Chapter Fifteen #3
One of Robert’s guards met him on the stairs. He was so bewildered that Dermot simply landed a well-placed kick, sending him tumbling down. The Stanley shields still hung on the wall, waiting on some enterprising man to cut them down.
Dermot’s breath hitched as he reached Robert’s chambers. He steeled himself for what was to come next, wondering how he would force the potion down Robert’s throat. This, he knew, would not happen unless the man was severely beaten.
Clutching his sword in one hand, Dermot turned the key. He shut the door immediately after, terrified soldiers might follow like hounds and tear Robert apart.
Stifling the urge to call out to him, Dermot meekly walked inside.
He stared at the great tapestries decorating the room, depicting one of the mainland’s great battles; Robert’s ancestors standing on the edge of the melee, waiting for the tide to turn so they knew which side to join.
Deceitful, treacherous vipers even then.
The door to the adjoining room was not concealed. Whether Robert flinched as Dermot neared, fearing soldiers had come for him at last, he did not know.
The lock screeched, and Dermot almost rushed back to the courtyard so men better equipped could handle the sorry affair. Hesitating until he realised Robert might’ve been readying his sword, he flung the door open, unsheathing his own weapon in one great tremor.
‘Robert,’ Dermot said. ‘Come quietly. They’ll drag you out if you don’t.’
‘Begging your pardon…’ Practised hands graced the doorframe, and Dermot marvelled what a beast he was.
Whether he be Norman or Saxon, for the Stanleys invented myths whenever one was in fashion, Dermot knew not.
But he was tall, well-built, and rightly required more than one man to take him down.
As black eyes met his, Dermot feared his soul had been snatched in one fell swoop.
‘Dermot, it is you. I had thought some other islander, you all being so alike. Are you quite serious?’ He laughed. ‘To have stolen my brother away and left without working your notice, which, as you know, is against the law, then to have forced your way back in, and to what purpose?’
Dermot’s lips remained fixed in a gape as Robert continued.
‘Your village is burnt to ashes now, my boy. I ordered my brother to spare no one in the assault, especially not your mother. A Mrs Skelly, is it?’ Dermot observed the fine sword secured to his belt. ‘My apologies, I misspoke. Was it, I mean.’
‘As dead as Tristan,’ Dermot said.
‘Well,’ Robert said, impassive.
Despite witnessing the destruction of his village, Dermot knew this to be the most disconcerting thing he’d seen. He watched Robert for any indication of feeling and observed nothing.
‘You kill one brother and fuck the other,’ Robert said. His serpentine eyes never left Dermot, even as his hand went to rest coolly on the hilt of his sword. ‘What do you intend to do with me?’
Dermot, feigning confidence he did not feel, unsheathed his sword, flinching at the rasp of steel as he thrust it towards Robert.
‘I see,’ Robert said. He stood fixed in the doorway. ‘That is the better option. Well then, my boy, en garde!’
Robert’s sword came at him with the confidence tutelage bought. Dermot was led by instinct only as their weapons met. Even meeting the bastard’s serene, icy gaze was a torment. Pushing forward, he felt Robert’s full strength as they tussled, vying for mastery.
Dermot groaned with exertion, sweat already above his lip. They were at an impasse. He hesitated, and in that moment Robert snatched his hand and twisted it, so the last thing he saw might’ve been the sword surging through his chest.
Crying out, Dermot pulled back, angling Robert’s sword away as tip met hilt. Retreating, he watched astounded as Robert rushed at him with all the ferocity of a beast unchained. Whirling around, he realised they stood in a perfect mirror of their meeting, having traded places with one another.
Robert lurched towards him, sword fit to pour his entrails onto the carpet. Dermot met his blow full force, ashamed he’d run, and pushed back readily. They were at the precipice, and it was not yet decided which man would fall.
Robert beat Dermot back with a series of attacks until they stood in a deadlock.
‘You fight unusually well for a scullion,’ Robert said, trapping Dermot with an urbane smile.
‘That must be your father at work, I suppose. How quaint, that he employed a tutor for a bastard mothered by a savage. It makes me curious about his identity, spending so freely on a mistake. And doubtless you are one of many misspent seeds.’
Dermot blocked each attack in quick succession, twisting when he feared he’d stepped too close to the wall.
‘Your mother was a whore who bore you in a provincial village. You have no connections or proper schooling,’ Robert said, fine sword glinting with its master’s surety.
‘The best position you could secure was to clean my floors, polish my boots, and make my dinner like a poor, beaten housewife. You should be thankful you’re an ugly fellow, as befits a man of your race, else I would’ve had you service me as your friend has. ’
Dermot lunged forward, meeting Robert’s thrusts and pushing, so he, very briefly, gained the advantage. Just as he angled the weapon to meet Robert’s stomach, the bastard kicked him back. The sword flew definitively out of his hand.
Dermot’s eyes searched for reprieve, and he lighted on a movement at Robert’s back.
‘You are filth. Common, unclean, replaceable. Like a speck of dirt.’ Robert forced him down with a practised angling of the feet.
‘I was born to a great family. You can see them woven into fine tapestry over there. Each member lovingly recorded. I have been instructed in swordplay by some of the most renowned men in Europe, having enjoyed tutelage under the greatest minds. I have studied history, philosophy, and speak fluent French and Latin. Remind me, Dermot, precisely who you are?’
He could not meet Robert’s eyes, though the man hung over him like a noose.
Kings spoke of heaven while enjoying their lives, knowing there was no recompense beyond.
A pauper’s grave might be dug up, churches demolished, but Robert would forever lie at peace in a gilded tomb.
