Chapter Five #3
Needles prickling his skin, Dermot threw himself down next to Will, Stephen having come to his aid also.
‘I’m sorry, Will, I really didn’t mean to do it.
You came at me!’ Hand having gone to Will’s back, he inched away when Will jerked up.
‘I only wanted to mend things with you. Please, are you fine?’
‘Dermot!’ Will screamed. ‘You wretch, you meant to do it! Just because you’re the bigger man, you think you can lord over me. Go about your schemes, mutter under your breath, leave the rest of us to clean up your damnable mess. Béchard’s right about you, he really is.’
‘Is this about what Dermot put in the food?’ Stephen said immediately.
Will seemed not to hear this, so often did they ignore Stephen, but his expression changed with realisation. Blue eyes gleaming, he looked to his victim as if they were the closest of confidants. ‘What was that?’
‘No!’ Dermot cried, too late.
‘When the bishop came, I saw Dermot putting some sort of strange water in the food. I remember it because it smelt funny,’ Stephen said, blithely unaware of what he said.
Contrary to Stephen’s want of friendship, Will turned on Dermot immediately.
Down as they were, he crawled forward until their faces were pressed against each other, grinding his teeth.
‘Don’t,’ he said, drawing closer. If Béchard came to check their progress, he’d think them down on the floor in some sort of embrace. ‘You tried to poison them.’
‘No, not at all!’ Dermot said. ‘That was not my intention. I did not do it! We’ve been friends for so long, how could you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe,’ Will said. His breath cooled Dermot’s flustered cheeks.
‘Believe me!’ Dermot said, taking his friend’s hands in his own. ‘I did not poison anyone.’
Sensing Dermot’s hot flesh against him, Will flinched and pulled away, which Dermot allowed. While having Will beneath him had once been an eager fantasy, he hadn’t entertained the idea for some time. It was clear his feelings weren’t returned.
Saying nothing, Will crawled back to Robert’s boots with a sniff. His cloth swept over the leather with practised precision. Reluctantly, Dermot returned to Tristan’s boots as well, examining them for a moment and deeming them fit enough for the man.
Dermot got to his feet and left the two of them alone.
Béchard was a veritable devil, and Will may well have been the incubus whispering in his ear.
If Will were to suggest it, Béchard would believe it, and Dermot would swiftly be hanged in the town square to the cheers of mainlanders and natives alike.
‘Ah, Dermot, where is William? Don’t tell me you were the first to finish cleaning?’ Béchard said, eyeing him from above a fine selection of knives. ‘Sure you did a thorough job, are you?’
Doing his best to remain steady, Dermot nodded and went to where the pie sat, waiting for orders.
‘I had wanted William to do it but we’re bloody short of time.
Lord Stanley hasn’t told me when the men are to arrive and, as a chef, prudence is prized over indecision.
The two of us can do it, your thick head be damned,’ Béchard said.
He grabbed the dismembered corpse of some pheasant, already neatly torn apart.
‘Well, Dermot, there are holes in the pie to fit the head and wings. Hurry up, would you?’
With Béchard observing, Dermot’s fingers curled around the creature’s head. Its eyes were still open, black gaze unknowable. He urged it almost tenderly into the pie, making Béchard curse and grab the wings himself, hurling them inside with a great crunch while Dermot flinched.
‘By God, William! Where were you, my boy? Don’t you know I’ve had this great bastard near ruin my pie?’ Béchard said, signalling Will over. ‘The two of you best take things up now. I’m off to check the progress of our visitors.’
Dermot stood off to the side. He needn’t have been there at all.
He was locked in a nightmare; childhood come running back to him.
It was there shots sounded overhead in the cottage where he resided with his mother, a settlement not too far from town.
Men from the mainland came like devils sent to torment the living, having arrived to hunt the natural animals that lived in the forest nearby, intent on bullying local girls before they bloodied the sky.
In his child’s recollection, hundreds of pheasants came down on them like rain, a punishment from God.
Corpses littered modest gardens villagers kept for vegetable growing, and in his naivety he had been intent on saving every animal still living, bullet through the heart or no.
In this task he always failed, coming with hands bloody into the arms of his mother.
She could not rightly have said a word to these men.
One complaint would’ve lit a thousand torches, caused their women undue suffering, and led to more violence between their peoples.
It had been her only solution to keep him inside after an incident too many.
‘I don’t want to go,’ Will said, and this alone tore Dermot from a fantasy in which he, now a grown man, was chopping off a hunter’s head with the intent of slinging it on a pole.
‘What was that, William?’ Béchard called, near out the door.
‘I don’t want to go,’ Will repeated. Firm but with eyes downcast.
Béchard came back in with none of the rage that would’ve ensued had Dermot expressed such a thought. ‘Why not? It’s not that sorry bastard, is it?’ he said, gesturing to where Dermot stood casting a shadow over the pie.
‘No,’ Will said. ‘I don’t want to go. I can’t. Please, let Stephen go. I won’t.’
