Chapter Nine #5
Fretful, Dermot remained standing until Weston clasped his sleeve and gave him a tug, leaving him stumbling towards the carriage. He was at once downcast upon hearing murmurs from some women nearby, ceaseless in their accusations. While men made war and then peace, women’s tongues lashed forever.
Standing to the side and bowing his head low as Tristan joined them, Dermot finally climbed up and watched as Weston hurried away. The door was summarily slammed shut, leaving them in darkness.
‘An interesting day, to be sure,’ Robert said. Despite the gloominess of their surroundings, Dermot felt the weight of his gaze. ‘Are you quite well, Dermot?’
It was Robert’s tone of voice that made him quiver. That slow, rich enunciation that had never before been pointed at him.
‘Yes, Lord Robert,’ Dermot said, stifling the prattle that was bound to come should he come up with some excuse. ‘It was the smell. My apologies, Lord Robert. I disgraced myself.’
‘Disgraced yourself!’ Robert laughed. ‘A scullion, disgracing himself. Have you ever heard the like, brother?’
Tristan, who was veiled in the darkness of the furthest corner, stared blankly.
There was a wildness about him Dermot had never before observed.
His irises could scarcely be seen, such was the whiteness of his eyes; the mad look of a beast untamed.
Even his braid was loose, black ink spilling on his lap.
‘It…’ Tristan said, lacking his usual candour. ‘Fucking disgusting.’
‘Indeed,’ Robert said, seeming oblivious to his brother’s unusual countenance. ‘That I should bring you with me, a trusted servant, only for you to behave thus. You have not disgraced yourself, Dermot, for such a thing would be impossible. You have disgraced me, your master.’
Dermot shifted uncomfortably. Robert had favoured him since their strange meeting in the kitchen.
It had been Béchard that endured his attitude, then Will.
Now aunt and nephew lay dead, their bodies never to find ground, for they had been put into the hands of another monster.
Robert, he knew, saw nothing but capital and resource, and Dermot was but a mere fleck of dust in both.
‘Have you nothing to say for yourself? The smell, well! How long have you been in my kitchen? For a foul, ugly man such as yourself to feign faintness like a woman. I am quite astounded,’ Robert said.
It occurred to him at once that Robert’s sudden interest in his employment might be the rope that hanged him. Already with a mother accused, their village being the closest to the hut where aunt and nephew had lived.
‘Lord Robert, I don’t know what to say. My apologies… please, I will clean your boots,’ Dermot said. He knew he could not charm like Will; he was no sweet coquette.
Robert sighed as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. ‘To think I nearly allowed you to bed my brother.’
Tristan inched further back, and Dermot realised that he, being in such a peculiar state, might imagine it was his dignity being traded.
Amusing as this idea was, for Dermot would’ve certainly accepted, Robert’s anger brought him to reality.
As soon as the doors creaked open, Robert jumped out, marching towards the portcullis where his guardsmen looked to be readying for some attack.
Dermot cringed as he leapt down himself, having no desire to be trapped with Tristan.
Immediately his eyes met a few eager soldiers outside, and he rushed after Robert. These men despised locals, and Dermot liked them even less.
‘Dermot, take these,’ Robert said.
The boots were thrust into his waiting arms, secured by Robert’s strong grip.
As they moved to part, fingers grasped his forearm.
Never before had he, a man of good height and strength, been ensnared by another.
Robert was a different beast; he had all the strength of their conquerors and no native blood.
Dermot did not know if their ancestors had ever met, but he reasoned that surely they hadn’t, else he would not be living.
‘I shall deal with you later,’ Robert said. As he left, Dermot heard a guardsman calling out for him.
All that remained of the day were the sodden boots clutched firmly to his chest. Aunt and nephew left no mark on the world.
They lived briefly in poverty and suffered at the hands of men born to a superior station.
Even Dermot was naught but a plaything for the Stanleys.
Clenching his fists and cutting the fine leather under his fingernails, he hurried away.
He had no patience for any guardsman or maid that dared approach him for news of the day’s events. They would hear soon enough.
