Page 5 of Burying Venus

‘Dermot,’ Stephen said, bulbous fingers tearing at the yolk. He spoke with the same lisping stutter he always did. No doubt some of his spittle went on Lord Stanley’s dinner.

While Béchard expected meticulousness, the bastard was too busy inspecting Will’s handiwork to notice Dermot’s carelessness. He grabbed the spices and tossed them into the yolk, then did the same with the bread, with none of the gentle sprinkling Béchard demanded. It turned out just as the others had. He ground his hands into the mix and, heedless of Stephen’s presence, drew out the vial Maldred had gifted. The lid broke easily. Held at the right angle, it would escape even Béchard’s notice, should he turn. Once the liquid had run its course, he slipped the glass back into his pocket.

Béchard lumbered towards the bowl and wrenched it away. He waved his hands at Dermot, who hurried to seize the mixture and gorge the piglet, replacing its innards with the fat of another’s loins.

‘At least the simple-minded can move their limbs. Thank God for small mercies,’ Béchard said, directing Will to the cut across the pig’s belly.

The amount of food Lord Stanley required sewing was astonishing but Will always did good work. Béchard wouldn’t have financed anyone else’s learning. It was a talent expressly asked for but seldom required of anyone else. Any man or woman wanting to go into service might’ve paid for a tutor, but a pauper could afford no lessons, nor could they teach themselves without literacy.

‘You know what to do, Dermot,’ Béchard said.

If the rest was not monstrous enough, the final blow was the crux. Dermot took the rod and pierced the pig’s anus with it,marvelling at the lack of resistance. How man could conceive of such evil, he couldn’t fathom, but the same fellow who’d taken a gentle creature to slaughter doubtless had no qualms with skewering it as he did his wife.

When the rod reached the mouth, Will laughed with delight, and Béchard bid Stephen put it on the spit. The poor bastard would turn it while Béchard sauntered around the kitchen for the next few hours. Cleaning out the piss pots was a mercy when that was the alternative. Before Béchard could squawk about fetching the seasoning, Dermot rushed out of the room without another word. There was much to be done before dinner was made ready for Lord Stanley and his spawn.

Firstly, he dealt with the pots sequestered into a corner of every occupied room. They stank from the night before, and washing them was no small task, especially with Mrs Aisling holding each to her nose for a thorough inspection; an ordeal he had no wish to witness again. Then he was out into a gale to get the clothing before the promise of rain rendered every last thing sodden. Not good enough to touch Lord Stanley’s robes, he was barely trusted with the rags given to his fellow servants, and the tower that always put some fire into his soul left him as cold as the sea encircling them.

Going to and fro until every last piece of cloth was saved, he headed for Mrs Aisling’s workroom, wherein she kept a notebook of the clothes’ movements. It was an oddity, something Will assured him no housekeeper in the mainland did, but that was likely the reason she’d left.

‘Hello,’ a voice called.

Dermot’s mind settled on Maldred. His body tingled until he realised the voice was distinctly feminine.

‘Please lay the clothes down there, the corner to your left,’ the woman said, perhaps a few years his senior. ‘Mrs Aisling isn’t here at the moment. She is in the dining room.’

As the housekeeper, Mrs Aisling had naught to do in the dining room, but that wouldn’t stop her from intruding. Like Béchard, her salary depended on her background, not the toil demanded of those less fortunate. Dermot had theorised on this matter, concluding she was likely the daughter of some enterprising man, entitled to service but too unsightly to trouble a man with.

Dermot hauled the sorry rags at the woman’s direction and threw them down. Béchard would call for him soon enough and there was every chance of an incident at the table. It was only a matter of time before one of Lord Stanley’s sons came thundering down the stairs and beat them to death in lieu of terrorising the maids.

‘I suppose that’s for me to tidy and sort. Thank you very much,’ the woman said. Her nagging was the least of his concerns. She couldn’t have expected him to sit and lay them out, as was her duty. Béchard would’ve thrown him into the fireplace were he caught doing such a thing.

Retreating and rushing through the corridor, the wind in full force as he near ran through the courtyard and into the kitchen, he found Stephen still turning the beast.

‘Dermot,’ Stephen said. Never in all his years in service had the man been so talkative. He spoke mostly to Will, usually in response to the teasing that was put to him. ‘What you poured into the mix… it smelt funny.’

His eyes may well have burst from his skull. He stared at Stephen like a man whose stool was kicked from beneath him, heart lurching at the first drop.

‘Off with it!’ Béchard shouted from somewhere down the hall. The bastard sometimes took leisurely walks through the castle, else went to visit his wife when nothing was required of him. Ambling while they laboured like slaves in Egypt; backbreaking work, made to endure tasks that should be asked of no man, all the while their superiors had all the freedom of a king.

Dermot’s whole body twitched as Béchard stomped in. There was no great indignation on the chef’s face, only the usual rage as he marched towards the piglet. Perhaps if he heard anything he assumed it was some spice, owing to Stephen being touched in the head.

‘No more! It’s not a bloody boar, Stephen. Dermot, get the damned thing off. We have to slather it in Stanley’s gold before sending it up,’ Béchard said, directing him with his hands.

Resolutely, Dermot wrenched one of the cloths onto one side while Béchard hauled the other off the spit. The two of them carried it to the table together, freshly laid out.

Set to the task, Dermot tightly wound the cloth around the bar and pulled the thing out. Its branding near burnt off during the roast, the mark of dominion gone at last.

‘There we are,’ Béchard announced, heaving the dye onto the table. A concoction of herbs and exotic fancies the rich took as gold. They should’ve thanked the creator it was not, for the liquid surely would’ve turned their bodies to rot.

‘Will, come and take over for this great lout,’ Béchard said, retreating to the far side of the room. Painting the creature was simple enough, even Stephen could’ve managed it, yet Béchard enjoyed glorifying certain base tasks. It allowed him to promote favourites.

Dermot latched onto the brush nearest to him and swept it across the carcass. In its short life, his work was likely the only tender touch the piglet had experienced.

‘How do you reckon they’ll divide this between them? And the bishop as well! Never was there a man so fat,’ Will said, gleefully splattering another dose onto the piglet. If they followed his direction, the animal would have ten coatings before they so much as took it upstairs. ‘What’s the point of it? Why can’t they just have a full hog, never mind all this.’

‘We mustn’t speak so of our betters, William,’ Béchard said, though his tone was light.

‘Because the grotesque amuses them. They could have a full hog, but where’s the fun in that? What else can a man who profits off another’s suffering conceive of but cruelty?’ Dermot murmured. Why he said this in front of Béchard and Will was baffling even to himself. It was only Stephen who stared at him open-mouthed, though surely he took nothing from it.