He was only bitterly glad Robert was not the sort of man to play with his food, as Dermot had done to Tristan.
‘You are nobody. You lived as nobody, and you will die as…’
As Robert faltered, a great bang resounded. Dermot jolted, struck dumb. He watched shock flit across Robert’s handsome features, herculean body shaking with the might of a fallen god. It was only after hearing someone shout that Dermot moved.
‘Not too late,’ said a man, rushing to Dermot. ‘Gone up here yourself to do the killing! You always did think above your station.’
Struggling to his knees and hauling himself up, he glimpsed Béchard standing with a bloody rolling pin.
‘Béchard!’ Dermot called, horrified. He hadn’t spared the man a thought.
‘Thought me killed, did you, and glad of it? Well! You’ll be disappointed to know I surrendered as soon as they arrived.
I’m a chef, Dermot, not a fighting man.’ Though his ferocity spoke against it, that he’d just felled Robert with a mere tool.
‘They didn’t think to take our equipment though, did they?
Chefs are always overlooked, he who can destroy a family with but a drop of poison.
But then, perhaps a scullion is a close second. ’
Dermot shook as though enduring a great blow when Béchard wrapped his arms around him.
‘I did worry, you know, you great hulking bastard. When you went missing without notice, the talk of the guards going to your village, Tristan meaning to light the place on fire. Though we’ve not always gotten on, and I reckon you hate me well enough, I’ve cared for you boys as my own.
I thought I could protect you.’ Béchard paused, eyeing Robert as the man lay ignorant on the ground. ‘Clearly not.’
Disentangling himself, Dermot said nothing. He’d been humiliated and terrorised until his life was naught but drudgery. Robert had inflicted less pain than Béchard, yet they stood together as equals as Lord Stanley’s heir lay at their feet.
‘Thank you,’ Dermot managed. ‘Will is safe as well.’
‘Safe!’ Béchard mocked, shaking his head.
‘He was made into a catamite. After Robert spoke to me with such disrespect, William began defending him. It was as if years of training meant nothing. And I was in the kitchen with you gone, William trailing after Robert like a lovesick girl, with only Stephen for company! Who, by way of a miracle, also had the sense to surrender. Suffice to say, the food has been in dire straits.’
Managing a smile at the old tale, Dermot said, ‘I can’t believe you knew where to find me.’
‘Well, I’ve always worried you’d try to set the castle on fire.
Of course you’d think to take on Robert yourself, the other two brothers having gone.
And no, Dermot, I don’t want to hear a word about that.
I’ve listened to more gossip that way than I’ve ever cared to.
I saw you come up, in fact. As if I’d have left the kitchen until my contract was up, and, well, I was quite sure of that after Lord Stanley was executed in the courtyard.
’ Béchard smiled ruefully, ambling to the window.
‘I think I’ll go back to France. I’ve had enough of foreigners. ’
Spying his chance, Dermot stooped and observed Robert’s soft countenance. He lifted the man’s chin so he drank Fand’s concoction like an invalid. Flinching, he caught a glimpse of the man Will adored, and stepped away before Béchard noticed.
‘What do you intend to do, stay on with the parliamentarians?’ Béchard asked.
‘No,’ Dermot said. Now he was beholden to no one, lies weren’t necessary. ‘I am going away to the mainland.’
‘By yourself?’ Béchard asked slyly, making his way to the door. He smiled as their eyes met. ‘The rumours are true. By God, my two kitchen boys at it with their masters. I’d say it doesn’t happen in France, but I’d be lying.’
‘Béchard!’ Dermot called, just as the man stepped out of their refuge. ‘Thank you again. And safe travels back to France.’
‘It’s Jean now, Dermot. Jean Béchard. Best wishes to you and Lord Aubrey as well.’ With that, he shouted, ‘Lord Robert’s in here, men! He’s unconscious.’
Cheers rang out like an unholy choir as men raced upstairs. The Colonel rushed in, shaking Béchard’s hand as the man waved farewell.
‘By God! Dermot Hatfield, you’ve done it! Felled Robert, just as you killed his brother! What a magnificent tale, a scullion victorious over his masters. I will relay every detail to parliament and the man himself.’ The Colonel forced their hands together in victory.
Not waiting on his reply, the Colonel urged the men to haul Robert up, limp between them like a marionette. His body was motionless as they dragged him away.
Dermot watched entranced as Robert was mastered and taken downstairs to the sound of merrymaking. He heard men hawking up their spittle noisily, exultingly, and realised they must’ve lined up to spit on him.
Dermot startled as the Colonel patted his back. He was a free man. He did not know what to say, his days never having been his own.
‘You’ll come back with us to the mainland, won’t you? I see a long career ahead of you. Who knows, one day you may come to outrank me. In this new world, a man can rise to any position and no one asks about his birth. You’ll see,’ the Colonel said.
Knowing the Colonel was deceived, Dermot said, ‘Thank you for the offer, but I have someone waiting for me.’ Men such as he would never be permitted a place in politics or university.
It would not be due to the law, perhaps, but a country built on inequality could not have circumstances, schooling, or connections in common, therefore they would live as they always had.
‘A lover? Well, life is short, go forth and multiply. We need more men, always will,’ the Colonel said.
He shook Dermot’s hand with vigour and marvelled at the dark blood coating the carpet.
‘I’ll be going to the dungeon. We’ll keep Mr Robert Stanley there for a while, I expect.
One brother dead and no sign of the other.
I’ll need to wait for word on what to do. ’
Nodding to one another, they parted. Dermot did not know how long he stood there, nebulous, thoughts so hazy he could not make sense of them. Home gone to the fire, prison to the sword, now all that was left of their island was wind and rain.