Chapter Fourteen #2
Fumbling, Dermot said, ‘A small village, Lord Tristan, on the border.’ He hoped Tristan’s mind would find somewhere appropriate. ‘I have news of your brother and Hatfield.’ They’d come to his threadbare plan, conceived only a few minutes ago. His tongue twisted to the lie’s tune.
‘What?’ Tristan shouted, eyeing him with newfound interest. He was still drunk. ‘Why didn’t you say?! We’ve spent minutes cutting this cunt up!’
‘Lord Tristan,’ Dermot said. Struggling to maintain eye contact, he accidentally looked to the body below. Bile caught in his throat, and he, steadfast, swallowed it back down. ‘I need to show you.’
‘Men!’ Tristan called, gesturing to the fellows lying on the ground.
Before more could be done, Dermot caught Tristan’s wrist. ‘It’s a sensitive matter, Lord Tristan. For you only. Let’s go alone for your brother’s sake.’
‘What…’ Tristan started, seemingly in awe at being manhandled. Displaying the first suggestion of intelligence Dermot had seen, he said, ‘Is something wrong? Is my brother safe?’ Dark eyes, enquiring like Robert’s but tempting like Aubrey’s, met Dermot’s without recognition.
‘It’s private,’ Dermot said. He did not break hold until Tristan stumbled back. The soldiers hadn’t done anything to intervene, which was promising enough. ‘I’ll take you there directly.’
Tristan nodded. ‘Lead on then, man. I can’t stand it.’
Dermot turned on his heel. He may not have seen his mother amongst the dead, but there was every chance one of those ill-begotten soldiers had killed her.
He did not know what to do. Many nights he had spent wishing misery on his tormentors, now every man who’d grown with him was gone from the world.
He led Tristan further away from the village, desperately searching for any sign of his mother. But she was either dead or run away. He couldn’t guess how many villagers escaped; certainly most of the men were dead. Perhaps their souls watched as Dermot, alive, stomped on their burial ground.
‘In the forest?’ Tristan said. ‘Was he hiding here all along?’
Dermot nearly laughed. Tristan hadn’t thought to check the forest, had instead committed wanton slaughter. Inclining his head, he led them further in so that the soldiers wouldn’t hear any screaming. But not, he hoped, so far that Aubrey would see what he intended to do.
‘Lord Tristan,’ Dermot said. They were surrounded by virginial nature. Tristan, whose armour had been prettied up by some servant, stood defenceless as his black hair flitted about in the wind.
‘My brother,’ Tristan began, just as Dermot punched him in the face. There was a flash of colour as the bastard fell, armour clattering onto the ground as Dermot rushed to get astride.
Growling like a beast, he hit him again.
Knowing firsthand how to relieve a man of his burden, he unstrapped Tristan’s armour.
The man was so drunk that struggling was useless, and when Tristan started to shout, Dermot proudly slapped a coarse hand over his pretty face.
The armour was stripped from him like snakeskin.
‘How much wine have you had tonight, my lord?’ Dermot asked, enamoured by the disbelief in those black eyes. ‘Taken from the dead, was it?’
Tristan could not answer. The two of them tussled in the grass like newfound lovers, eager with vigour and passion.
Dermot recalled how many men and women had been put to death. The lives of paupers were worth nothing to a lord, but Dermot would’ve given up every aristocrat in the mainland so long as it secured his mother’s life. Bitter tears stung his eyes as a stifled breath escaped him in a broken sob.
Turning Tristan sharply by way of an arm around his neck, Dermot grasped his hair and pulled him close, scenting rosewater.
He curled his fist into those luscious strands as if to draw blood.
Tristan’s head was on Dermot’s shoulder, slender neck on display.
Face stark and pale as any woman won during war, Tristan’s dark eyes lighted on his own.
A name was muffled beneath his hand, vibrating off his skin.