To his surprise, the castle was quiet. Hardly anything could be heard beyond the distant talk of guardsmen; what a fool he had been in his ignorance, their presence being so obvious that it should’ve caught no man unawares.
The eeriness chilled him, there being no servants about. The place was devoid of life.
Turning the corner to the shared bedroom, he recognised the paint peeling from the walls and with it the gradual deterioration of stone.
With this and the guard’s words that morning, it seemed perhaps change was finally taking hold; that the aristocrats would soon get their due and the castle would become nothing more than a bygone.
Turning the handle and stepping in, Dermot swiftly closed the door behind him.
Both Will and Stephen were absent, their beds perfectly made.
There was no sign that three men shared the small space.
Dropping Robert’s boots at the side of his bed with burgeoning suspicion, he set off for the rest of the supplies.
Even going to the alcove nearest the courtyard yielded no result.
Perhaps Will and Stephen were in the kitchen preparing dinner, else there was a meeting where Dermot’s presence was, as ever, unwanted.
Clutching the scrub and brush in one hand and the wax in the other, he stumbled back.
The stress worsened his affliction so that his eyes burnt terribly; forcing out the day’s pollution of smog and death.
Shuddering as he recalled the aunt’s pain, Dermot threw his body against the door. He still held the cleaning supplies tightly to his chest, Robert’s boots languishing against his bed.
‘Maldred!’ Dermot called. He lumbered about, turning his head so that his neck ached with the force of it.
If anyone were to see him, they would think him mad.
Robert likely would’ve tied him to the pyre himself.
‘Two people lie dead!’ he shouted again, cringing as he recalled Weston’s plans, not daring even to relay them to the instigator.
‘What am I to do? Was this your plan all along, that my kinsmen should die? To seduce me to do your bidding?’
There was not so much as a murmur in reply.
Dermot fell onto the bed, hoisting himself forward as soon as the cover chafed against his back.
He slipped wordlessly to the floor, Robert’s boots unmoving as he thundered down beside them.
Taking the cloth that he’d shoved crudely into his trousers, Dermot relished spitting on the thing and smattering it onto the boots; degrading and defiling in any small way he could.
He had first known Lord Robert for the fineness of his boots; the terror as they edged ever nearer.
They were, he was certain, worth more than his life.
‘Bastard,’ Dermot said, scrubbing with all his might as to rid them of any smatterings of vomit. They were handsome things, black as ever, and only made the incident fester further in his mind. Despite any supposed friendliness between them, Dermot would always be lesser, filthy.
With that thought, he smashed his head against the wall, fists curled so tightly as to make his hands shake.
The violence he wished to enact was without limit.
Briefly, he thought about taking a torch and casting it down upstairs.
If he put enough effort into the task, he might manage to set Robert alight.
Even this caused his wretched body to take an interest. Immediately he imagined rutting against Tristan or Thorne, for to practice pleasure at the expense of a devil surely wasn’t a grave sin.
The hotness of his body simmered into desire and the beginnings of pleasure lashed through him. He was not without wickedness himself.
Upon biting his lip, he tasted the healthy thrumming of blood and thrust hard against Robert’s boots.
His masters would never know that he spat in their food and treated their belongings with disdain.
Obeisance born from necessity was nothing but revolt smouldering away, and with that thought, his pleasure reached its peak with Robert’s boots as his only bedfellow.
Red-faced as a demon and groaning his release, he cast the boots aside in a fit of shame. He was no less deranged than his enemies. Two of his kinsmen lay dead, a mainlander foisting experiments on their corpses, and Dermot had been sat pleasuring himself with all manner of sordid imaginings.
Grabbing the rag and giving Robert’s boots a scrubbing, for something more offensive than vomit had found its way onto them, he turned the wax’s lid and winced as the heat touched his skin. No trace of defilement could now be observed, the boots shining blacker than cinder.
Though he knew Robert was ignorant, fear coiled in his gut. It was undoubtedly the worst thing that had been done to the man. Casting his head down onto his knees, Dermot curled into himself and sobbed.
He did not care who heard. His whole body rattled, hands twisting worriedly over his chest. He had just seen two people die; their screams haunted. Never again would he find solace.