Page 71 of Burying Venus
‘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 heangled 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’ma 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 thekitchen 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.