brought from his homeland.
He couldn’t guess where the spices were from, no one would say, and the flecks had always alluded him.
‘Dermot,’ Stephen said, bulbous fingers tearing at the yolk. He spoke with the same lisping stutter he always did. No doubt some of his spittle went on Lord Stanley’s dinner.
While Béchard expected meticulousness, the bastard was too busy inspecting Will’s handiwork to notice Dermot’s carelessness.
He grabbed the spices and tossed them into the yolk, then did the same with the bread, with none of the gentle sprinkling Béchard demanded.
It turned out just as the others had. He ground his hands into the mix and, heedless of Stephen’s presence, drew out the vial Maldred had gifted.
The lid broke easily. Held at the right angle, it would escape even Béchard’s notice, should he turn.
Once the liquid had run its course, he slipped the glass back into his pocket.
Béchard lumbered towards the bowl and wrenched it away. He waved his hands at Dermot, who hurried to seize the mixture and gorge the piglet, replacing its innards with the fat of another’s loins.
‘At least the simple-minded can move their limbs. Thank God for small mercies,’ Béchard said, directing Will to the cut across the pig’s belly.
The amount of food Lord Stanley required sewing was astonishing but Will always did good work.
Béchard wouldn’t have financed anyone else’s learning.
It was a talent expressly asked for but seldom required of anyone else.
Any man or woman wanting to go into service might’ve paid for a tutor, but a pauper could afford no lessons, nor could they teach themselves without literacy.
‘You know what to do, Dermot,’ Béchard said.
If the rest was not monstrous enough, the final blow was the crux.
Dermot took the rod and pierced the pig’s anus with it, marvelling at the lack of resistance.
How man could conceive of such evil, he couldn’t fathom, but the same fellow who’d taken a gentle creature to slaughter doubtless had no qualms with skewering it as he did his wife.
When the rod reached the mouth, Will laughed with delight, and Béchard bid Stephen put it on the spit.
The poor bastard would turn it while Béchard sauntered around the kitchen for the next few hours.
Cleaning out the piss pots was a mercy when that was the alternative.
Before Béchard could squawk about fetching the seasoning, Dermot rushed out of the room without another word.
There was much to be done before dinner was made ready for Lord Stanley and his spawn.
Firstly, he dealt with the pots sequestered into a corner of every occupied room.
They stank from the night before, and washing them was no small task, especially with Mrs Aisling holding each to her nose for a thorough inspection; an ordeal he had no wish to witness again.
Then he was out into a gale to get the clothing before the promise of rain rendered every last thing sodden.
Not good enough to touch Lord Stanley’s robes, he was barely trusted with the rags given to his fellow servants, and the tower that always put some fire into his soul left him as cold as the sea encircling them.
Going to and fro until every last piece of cloth was saved, he headed for Mrs Aisling’s workroom, wherein she kept a notebook of the clothes’ movements. It was an oddity, something Will assured him no housekeeper in the mainland did, but that was likely the reason she’d left.
‘Hello,’ a voice called.
Dermot’s mind settled on Maldred. His body tingled until he realised the voice was distinctly feminine.
‘Please lay the clothes down there, the corner to your left,’ the woman said, perhaps a few years his senior. ‘Mrs Aisling isn’t here at the moment. She is in the dining room.’
As the housekeeper, Mrs Aisling had naught to do in the dining room, but that wouldn’t stop her from intruding.
Like Béchard, her salary depended on her background, not the toil demanded of those less fortunate.
Dermot had theorised on this matter, concluding she was likely the daughter of some enterprising man, entitled to service but too unsightly to trouble a man with.