Chapter Eight #2
‘It is, I expect. But first, I’ve arranged a luncheon outside the castle for us to enjoy,’ Robert said.
He set off then, assuming they would follow.
Women cried out as he passed, and though he waved politely, it only made them more amorous.
Tristan walked at his side, braid bouncing, making Dermot’s fists curl with want of dominion.
As soon as he observed the guardsmen, the same men who mocked him for carrying Thorne, Dermot raced to walk behind Robert. Weston and Thorne lingered off to the side, whispering to one another.
‘Lord Robert!’ the guards called in unison, bowing so low Dermot wanted nothing more than to snap them in half.
‘The boy to court, lads,’ Robert said.
‘I want to see him hang now,’ Tristan called, boundless in exuberance.
Great mat of hair beating against his back as he moved, Dermot thought what it would be like to take him, to watch that hair move in tandem with his cock.
What was there to be done with a young man of such vigour but make him docile; a fantasy to warm at night.
As soon as they went in and Dermot saw the gardens transformed, he marvelled at Béchard’s keeping it from him.
Tables were set out, and not once had he been summoned to help.
Will and Stephen must’ve managed it themselves.
He had no great love for his position but their secrecy rattled him.
Every day he endured tyranny at Béchard’s hands, and now he was struck from the duty roster as simple as that.
Everything but the utensils, fine silver doubtless kept for generations, made the Stanleys’ lack of funds obvious. Dermot stood amazed as he spied Lord Stanley, red wine dribbling from his mouth as he stared into the distance, and thought Weston and Thorne did a fine job at affecting not to notice.
‘A brief interlude for us all, my friends,’ Robert said, sitting next to his father. He inclined his head towards Dermot as if observing the shrubbery. ‘If you could go to the kitchen, my boy, and ask William to bring out the food.’
Nodding his submission, Dermot marched away with purpose. Being presided over by Béchard was a terror, and though he took no pleasure in Robert’s goodwill, it was the insult done to the chef that warmed him most.
Observing the gardens as he fled, Dermot marvelled Robert brought the witchfinders there at all.
It was but a passageway around the castle, ruined since Lady Stanley died, none of the men much interested in keeping it.
Moss grew everywhere, fit to engulf the castle with negligence.
He was glad when he came to the courtyard at last.
‘You!’ Béchard hissed, Dermot having flung the door open to stunned silence. ‘You’ve been absent for so long, I’d forgotten your blasted face. Ugly bugger.’
Dermot said, ‘Robert wants Will to serve the food.’
Béchard flung a knife across the room, and Dermot saw only a glint of silver before it landed beside his shoe.
‘If you were a little handsomer, Dermot, and not such a miserable lout, I dare say you’d be the one serving the bloody food.
And more than that, I’d wager.’ It seemed he understood what had been done to his protégé.
Will paused in dusting herbs into a dish to stare at him, eyes accusatory. Dermot marvelled he’d seen a friend in the rogue, treacherous as he was.
‘No,’ Béchard said slowly, ‘come here.’
Immediately Dermot feared he was to be hit. Béchard often attacked with some sort of tool, ensuring he was never caught before the act. Such was the man’s cowardice that he could’ve done it openly but instead chose to sneak.
Steeling himself, Dermot stepped forward.
Robert’s face flitted through his mind, and though he’d schooled himself against it, he took courage in the fact he was valued most. He’d proved useful, and evidently Robert had no love for Béchard.
Enamoured by the idea, he did not notice he’d already come forward, and his waist collided soundly against the table.
‘God be damned!’ Béchard screamed. ‘In your own world, aren’t you? And don’t you pity those who have to live in this one!’
Running his tongue across his lip, he recalled Thorne’s seduction at the harbour and felt his body warm. ‘Do you require anything, Béchard?’ he hissed, astounded by his own confidence.
Béchard slammed his fist onto the table, causing the dish to waver.
A scallop fell against wood as the man screamed.
‘Bastard! To come all the way here from France, to be spoken to with such contempt by a peasant! The Dermot I know is a craven fool, not mean hearted. But now you’ve gone the other way. ’
‘Dermot threw a boy into the sea this morning,’ Will said. There was no trickster play in it, voice honeyed when he meant to get his way. Now everything was monotone between them.
Bristling at the insensitivity, Dermot stood at his full height. Back straight as he imitated Robert’s manner, he said, ‘You’d best watch yourself then.’
