Chapter Fifteen
It was darker still when Dermot observed parliamentary stragglers on the road. They spoke the mainlander’s tongue, dressed somberly, but chatted amicably. Signalling as they approached, Dermot shouted for them to stop.
‘What’s this?’ The man who spoke sat apart from the others, face obscured by a hat, plume stretching formless into the night.
‘I’ve come to join the battle,’ Dermot said, fearing he’d be mistaken for a lunatic. ‘I’m an islander, sir, and have suffered under the Stanleys.’
The soldiers inched forward to get a glimpse of the savage, though they were quick to smile.
‘You speak the language well, but I do detect an accent. Fascinating!’ The man tapped the seat next to his own. ‘Come up then, friend. Call me Birch.’
Surprised, Dermot grasped the wood of the cart and was pulled up by those sitting at the rear.
‘We didn’t expect islanders to join. That wasn’t in the brief,’ one soldier said.
‘This is a treat for us, you see. Mr…?’ Birch began.
‘Hatfield,’ Dermot said. ‘Dermot Hatfield. The Stanleys burnt my village.’
The men said nothing, their good humour subdued. It seemed Dermot had found soldiers with hearts intact; men who also, perhaps, had done things they regretted.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Birch said. His eyes met Dermot’s with something like tenderness.
‘Too many families have been cut down by royalists. Their armies are led by lords, you see, even princes. And men such as they take pleasure where they find it, be it in killing or rapine. The soldiers are brutish and unthinking, following their so-called betters like dogs. They do not think of the holy book as you and I do, Mr Hatfield. Men such as they worship idols, in fact, and see their cruelties as nothing more than vices to be undone with a few psalms. But we know better.’
One of the men who’d helped Dermot onto the cart spat. ‘God rot all royalist bastards.’
Birch shook his head. ‘Forgive the language, Mr Hatfield. His own sister was murdered by that very force.’
‘God rest her soul,’ the men chimed.
‘But why would they attack a common village?’ Birch asked, eyeing Dermot. ‘What was the result? You, of course, survived, Mr Hatfield.’
‘Yes,’ Dermot managed, knowing Birch sought to pry words from his mouth. ‘But my mother was killed. I… I don’t know the reason.’ He paused, guessing every man watched him. ‘Tristan Stanley is dead. I killed him.’
The men cheered. The soldier whose sister was murdered clasped Dermot’s hand in a firm shake.
‘But he was a trained swordsman! There are three brothers, aren’t there?
Robert, the bastard we’ve heard so much about, Tristan, may he burn in hell, and the last…
’ Birch fumbled, sweeping his hand away in disdain.
‘I forget the little viper’s name. But no matter, Mr Hatfield.
He’ll be spitted on the end of a sword soon enough. ’
Dermot drew back. He thought of Amy and Noelle, at once in a terror.
‘Did Tristan scream as you killed him?’ said the soldier to his left, and Dermot marvelled he could be left so blackened that sadists would come to him for gratification.
‘All fine lords scream,’ said another. He spoke so quickly that Dermot knew he’d joined merely for a chance at murder legalised.
‘No more talk of screaming,’ Birch said.
‘The men here joined of their own accord, seeing the evils done to our nation. We are all farming stock. Yes, Mr Hatfield, even I. Our commander promotes according to skill, not status. And you, an islander here for the fight! He will be pleased when I tell him of your contribution, that the farmhands and servants here detest their masters and long for our victory. Bravo.’
The great man’s description did not disappoint; a commander destined to lead who did not discriminate. Now the king’s head was severed, and commoners were realising enslavement meant more than simple chains. Dermot shivered, enrapt and terrified.
‘By God!’ one of the soldiers cried out.
Dermot turned to see the castle illuminated against perfect dark.
Fingers catching on splintered wood, he watched in disbelief as it was enveloped in crimson.
Fire ruptured; a force that would fell heaven.
Men cheered at the bombardment as citizens ran screaming past them.
The town named for its castle had been mutilated, their stronghold put to the flame.
‘Lord Robert might’ve just been killed by a great boulder falling on top of him, and all of his devils too!’ said one soldier.
A woman with a bundle of cloth clutched to her bosom raced down the path. The child’s wailing carried back to them in the wind.
‘What was that?’ Dermot said. He still watched the castle, even as smog stung his eyes.
‘What, the trebuchet?’ the man who’d fantasised about Robert’s death said.
