Life in the Hamlet has a certain rhythm, Dismas finds. There are the villagers, who go about their ways and whose lives, returned to mundanity now that the Hamlet has been freed of the Eldritch plague, seldom touch on those of the resident adventurers'. Then there are the men and women who risk life and limb for fortune and glory, whose task is to rout the remaining cultists and put to the sword any monsters that would dare to reclaim the Hamlet or its surroundings.
Perhaps it is a foolish attempt to reconnect with his past, but Dismas has had his name put up on the duty roster, and each morning he checks in to see what the day will bring for him and for the others. Everyone has to pull their weight, and Dismas is no exception.
He enjoys being put to work, enjoys having a task more than he does the actual work itself. That usually ranges from helping out in the kitchens, to sweeping the barracks, doing laundry, or repairwork. One day he drives the cart to the sawmill where they load it up with logs, and on another to the mill to collect bags of flour. He helps the nurse in the sanatorium, changes bedding and scrubs out bed pans and, lastly, he works the bellows for the smith until his arms and back burn with agony.
He is still sore from the workout, not recovered even after a full night's rest. Dismas groans as he attempts to sit up with his muscles screaming in protest. He can feel each and every one of his estimated fourty-plus years keenly this morn.
Oh, to be young again. To be the dashing rascal from his dream, quick with a smile and quicker yet with a dagger. Dismas rubs sand out of his eyes, savouring the lingering memory of his dream as one might the aftertaste of expensive whiskey.
The chirping of cicadae was only interrupted by the shrill sound of the guardsmen's whistles. He was furiously stomping his feet to get them into his boots while a pretty woman in a candlelit room swathed in crimson brocade called him ugly things, screaming that he owed her money.
Dismas remembers jumping out of a window and landing on a protruding construction with cat-like grace. He rolled off of it, glad that he had taken the time to don his boots. They were of a fine make and, unlike the pants he had forgone, they actually offered an advantage in combat.
He also had his coat – the very same one he owned still, outside the realm of dreams – and it was heavy and bulky with the comforting weight of his flintlocks.
When the guardsmen came after him, Dismas met them with his dirk drawn and his pistols loaded. After the fight was over, he stripped their corpses of anything valuable, including a set of trousers that were too long in the leg but would do when he stuffed them inside his boots. They were marred only by a small bloodstain, high up near the waistband.
There was the sound of more whistles in the distance, the city streets flooding with torchlight. Dogs barked and the good, law-abiding citizens stuck their heads out of their windows and barred their doors. The highwayman passed through moonlit alleyways unseen, becoming one with the night.
Dismas stretches one more time, then whistles a tune as he rises to dress, stuffing his pants inside his boots, just the way he had in his dream. He had been an unstoppable force of fury and calculation and it had been exhilarating. He has never felt so alive. Dismas feels high on the thrill of his imaginary fight, even though the images are fading fast.
(In fact, come midday, he will have forgotten them entirely.)
oooo
The duty roster hangs in the common room of the barracks. It is a large board made of soft spruce wood and because many of the adventurers do not know their letters, they each have a wooden symbol to represent them. It is pinned to the board along with more of such carvings that stand for meeting places and times of the day. Most of the information of one's duties gets passed on by word of mouth, but this is a good way for everyone to keep track of all the others.
Dismas' marker, a flintlock crossed with a dirk, has a rising sun and tankard of ale next to it. He's wanted at the tavern which gives him a good chuckle since he planned on being there anyway, though for recreational purposes rather than any work related ones.
Dismas studies the rest of the roster, noting how the four name-markers at the very top have a torch next to them. That has remained unchanged for the past three days. Every week a party of adventurers is sent out into one of the regions of the Hamlet; the Ruins, the Warrens, the Weald or the Cove. Their work ranges from scouting to extermination or, in this case, inspecting and repairing the protective wards that hold the forces of evil at bay. The four are bound to return soon from their mission in the Cove and Dismas' gaze wanders on.
He can connect a face to the majority of the name-markers by now. Some people do not feature as often as others, having other tasks to attend to. Barristan, for instance, is in charge of the fresh recruits, teaching them the basics of weapon practice and how to maintain their equipment, as well as the tactics they will need to know to successfully work as a unit.
