Chapter Five
To do as instructed was simple but the consequences were another matter entirely. He went about his tasks as usual, noting the subtle changes in his colleagues. Mrs Aisling sniffed the chamber pots fervently to check for any lapse in washing, and Béchard’s anger festered as the days grew shorter.
With his friend snubbing him, only Maldred’s memory kept him in check, and oftentimes Dermot fantasised about them merely conversing.
All wonderment was snuffed out by the perpetual drudgery of daily life, inflicted by no one in particular.
Only the sad culmination of masters who slowly but surely came to dictate the lives of the poor were his enemies, the family being so afflicted.
The preparations for the witchfinder’s arrival proved as arduous as feared.
Despite Robert’s enthusiasm, only Dermot, Will, and a few maids were tasked with the décor.
Will had said the castle was a hovel compared to the mainland estates, antiquated as it was, with most floors made up of only a few small rooms. Even the walls, flaking so badly the girls had to dispose of any loose pieces, were hidden behind tapestries.
The Stanleys were too poor to afford more.
Dermot’s hope, however faint, was that the witchfinder might be their saviour and see the absurdity of the whole business.
The night was come to them now, and Dermot was again tasked with perverting another creature for Lord Stanley’s pleasure. In a group of supposedly religious men, everyone thought themselves superior to their mystical creature, distorting nature into something more fantastical.
‘Having a good go at that dough?’ Béchard said, lingering at the edge of the kitchen and stepping forward only to shout an instruction. ‘God help the woman that gets into your sorry bed. Her breasts and arse will be redder than the meat upon the table.’
Dermot lowered his head and fondled the dough as he pleased.
No matter the method, there was always some tacit instruction that eluded him.
Stephen stood by his side, twisting bits of breadcrumbs and veal between his fingers with an ignorance Dermot envied and despised.
It was something he often pondered in silence, the labour that saw a creature torn from the womb to fit neatly upon a plate.
An abuse done to a female, that she might create bones and flesh only for the unknowable soul to become nothing but shit.
‘It needs no more of that, Dermot. Don’t you see Stephen holding his hands out to you so we can begin filling up the pie? By God, where are you? Certainly not in my kitchen!’ Béchard said.
Dermot grabbed the offering and fit it into the pie, its crust nothing more than bread and milk so that mother and child were joined in man’s sorry parody. He quietly thanked Stephen for passing the plate of mushrooms before chucking them unceremoniously into the mix.
‘No!’ Béchard cried. ‘This is to be eaten by a great family who employ you in spite of all reason. What of Lord Robert, tolerating you for his hunting trip? You should be honoured he even deigned to look at you! Have you no respect? Do you think yourself better than us because you were in his company? William, come and do the rest. Dermot, off to the side, and if you keep this up, I will be writing a letter of complaint.’
Will, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since his encounter with Robert, came to stand beside them. His look was sanguine as he grabbed the pheasant’s innards, hands wet with blood, and Dermot thought him sluggish and uneasy.
‘Do you have nothing to say about this, William?’ Béchard asked.
Will contemplated the table, which no doubt in Béchard’s love for him was read as studious rather than arrogant. ‘Dermot does everything to a purpose,’ he said slowly.
‘Is there some malady going around? I don’t believe I’ve heard you laugh as of late. Not one of the maids spurning you, is it?’ Béchard said, coming to the table himself. Such was the rarity of this that Dermot took a few careful steps back.
Fixing his precious box on the table and taking the key from his pocket, Béchard turned the lock until it came undone and the flavourings were revealed. ‘You know I do not often allow this. Will, would you scatter them on the pie?’
Will looked at Béchard from underneath the lashes that so captivated Robert. He grasped a little from each compartment, a combination unknown to Dermot, and scattered them carefully amongst the great miasma of pastry.
‘Excellent! There’s no need to mope around like Dermot, man doesn’t know herbs from his own behind,’ Béchard said.
‘Now just a smidge…’ he murmured, unwilling to assign this great task to Will.
He dipped his fingers into the spice so one granule might find its way into someone’s stomach.
‘William, why don’t you do it again but in reverse? ’
Taking the pheasant guts in hand and coating himself in yet more blood, Will assented, pressing them into the mix one atop the other, then scattered the mushrooms above as if arranging a display in a museum. He reached over for the gravy and dashed it between the bits of flesh and earth.