‘Want, can’t, won’t? These words I’d expect from Dermot, never you, William! He’s not gotten you into the herbs he’s been chewing, has he? I swear I’ll rattle his brains for it. They’re a few dishes, not a thing you can’t carry!’ Béchard shouted.
‘I’ll go,’ Stephen said, happily enough, until one stern look from Béchard forbade whatever he was to say next.
‘No, you will not! Damn it all. Men coming over from the mainland, decorated professionals. I will not have fucking Stephen bring the food up. Why, William?! I myself will go, and Dermot as well,’ Béchard said, rushing to grab the pie, his most prized possession since that morning.
‘I may as well be in hell,’ he said, already going upstairs.
Dermot pursed his lips and took the next dish. It was plain vegetables, his preference, which at least wouldn’t send him into another terror.
‘Do you need anything?’ Stephen said as Dermot was going up.
‘Fuck off,’ Will hissed. ‘I’m going in Béchard’s place to check on our visitors.’ He stomped away like a child in the midst of a tantrum.
Not the yielding young man of Robert’s imaginings, that was for sure, nor his own. Following Béchard upstairs with a grimace and a practised walk, he feared the chef would stumble and fall, sending them both spiralling downstairs. To Dermot’s recollection, Béchard had never made the trip.
‘Can’t understand why they didn’t have it in this room,’ Béchard said, when they were safely up. With its absurd tapestries and ancient décor, the dining room of course appealed to the fool.
‘If there’s anyone in there, stay quiet. Do not say an absolute fucking word,’ Béchard grumbled, hurrying them through the halls, sparse and lined with thousands of stones. ‘I had hoped to see the bloody fellow. Witchfinder! What a profession. I dare say I’d make a good one.’
That was undeniable. After every misery done to him in the kitchen, Dermot easily envisioned Béchard setting hundreds of souls alight.
‘Oh! Lord Robert. I hadn’t expected…’ Béchard said, strong voice diminishing so he could’ve been a mere scullion himself.
‘No, indeed. Quite alright. And you have brought Dermot as well. It saves one of my men the trip down,’ Robert said. He cast his dark eyes over them like Medusa, leaving them stupefied. ‘Wherever is William?’
‘William?’ Béchard echoed. Dermot had the pleasure of watching him from the corner of his eye. His mouth slid open like one of the fish he enjoyed decapitating, gawping stupidly.
‘Yes, William. I have as of late enjoyed the pleasure of his company. Where is he?’ Robert asked. He noticed the monstrosity in Béchard’s hands and smiled.
‘William is not here. I have sent him on an errand. Actually, he is my finest worker. I can’t often spare him,’ Béchard said. Dermot did not know if he discerned Robert’s true intent, the suggestiveness in his voice, but his body thrilled at seeing his tormentor so beaten.
‘You must spare him, for I certainly will not,’ Robert said.
That struck Béchard like a firm punch to the jaw.
Fingers gripping the dish, he hesitated before finally laying the pie at the centre of the table.
His crude features and bald head made a mass of wrinkles, appearing uglier than Dermot had ever seen.
‘I will leave Dermot with you, whatever you want with him.’
Dermot set down his platter, a burgeoning respect for Robert afflicting him.
‘It is a shame, my boy. I know you aided us in capturing the pair, and in fact I do have use for you tonight, but a man has certain needs. I hoped to sate them before dinner,’ Robert said.
Therein lay the answer to Will’s offence. No wonder Dermot’s teasing offended him, he’d likely been doing precisely that since Robert was poisoned.
‘My lord?’ Dermot said, fairly nauseous.
‘I had no time to mention it earlier. As you were there, I find it imperative you describe some of what you saw to my guest, the esteemed witchfinder. I cannot be expected to give this lengthy account while enjoying my dinner,’ Robert said.
‘As you say, Lord Robert,’ Dermot said. He was horrified at not relieving himself beforehand, bowels churning as they were.
The prospect of meeting the witchfinder was to him hellish, as was any time spent in the company of Robert or Tristan.
He would be the only local in attendance, excepting those being discussed who were securely chained in the dungeon.
Robert looked as if he were about to say more but Tristan chose that moment to rush in.
‘He’s here! The carriage is coming in now,’ he hissed, sparing them but a moment before he again sprinted away.
His hair was neater than Dermot ever recalled seeing, likely the work of some poor maid.
It seemed the prospect of a witchfinder excited him more than every ambassador, clergyman, and dignitary they’d hosted.
‘Well, we’d best be getting on,’ Robert said. He stepped out of the dining room. Dermot followed him so far as the masters’ staircase, which no servant was permitted to use.
‘Lord Robert,’ Dermot said. ‘Am I to go with you, or will you call me into the dining room to give the account?’
Robert turned to him with a smile. ‘No, indeed. Follow me. I want you by my side.’
At this strange declaration, Dermot was both horrified and intrigued.
There was nothing to prompt Robert to treat him so well, unless he was so deranged as to actually imagine him bedding Aubrey.
It was, he thought, a ruse, though to what purpose he couldn’t guess.
Cheeks hot with shame, he lingered behind Robert like a woman.
All men were equal, he knew, they were just not born so.