Reynauld's duty appears to be to grind the more advanced trainees into sweaty, bloody pulp, and Linesi oversees the distribution of resources; from making sure they order enough iron for the smith to forge into weapons, to gathering their portion of victuals from the farms.
The Heir watches over it all from that ancient, haunted mansion on the hill. His gold is the grease that keeps the machine running, and he is liberal with it.
Dismas has his weekly allowance, and after he is done with whatever work awaits him in the tavern, he'll most likely spend it there. But he finds joy in a proper meal and a pint or two of cool ale, and he is never in want of good company at Jubie's.
As he crosses the main square, Dismas catches sight of the cathouse girls out and about, hanging up baskets of laundry to dry the cloth in the sun. They wave at him as he passes by, their manner friendly rather than seductive, and he greets them with a bow and a,
"Mornin', ladies."
He knows them by name now, although he hasn't availed himself of their services. Jenny, a petite redhead with her hair cut short, asks if he will come and see her later. He has considered it, more than once, if truth be told, but never seriously enough to do something about it. Dismas keeps his answer vague, and moves on, whistling a tune he had picked up from Farley, the smith.
As he enters the tavern, Dismas is immediately welcomed by Mallilie, the wolfhound. An old lady she may be, but she sends him stumbling when she leans her full weight against his leg. He is not allowed to pass until he has spent an appropriate amount of time stroking her rough fur. Only then does she head off with a yawn, to curl up on her bed next to the tiled stove.
Dismas wipes his hands on his pants until they're clean of dog hair and saunters up to the bar, knocking on its polished surface. He greets Jubert with the same cocky smile he had the whores, even if it's wasted on the old sourpuss.
Jubert informs him that he needs the cellar decluttered to make room for new shelves he had commissioned from the carpenter. Some of the old ones are so rotten they are threatening to disintegrate under their load, the wood not even fit to be kindling.
The innkeeper threatens to slap Dismas so hard his head'll be dancing a jig for a fortnight and a day if he gets drunk on the job. Then, they spend the day hauling casks and bottles upstairs until the tavern looks more like a warehouse and Dismas half-wishes to be back in the smithy.
He doesn't touch a drop of ale until sundown, then steals six bottle from one of the last crates, stuffing them behind the leather straps that usually hold his flintlocks. His coat is loose enough that Jubert does not notice the added bulk, and with hundreds of other bottles lying around he will hardly miss the few that are gone. Dismas doesn't think too much on his sleight of hand, considering it a just payment for his hard work, and a bit of fun to boot, no harm done.
Since Jubert closes down the tavern for the night – probably afraid of other guests taking liberties – Dismas has to look for another place where he can enjoy the wine. But everyone knows that it's solitary drinking that makes a drunkard, so he first finds himself some company.
oooo
The mistress of the brothel jumps up when six people storm her establishment. They rent the largest room where Dismas, Audrey and Margaret end up on the spacious bed. The plush futon is taken by Josephine and her two companions.
One of them is a dark-skinned, turban-wearing man whom Dismas had seen around but never spoken to. The Easterner introduces himself as Alhazred, a scholar from the Holy Land. The other man is named Darell, a former lumberjack turned mercenary who is now proud to call himself adventurer.
They speak of everyday things at first; the work that is being done around the Hamlet, and the Heir's future plans about which they can only gossip. Then the talk turns to dungeons and quests, future and past. Before long, the companions are regaling Dismas with tales about past ventures, the people they had known and adventured with, and the close calls they had had.
They laugh about the time Alhazred got stuck in a slime made of ectoplasm, about being lost underground, about Josephine stealing a near priceless gemstone from a mysterious entity they had dubbed the "Collector" in the middle of the fight, and about Audrey's short-lived infatuation with an Eldritch queen of the sea, called the Siren.
They open the wine and pass the bottles around while Alhazred sets up his opium pipe. In no time, the candlelight is dimmed by a low-hanging cloud of bluish smoke. It makes Dismas' eyes sting and water and his lungs burn with the first drag of the bittersweet tobacco, but afterwards the feeling is replaced by one of lazy contentment as he listens to the stories – many of which he features in – become progressively wilder and less plausible.