What once would’ve been taken as a mere joke rendered Will speechless. Watching him, Dermot realised how absurd he must look in his indignation, red-faced and snarling. But Will should’ve understood the tasks men fell to when compelled, having done what he had with Robert.
‘Think yourself a mighty fine lord now?’ Béchard asked, voice low. Years of bondage were not broken in but one harsh word. ‘Well, take this shit out to the garden and serve it to your master. Feel free to crawl beneath the table and give him a good feel as you do.’
Even Will didn’t laugh at this, when once he might’ve spent the whole night after teasing him.
An ache lashed in his chest. Most likely it had been Will who told the guards of his interest in men, else spread the rumour of his supposed romp with Thorne.
Now in Will’s eyes he’d had both Aubrey and the witchfinder; two mighty fine conquests well above his station.
‘He asked for Will,’ Dermot said.
‘And you’d send your own friend to the devil? Fils de pute, take the food and get out of my sight,’ Béchard said, gesturing to the table.
Never had Dermot seen such a creation. Roasts were a favourite of the family, not fish.
They were too close to the sea. Crabs and lobsters were readily available for any man who took to the ocean, so nobility lost all interest. But, loathe as he was to admit it, Béchard’s dish was a fine spectacle.
It was so elegant that he at first mistook it for cake, crust encasing fish with towers like battlements, shrimps littering the walls.
Skewered on top was the head of a kipper, black eyes cast on its dead fellows.
‘I will go,’ Dermot said finally, afeared of dropping it. Will had an elegance he couldn’t imitate, being the most pleasing face, and oftentimes Béchard trotted him out at mealtimes. Dermot had never enjoyed such favour.
‘Sooner you than William,’ Béchard said.
Grimacing as the kipper’s eyes met his own, Dermot hurried away, scallops teetering over the edge of the plate. The sun might’ve shone but the day was black. His confidence was only regained as he spied the party, Robert sat in conference with Weston.
‘Marvellous!’ Weston cried. Yet when Thorne turned and whispered in his ear, he added, ‘I do not have the stomach for it.’
Dermot’s bravado fled as Robert watched him with bewilderment, then rage. Standing and sauntering over to him, plucking a scallop and flinging it onto the grass, Robert said, ‘Did you know of this?’
‘No, Lord Robert,’ Dermot said. A thrill ran through him. Knowing he stood kneeling, but on the winning side.
Robert turned on his heel and marched into the courtyard, and it came to Dermot that he was about to see his greatest tormentor’s comeuppance. Racing so he walked a few steps behind Robert, he smiled, near tripping in his excitement as they came into the kitchen.
‘I did not mean it, Lord Robert,’ Béchard said. ‘There has been talk of sponsoring the local food and incorporating it into our cooking. I can assure you, peasants don’t eat like this.’
‘Talk!’ Robert boomed. Dermot’s back hit the wall, and he felt nothing but the jagged bricks against his shoulder. ‘And who has said so? Certainly not me, your master!’
Béchard’s mouth sat agape like the fish he’d eagerly sent to the table. ‘Lord Robert, I came to serve your family from France. Everything I do is in your service, and it was I who trained these boys.’
‘Speaking of boys,’ Robert said, casting his dark eyes over to Will. ‘Why not bring out William? You instead foist Dermot on us, a man who we have just seen lower a witch into the harbour.’
That stung bitterly. He was a mere tool, marred by the actions of another man. Biting his lip, he turned away, unwilling to watch what was to come next.
‘William is my protégé, I need him here,’ Béchard said.
There was a blur of motion, then a crack as Dermot’s head turned just as Béchard collapsed onto the table.
He looked every inch like the middle aged man he was, surrounded by men stronger than he.
Robert’s fist had glided through air until it hit flesh, and the man who had been Dermot’s constant terror was felled in but an instant.
Only Will acted. He ran to Béchard with a shout and, on seeing Robert, edged away. Béchard’s lessons hadn’t taught bravery, it seemed.
‘Dermot!’ Will called. ‘Do…’
‘What?’ Robert said, interrupting him. ‘Leave us.’
Dermot stared, cringing as Will’s eyes met his.
They had no match except for the blue jewel Aubrey sometimes wore, but even then, no equal.
How he’d delighted in them, warming himself to fantasies after a hard day at work.
Now he shied away as though burnt, shoulders stooped as he fled like a hound kicked. Their friendship severed.