‘And that is how you do it, without me even reminding him. And Dermot, the dolt, hasn’t even bothered to roll the dough,’ Béchard said.
With all his hatred for the man, Dermot grasped the roller and rammed it onto the dough so the thing was flattened in mere moments. Will solemnly took this moment’s labour in hand and put it on top of the pie, cutting the remains and flinging them so they neatly landed on Dermot’s trousers.
‘God sent me William and the devil gave me Dermot,’ Béchard said. ‘Now to cook the thing. Will, stay with me and observe. Dermot, Stephen, off with you. I’m sure Mrs Aisling has some need.’
‘Where did Stephen come from?’ Will said slyly.
‘His mother’s arse and back to front at that. Sorry bitch was probably torn open, size of the great lummox.’
Dermot turned away and left without another word, only stopping as he signalled Stephen to walk beside him so they could make their way to Mrs Aisling without incident.
She was the housekeeper and kept to her quarters, preferring to conduct business inside, and every meeting with her was a terror.
Certainly she plotted with Béchard against them, instigating miseries on the staff with aplomb.
‘Dermot,’ Stephen said, his childlike voice unnatural when paired with his massive shadow. ‘Something’s not right.’
Dermot turned to him, incredulous. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘It’s ever since you put that in the food, then when Will went to the dungeons,’ Stephen said.
Hoping to move out of step with him, Dermot hurried ahead and turned to another corridor, flinching when Stephen’s heavy feet crashed against stone in an effort to keep pace.
He did not know how Stephen guessed when both Béchard and Will remained ignorant.
It seemed a cruel injustice; that a man who hadn’t the sense to act against him should understand so soundly.
He stopped outside Mrs Aisling’s quarters. It was well known that the woman took pride in her proximity to upstairs. Heart quickening, Dermot opened the door before Stephen could say anything more.
Mrs Aisling sat neatly at her desk, furiously penning some sort of missive. The quill screeched as she beat it on the page, two young women flinching as they stood huddled together by the wall.
‘Men,’ one of the girls said, a thin-faced blonde Dermot recognised as one of Will’s companions.
‘Men!’ cried Mrs Aisling, turning so the ink soared across her desk, near obscuring half the page. ‘Wretched girl, look what you’ve done!’ Hurrying to her feet, she dusted off her matronly garb and adjusted herself as she gawked at them, acting as though she had never before seen their like.
The blonde grabbed a cloth and raced where Mrs Aisling directed, crying out when the housekeeper’s wrinkled hands lashed across her own.
‘Is that Dermot, Béchard’s boy? Do you see what I have to deal with?’ She squinted at him as if to leer, wrinkles etching further into leathered skin. ‘And myself with such eyesight that I can hardly write, all my work come to naught.’
‘I can pen another for you, Mrs Aisling, were you to dictate it,’ the brunette said. She, unlike her friend, had a more curvaceous form that spoke of a generous upbringing.
‘What nonsense! Were I in charge of this whole sorry island, I would make it so maids and scullery boys weren’t permitted to write.
What, after all, is the point? Are you going to become a novelist, Noelle?
Why, of course not,’ Mrs Aisling said, her shrill voice resembling the cry of quill on paper.
The woman, Noelle, who Dermot recognised as the maid who chastised him for throwing clothes onto the ground, scowled behind the woman’s back and started scrubbing as the blonde’s sobs became audible.
‘Now, why has Béchard sent you to me? Does he have need for my thread, perhaps? But usually the blond boy comes to get it, darling that he is. Why are you here?’ Mrs Aisling asked.
‘Our work is finished in the kitchen. Béchard sent us to see if you needed assistance preparing for the dinner,’ Dermot mustered. He saw the woman’s lips tremble and felt keenly for the maids.
‘The dinner, my word!’ Mrs Aisling said.
‘Lord Stanley’s important meeting concerning some very improper behaviour, I’ll have you know, with two important guests visiting from overseas, gentlemen and our betters.
And Béchard, really, is that what he permits you to call him?
That really is unseemly.’ She pretended to think before stomping her foot at the two girls, still stood by the desk.
‘Useless creatures. Yes, boys, there is something you could do for me. These two harlots refuse to bring our handmade handkerchiefs upstairs. They are intended as gifts for Lord Stanley, his sons, and our visitors. Take them to the dining room, that is what I ask of you.’