‘Where’s my mother?’ Dermot said. He loosened his hold and retrieved the knife, straightaway teasing it against Tristan’s neck.
‘You know of her!’ Dermot said, stifling a cry. ‘Breesha Skelly, a woman in her forties with dark hair, short and stout.’ He sobbed, shaking the knife so Tristan felt the full weight of it fumbling against his throat.
‘Aubrey,’ Tristan gasped. Beads of blood graced the kitchen knife. Dermot had to stifle the urge to lean over and drink it off the edge.
‘What?’ Dermot mocked, marvelling at his own cruelty. He thrust against Tristan, giving the bastard the measure of his strength; he was a man uncastrated and whole. ‘What do you think happened to him?’
Tristan cried out. Fascinated, Dermot watched as tears shone and fell. His face did not turn red like Dermot’s, which Robert likened to a pig on the roast. He was sombre in his pallor.
‘I remember when we first met,’ Dermot said, contemplative. ‘You said you wouldn’t be able to pronounce my name. Why don’t you try now?’
Tristan stared at him, ashen. His eyes were so much like Aubrey’s, but Robert was there too. ‘My brother…’ he murmured, despite the pain.
‘Do it,’ Dermot said, twisting the knife so Tristan gasped in agony.
Tristan averted his eyes, hair veiling him like a martyr. Never before having observed his nobility, Dermot pressed the knife further until Tristan relented. ‘Dermot.’ Perfectly enunciated.
No longer was he their pet foreigner. Fascinated, he thrust against Tristan so his erection was felt.
Maldred had been his only lover, despite the dozens of men he’d fantasised about since knowing what he was.
He stroked himself to incubi every night.
Every villain who tormented him could be conquered in time, just as the schoolboys who’d laughed at him now lay dead while he lived on.
Dermot went at him like a man possessed; perhaps he was, by an entire village gone to the flame. The intimate play was a cruel parody of the men they were. He thought of Amy and Noelle, Tristan’s head on his shoulder as he committed the very wrong always held in his heart as the foulest.
‘My brother…’ Tristan murmured. Every word that came from him meant more blood on the knife.
‘Lord Robert!’ Dermot shouted, startling himself. ‘Ordered you here, didn’t he? To kill every man and woman in the village.’ He was hardly able to breathe. His body beat harder against Tristan’s back until at last he was satisfied. And, after that, he slit Tristan’s throat.
Tristan’s dark eyes went wide. Red, hot blood poured down, dripping onto the dirt below. Dermot merely lay there, knife secure, until Tristan’s head drooped and fell from his grasp, so twenty or so years of rearing became nothing but a lifeless husk.
Realising he held a corpse, Dermot fumbled until he himself was submerged in filth, struck dumb by Tristan’s unmoving form. Only belatedly, sat wet and cold on coarse ground, did he feel glass press against him like a thought come too late. Fand’s potion gone to waste.
He stared, watching as Tristan’s beautiful hair sunk into muck. The bastard had been alive moments ago. It had not been like lighting the pyre; hundreds of beady, hateful eyes on him as Lord Robert issued commands. Now, his pleasure was undeniable.
Rising was more difficult than the kill itself. He stood incredulous, fit to watch Tristan decompose. At least the bastard died whole, even if his neck hung in a peculiar manner; a sharp tug might’ve secured the head. The beasts Dermot mutilated for Lord Stanley’s table did not have that luxury.
Hearing the distinct sound of merrymaking in the distance, Dermot lumbered further into the forest. He knew Tristan hadn’t been about to cry Robert’s name; instead the two of them had the same thought on their tongue.
They both sought news of someone they loved, and Tristan had died thinking Aubrey’s fate had been worse.
Dermot couldn’t understand why he’d done it.
Only then did he think to remove the armour, which came off like shedding a vice.
He continued walking, searching black smog until at last his eyes lighted on another living creature’s shape.
‘Dermot!’ Aubrey cried. ‘Are you alright? Did you find your mother?’
