Page 6 of Burying Venus

‘Dermot!’ Béchard bellowed. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life. What has gotten into you? You used to be animated but dim-witted, now your eyes are dead and you talk like a philosopher. But the days of logicians have passed! Truly, if I didn’t know this place as I do, I’d think you’d found some sort of plant!’

There was no reasoning with him. The common man was not expected to think and did not pursue whims to mastery as Béchard had with cooking. Their lives were naught but a long monotonous hum, quick to be snuffed out.

‘Take the bloody thing up, Will. I can have no more of this. Stephen, do you see the vegetables and sauce I have prepared? Hold them tightly and follow William’s lead. Dermot and I must talk alone,’ Béchard said, pointing to the assortment with a flick of the wrist.

Both of them did as they were bid. Will grabbed the plate where the decapitated forms of the piglet and chicken lay with a flourish. Stephen followed with a confused sort of gait, carrying what should’ve rightly been a complete meal.

Béchard came to stand in front of him. The man’s lips were thin and perpetually pursed in a line that now seemed all the more severe.

‘I don’t know who’s been filling your head with this shit or if you’ve somehow come to it yourself,’ Béchard said. ‘Maybe too many early mornings, late nights. Perhaps you do not sleep atall. But if Lord Stanley caught you saying anything like that, you’d be dealing with more than a dismissal.’

For the first time since his meeting with Maldred, Dermot felt something stir in his gut. It was faint but distinct, like his heart falling from his chest into his bowels.

‘You may think your philosophy is new, but I can assure you that it is not. People are not born sycophants. That is how their parents raise them to ensure they aren’t hanged. We know the sort of woman your mother is, Dermot, so I will tell you myself. Hold your tongue. You may think yourself safe here but William is a notorious gossip and there is every chance of Stephen repeating your words without understanding the meaning behind them. I would hate to see your head skewered on a spike, then I would have to teach some sorry bastard from the beginning. So I ask you, no, I forbid you, from speaking like that again. If you dare, I will go to Lord Stanley and tell him of you myself.’

There was silence between them as Béchard’s rant coalesced into one complete thing. Seething, Dermot knew they were deemed no better than well sharpened tools, then that same dull apathy struck, and he said nothing.

‘Do you understand?’ Béchard bellowed.

There was nothing to be done. Béchard didn’t know of the concoction watered into Lord Stanley’s sup. Perhaps nothing would come of it, he reasoned, but as soon as that occurred to him he willed it away. He could no more imagine a future where he lived as Béchard wanted, a mere instrument for his betters.

‘I understand,’ Dermot murmured, which at least made Béchard draw back.

‘You have more to do, I imagine, like cleaning up this mess. Will and Stephen can take care of everything outside the kitchen. You get to the dishes, make sure they’re spick and span. Clean the damned floor,’ Béchard said. Then, just like that, he whiskedhis box away and strolled out the door. Wholly at peace with himself and his precious spices, no doubt deemed too important to be left with Dermot.

At a loss, Dermot grabbed a decidedly less elaborate container and poured its contents into a pot. While the cleaning blend was mixed into it, the bowl had not been washed, so the Stanleys were left with sand littering every implement.

The vinegar was perhaps the most expensive tool entrusted to him. He threw it into the sand without a care and churned it up with his hands, still unwashed and full of pig innards, instead of the spoon Béchard provided for the purpose. Will and Stephen were downstairs again soon after, though Dermot paid them no attention as they left. Anxiety again stirred in his gut, much like the sand grinding through his fingers.

‘Simply splendid!’ Lord Stanley crowed, voice echoing downstairs. ‘Your father always provides. The answer to your quandary, two beasts sewn onto one another. What a delight.’

Robert spoke then, the eldest Stanley boy, a few years Dermot’s senior. His bearing and physique were great, tall and unmistakably of the conqueror’s bloodline. ‘I suppose,’ he said. Wood shrieked against the floor as he pulled his chair back to take a seat. ‘I had pined for a boar, but when one cannot find a chicken of a size to match, the task would be impossible.’

‘It’s what I imagined,’ Tristan said, the middle brother. Dermot knew him immediately, so often was the lordling with his hunting dogs or in the stables. His leg would be resting on his thigh, elbow firm against the table, lips fixed in a constant sneer. Despite this, he was pretty and of a likeness with Aubrey, dark and unruly hair forever trussed into a braid at his back. ‘You could do this with women. Find one with a nice pair of breasts, another with a big arse.’

‘None of that talk tonight!’ Lord Stanley shouted. ‘I won’t have the bishop hearing my sons spew such nonsense. You speak like one of the filthy men littering the castle grounds.’

Blood simmered beneath Dermot’s skin. His existence was spent cooking affronts to nature at their behest. He gave his life, albeit unwillingly, and was spat on.

‘Don’t give the man any ideas, else he may dismember our poor brother and stuff the pieces into his robes,’ Robert said.

Aubrey, though he must have been there, said nothing. Even Lord Stanley had not a word of reprimand.

A sudden scraping against floorboards was all that heralded the bishop’s arrival. Dermot imagined them kowtowing to him, a man whose family had traded their son for ethereal influence. The wealthy would fill every crevice with their children so no ordinary man dared to dream.

‘Do not trouble yourselves,’ the bishop murmured. As the man was softspoken, Dermot had to force himself forward. ‘What a fine family. Do not court my favour, you already have it.’

‘We are fortunate to be treated so kindly,’ Lord Stanley said. ‘Let us sit and discuss matters.’

‘What’s this?’ the bishop asked. His voice, forever the gentlest murmur, went on, ‘A piglet and a chicken, is it not? Every day man finds a new way to honour God’s creation. Bravo, Lord Stanley. A masterpiece.’

Of course, the bishop knew Lord Stanley hadn’t cobbled it together. Servants were unworthy of acknowledgement, praise having to be lavished on another.

‘I cannot take the credit,’ Lord Stanley said, much to Dermot’s surprise. ‘My sons have quite the imagination.’

‘Your sons,’ the bishop drawled. Dermot surmised he now sat with them. ‘Robert, the perfect heir, and Tristan, such an energetic young man.’ He paused for a moment, humming to himself. ‘It is only Aubrey who I do not know much about.’

Silence struck, which seemed unbelievable with both Robert and Tristan in attendance. Aubrey’s embarrassment being so palpable, Dermot stared at the stone beneath his feet, a familiar sting in his cheeks.