‘Look at the fellow’s face. He’s never seen one before, thinks God himself struck the place!’ The group laughed readily at his expense, patting their friends on the knee or shoulder and leaving Dermot untouched.
Dermot watched the town from the cart as if casting judgement.
Men and women ran, some with silks draped over them as their more earnest neighbours carried children; a flurry of terrorised faces he could not name.
People he might’ve met in town, like the pretty sons of bankers he’d made eyes at.
What had become of them, he thought, watching as fire caught townhouses.
Royalist sympathisers, it would be said, with their fine treasures.
He'd come to another Sodom gone to the torch.
‘Here we are!’ Birch crowed, gesturing to the men besieging the castle. ‘And there’s the Colonel. Go over there and introduce yourself, Dermot. In fact, it would be my great pleasure to go with you!’
Dermot was urged out of the cart the same way he’d been ushered in. He was on his feet at once, hustled to the Colonel by Birch, who clasped their hands together in greeting. The Colonel stared mildly at him, dressed like the puritan soldier he was.
‘This is Dermot Hatfield, Colonel,’ Birch said. ‘In an act of righteous anger, he, an islander, slew Tristan, Lord Stanley’s middle son.’
‘Truly?’ said the Colonel. ‘In which case, sir, I congratulate you heartily. What a jewel you are amongst your peers, who must take great courage in your being here.’ His voice steadily rose so all men took notice.
Looking beyond the pandemonium his entrance brought, Dermot observed the siege.
Soldiers stood in droves so the men he’d ridden with could not be found.
A battering ram sat at the epicentre of their burgeoning assault, a wooden roof fastened to hide whatever lay inside.
Wheels shrieked with motion as the men rocked it back and forth, the door shuddering in reply.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dermot murmured.
‘Your manners are not altogether bad. Look here, this islander has killed Lord Tristan!’ The Colonel forced their hands together, urging them up in a show of victory.
Even as the men struggled to begin their assault, they cheered, their palms calloused and bleeding.
‘Get this man some armour and a proper sword. God as my witness, we deal with these loathsome beasts tonight. You would not believe the replies I’ve had to my letters, Mr Hatfield.
The devil himself could’ve written them.
’ The Colonel gestured and straightaway a boy was running to collect Dermot’s equipment.
‘I would. I was once employed here as a scullion,’ Dermot said.
The Colonel took his measure again, interest revived. ‘Do you mean that, Mr Hatfield?’
Knowing he’d spoken out of turn, Dermot said nothing. Birch had said promotions were given freely, but every man in attendance was defined by rank. People saw little difference between the man who prepared their food and the creature that was already mutilated on the table.
The boy returned, throwing the equipment onto the ground, leaving Dermot to put it on in front of the soldiers. The Colonel affected not to notice as he contemplated the straps, only nodding in brief approval once everything was equipped, a fine sword sheathed at Dermot’s belt.
Finally, he was taken by the arm in a parody of the promenade as men choked on their own breath above the battering ram.
‘This man is a fine example for all of you. Dermot Hatfield worked as a scullion in this very castle and, being so disgusted by his masters, fled to defend his village from attack, killing Tristan Stanley in the process. Now he comes to our aid, fighting against the place he was subjugated and oppressed in.’ The Colonel’s arm crept behind Dermot’s back, hand eventually settling on his shoulder.
He'd not spoken more than a few sentences but had already been fashioned into neat propaganda; the barbarian eager for another leash. He stood bewildered, cutting an unimpressive figure. The men went back to their work immediately, doubtless with harsh words singed into their tongues.
‘Well, Mr Hatfield, join the men at the gate. But be careful with the battering ram,’ the Colonel said. He returned to Birch, the two of them sequestering themselves to the side where bread had been brought for their pleasure.
Dazed, Dermot fumbled over to men groaning their agony, each having chosen a place at the ram. Grasping the handle, he surged forward in time with them. Soon they were all sweating and singing their exhaustion in tandem.
‘You’ve been here before?’ one soldier said, laughing. ‘A shame you didn’t bring your keys, Mr Hatfield!’
The door smashed apart, near collapsing as the Colonel and Birch rushed to congratulate them. Cannons were brought forward, muskets handed out, and ladders held perilously between men.
‘The king has been executed. The royalists have already lost! Now we defeat the leeches, men. No longer will Lord Stanley profit from tyranny, ruling over his own little island while we govern the mainland. But the devils will fight hard, make no mistake,’ the Colonel said.