Dermot broke. Stupidly, unwaveringly, he’d expected her to be in the forest, nestled in some fairytale refuge. Now he stood alone, though Aubrey was near, for he could tell no one living what he’d done.
Aubrey embraced him. Times now forsaken had been ground to dust to form one complete effigy, beautiful as any Venus.
‘Dermot,’ someone interjected, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Turning towards the voice, he saw Lora, the woman he’d attended school with. In her arms, mercifully and miraculously, was her son. Behind her, a few stragglers stood, including a middle-aged woman Dermot recognised as the blacksmith’s mother. Aleyn was not in attendance.
‘It happened so quickly. Your mother was an angel, you know. She rushed me out of my cottage and got my little boy into my arms, then directed me towards the forest,’ Lora said.
‘And your husband?’ Dermot asked.
‘Gone to the fight,’ Lora said. Her breath was haggard but she spoke quietly, presumably for her son’s sake.
‘Much has happened since you left,’ said one man, so old Dermot was incredulous he’d reached the forest.
‘Parliamentary forces have landed on our shores. The castle is under siege,’ Lora said. Her lips quirked in bitter humour. ‘If only they’d gotten here a few days earlier.’
Dermot’s mind, stupefied by grief, came to life. He would’ve embraced Lora, had it not been for the child.
‘All of us are saved,’ Dermot said.
‘Not just yet,’ Lora said. ‘Every attempt at negotiation has been rejected by Robert. He’s got a force holed in there.’
‘But you’ll get him! Won’t you, Dermot?’ Lora’s son said. ‘That’s what Aleyn promised.’
The words, outrageous and appalling, struck like a chord. Dermot said, ‘I will. In my mother’s name, in all our names, I’ll kill the bastard myself.’
The crowd stood exultant, except for Lora and Aubrey.
‘Haven’t we had enough fighting?’ Lora asked. She left him, returning to the other survivors.
Dermot stood in silence until Aubrey finally said, ‘Blood is all over your shirt, Dermot.’
Cringing, Dermot stepped back. Aubrey was beautiful and dark like Tristan, but with eyes so guileless Dermot could never speak the truth and know peace. ‘The whole village is nothing but fire now.’
‘Oh, Dermot!’ Aubrey cried. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Knowing his words were not simple condolences, Dermot smiled. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’ He dared not imagine what the remaining villagers thought.
‘Will you truly return to the castle? Why did you rescue me, if you didn’t intend to stay together?’ A faint blush dusted across Aubrey’s white cheeks as Dermot stammered.
‘We’ll stay out of sight and make our way to the next village,’ Lora said.
‘We’ll protect ourselves, as well as Aubrey.
You have our word.’ A note of agreement sounded.
‘Brendan lives there now, working as a blacksmith. His mother has assured us we can stay with him, and then perhaps we can see the end of this war.’
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Dermot near stomped his feet on the ground as Maldred had. How he’d relished the bastard’s end. His mother had died rescuing their neighbours, but Brendan, that devil, lived.
‘I will come some of the way, but after that I’m off to help retake the castle,’ Dermot said. For it had been theirs once, long before the Stanleys came.
The lonely group walked into the night, men and women who should’ve joined them mere cinder in the wind. Dermot felt the loss of his mother keenly, stifling his tears only because Aubrey was at his side.
‘I’ll get the potion to Robert,’ Dermot murmured. Hot shame came over him when he thought of Tristan. Awful, damnable desire struck so he hadn’t been able to cut the man clean, had instead rutted him like a dog.
‘You don’t need…’ Aubrey began, staring up at him like Tristan had.
‘I will.’ Dermot was resolute. Though he was now an orphan, he wouldn’t rob Aubrey of his older brother, nor chance looking at him only to see two dead men staring back.
They continued in the cold, dark night as the laughter of soldiers dwindled, and Dermot thought of the last great evil kept by man. Hope.