Dismas isn't the only audience for the group of adventurers. Because it's a slow night for the establishment, the cathouse girls are free to join them and a few lounge on the floor on pillows, enjoying the time off and listening with rapt attention. Jenny is there too, and over the course of the evening she slides closer and closer to Dismas who does his best to pretend that he doesn't notice her advances.
Oh, to have a pretty girl in his lap – yet the thought of taking Jenny feels wrong somehow. Dismas doesn't understand why. It's not that she isn't pretty, but he doesn't desire her. He knows he used to visit the brothel, before, and the girls still spend time with him even though he isn't paying them. He reasons that this has to mean that he couldn't have been a bad client.
They'd have some fun rolling in the sheets, and he'd treat the girl right. Dismas doesn't make a move though, and his dilemma is resolved when he returns from a trip to the outhouse to find Jenny making out with Darell. She doesn't spare him another glance, and he doesn't miss the attention.
"Oh, get a room you two," Audrey drawls, amused.
"As if you're one to talk," Alhazred says with an edge in his voice.
"Don't be mean," Josephine reprimands him, gently stroking the Easterner's pointy beard.
After hogging a bottle for himself, Dismas' mind is as fuzzy as his tongue, and it is with a pang of embarrassment that he realizes he is the only single one here.
Margaret notices him gawk and gives Dismas a shy smile. "Shall we invite Rey?" she asks and everyone except for Audrey laughs as if she had told a joke, the point of which flies right over Dismas' opium-addled brain.
Alhazred coughs, the first one to succumb to Audrey's withering glare, and the topic quickly changes.
"Are you coming to the play?" Josephine asks Dismas.
"The play?" Dismas repeats, blinking heavy-lidded eyes. "What play?"
"The town play," Margaret reminds him.
"There's a town play?" Dismas asks in joyful surprise.
There's a collective groan that condemns Dismas' ignorance of what might as well be the Hamlet's most anticipated event.
"Oh, sure, it's only the one thing everyone's been talking about since Pierre has announced that he's come up with a new piece," Audrey shoots back. "Have you been living under a rock?"
"Nah," Dismas counters. "Under a mound 'o earth."
There's a brief lull in the conversation as nervous glances are cast their way. Darell and Jenny are probably fucking in that corner so they don't notice, but Alhazred and Josephine look shaken at the morbid comment. Audrey cackles like it's the funniest thing ever and Dismas can't help but grin.
When the darkness weights heavily during a sleepless night, when he is alone and can feel all that earth press down on his chest, suffocating him until he can barely breathe, he sometimes succumbs to the fear. But Dismas will crawl back inside that grave before he'll let anyone know.
"So, who's Pierre?" Dismas asks through a yawn. The room feels too hot, and everything is soft and blurry around the edges. His eyes close of their own accord until Audrey clucks her tongue at him.
"He used to be a court jester, I guess. Before he murdered some king and his whole entourage."
"He murdered- ," Dismas splutters, suddenly feeling a lot more awake as the news cut right through his opium-haze.
"Details ," Audrey replies in a singsong voice. "Now he keeps the spirits high in the Hamlet."
"The play will be fun, you'll see," Margaret assures. "Audrey has a role and so do Josephine and Al."
"We all take part in the bigger pieces," Alhazred explains. "Not us specifically, that is," he corrects himself.
"So you know what's it about?
"Oh no, we only know our own role," Josephine throws in. "Pierre hasn't told us anything beyond our lines, and we're not to share them."
"On the pain of death," Alhazred adds in a hushed whisper. The scholar's eyes dart nervously around the room, as if he expects Pierre to appear in one of the shadowed corners, ready to garrote him with a lute string.
"Think he was bein' serious?" Dismas asks with a grin.
"Oh, I know he was," Alhazred says solemnly, and slowly the grin melts off Dismas' face to be replaced by a look of shock.
The façade lasts for a couple of heartbeats, and then there is a bout of laughter, and Dismas receives a jovial elbow in the ribs. Alhazred hides his smirk in his beard, but Audrey cackles,
"You should see your face!"
Dismas shakes his head and laughs along. He should have known by now that they were pulling his leg. "I ain't ever trustin' another thing ya say, ya lyin' shits," he drawls and reaches for the pipe again.
oooo
It is so late as to be early, when Dismas staggers back to the sanatorium. The cobblestones seem to shift treacherously under his feet, and more than once he needs to lean a guiding hand on the walls of the buildings. On the way, Dismas ends up throwing up in someone's vegetable garden. He probably could have picked a better spot for that, but he's so damned miserable that he hurls right over the threaded wattle fence.
Not in the right state of mind to apologize for that, and terrified that he might have to attempt to if he is seen, he staggers on. Dismas' stomach lurches when he finds the sanatorium doors closed. He tries to push them open, but they won't budge. He does the only thing he can think of, and bangs the massive door knocker against the wood until they open.
The noise must have roused the nurse, that or maybe she is a vampire that never sleeps. She is looking at Dismas with her arms crossed and her mouth in a thin line.
"If you're feeling healthy enough to get drunk in the tavern, you clearly no longer need our services," she says with a sniff. "Unless you want to dry out in one of our special rooms." Still, she takes a step back and allows him to stumble past her.
"Sorry, darlin'," Dismas slurs over his shoulder, and begins to pull himself up the stairs.
oooo
On the next morning, Dismas is woken by a racket that makes him groan as pain laces past his closed eyelids. Without looking he knows that it is too early for him to be conscious, but whoever is banging bedpans together in the corridor outside of his room has no regard for his sleep and no pity. Dismas blinks.
A giant, beady-eyed vulture is leaning over him, close enough to peck out his dry, bloodshot eyes. A shrill scream escapes Dismas' throat, and he quickly dives under his blanket for safety.
"Please, stop that," the bird says in a cool tone.
Dismas holds his breath.
"This is a place for the sick and ailing," the bird continues, its voice thick with disapproval.
Dismas dares to pull the blanket down far enough so he can chance a peek at the monstrosity from underneath it. "I'm feelin'plenty sick," he croaks.
"Oh, I bet you are," the bird agrees almost good-naturedly.
This time though; Dismas can spot human eyes behind the thick glass goggles, and a few strands of blonde hair that have escaped the headdress. He has heard about the eccentric plague doctor before; but her presence sends a cold shiver down his spine.
"What're you doin' here?" Dismas rudely asks. "I ain't got the plague, do I?"
Para tilts her head to the side, perfectly mimicking the movement of a curious bird. "Body rot, if I had to judge by the foul humours rising from you," she says drily. "But worry not. Cecil promised me that I could try this new cure I have right here," the plague doctor says and lovingly pats a box. Then, she shoves it right under Dismas' face as she opens the lid.
The inside is black with the squirming, fat and pulpy bodies of dozens of leeches.
A sigh escapes the birdlike mask. "Unfortunately, that abomination next door had to rattle its chains and wake you up."
The highwayman only pauses to pick up an armful of his belongings, before he is out of the sanatorium at a run.
oooo
Over the course of the next hours, Dismas finds out the hard way that he doesn't like being hungover.
Thankfully, not every night ends with an escapade like that of yestereve. In fact, that was quite a change from Dismas' usually quiet evenings. On most days, Dismas visits the tavern for an evening meal and a round of gossip and then he heads to the church to say his prayers before it is time for him to go to sleep. It allows him a moment of peace, of clarity. He does not like to be alone, but he soaks up the company and noise of Jubert's tavern, and treasures the quiet moment when it's just him and the Light.
This time, the dimly lit and blessedly quiet interior of the church offers a welcome refuge. The old stonework is infused with the scent of incense and it mixes with that of the burning candles. Dismas sinks down onto one of the pews and leans his head against the wall. It is cool the touch and after a long moment he can feel it begin to numb the dull pain in his skull that throbs in rhythm with the beat of his heart. He closes his eyes and focuses on deep, even breaths.
He may even have dozed for a while. An indeterminable amount of time later, the rolling queasiness in his stomach is gone. In its stead, Dismas is plagued by feelings of guilt. It is inappropriate to be sitting out his hangover in a holy place, but he is loathe to leave just yet. So, to placate the Light, Dismas begins to fumble his way through the Verses that Junia has taught him.
He's only forgotten a couple of words in the Latin ones and will have to ask the nun to go over them with him again, but overall he is really pleased that he can remember most of them. The moment of triumph is dashed when a cold, high voice speaks up from the shadows behind the altar.
"Did you miss the tavern in your drunk stupor? Here is a holy place."
Dismas looks up to find the priest sneering down at him. He must have come in through a side-door, or the Highwayman would have noticed his entrance. The priest's hands are hidden inside the long sleeves of his simple brown robe, and there is a look of contempt on his face.
"And your pronunciation of the Light's language is atrocious."
If Dismas were a dog, then the sight of the priest would have raised his hackles. Since he is not, it only makes a cold fury surge through his veins. His prayers are between him and the Light, and not for the other man to listen in on.
Dismas rises abruptly, and the world around him lurches dangerously. "What of it; so's yer haircut. And if the Light ain't struck ya down fer that, it'll tolerate my drunk arse," the highwayman growls. He finds his equilibrium, and turns his back on the cleric, only to find another man bearing witness to the exchange.
The doorway is filled out by the figure of the damned crusader.
Where the priest is a gaunt, weaselly fellow in a poor cleric's robe, the crusader is wearing a splendid tabard of white and gold. To add insult to injury the warrior may have doffed his armour, but he looks no less broad for the lack of it. Only the red scarf around his neck seems to be out of place, but Dismas is too irritated to contemplate the eccentric accessory.
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and with his courage bolstered by his anger, shoots the crusader the darkest look he can manage, daring him to say something. It stops the knight in his tracks as if it was an actual force, and Dismas uses the moment to brush past him, and out of the church. Although he can feel the other man's eyes on him, burning into his back, the former highwayman doesn't look back.
oooo
He cannot stand the hurly-burly that is the tavern, and he is in no condition to work, so Dismas naps the rest of the day away in a hay pile in the stables until the rumbling of his stomach wakes him. This morn, Dismas may have sworn he'd never be able to keep down a bite of food, but the afternoon has him roaming in search of something to eat.
As he is strolling up the main street, Audrey finds him.
"Where have you been?" the blonde huffs, frustrated. "The Heir wants to see you."
It takes the meaning of her words a long time to make it to Dismas' brain. "What, now!?" He's in no mood, let alone in a condition, to meet the lord of the Hamlet.
"No, come next full moon," Audrey replies tartly and grabs his sleeve. "Come on!"
"Wait!" Dismas rips himself out of her clasp, then trudges over to a rain barrel next to a house. With just the barest hesitation, he dunks his head in the water and furiously scrubs at his face and hair in an attempt to look just a little bit less like the hungover mess he is.
"How's it look?" he asks Audrey, nervously, after resurfacing.
"Like your drunk arse fell into the horse trough." Audrey spares him no mercy and nudges him along.
The mansion grows larger with every step, and it brings to mind a giant bear trap that Dismas is about to set his foot in. He wouldn't say it is voluntarily, as a sharp poke near his kidneys tells him that Audrey might be holding a dagger to his back.
Even the brass knocker on the door is shaped to depict something tentacled and vile. Dismas casts Audrey one last pleading look that is skillfully ignored as the doors open to reveal a liveried servant bowing deeply. The old man makes an inviting gesture towards the inside of the mansion and hobbles backwards awkwardly, still bent at the middle.
"Ah, 'tis the scoundrel who kept my liege a-waiting?" a high-pitched voice mutters, but Dismas cannot discern the man's expression since the servant's eyes are still on the floor as if he was mustering Dismas' dusty boots.
The highwayman thinks he can hear Audrey murmur 'good luck' at him and then, with a last shove that sends him stumbling over the threshold and into the antechamber, he's on his own. He might be more impressed to be standing inside an actual mansion, if his mind wasn't busy feverishly wondering what he'd like to have on him more: his rosary or his pistols.
"Please forgive the Caretaker."
Dismas' gaze snaps from a particularly large cobweb overhead and to the main hall.
His host is a tall man in his early to middle thirties, with wispy blonde hair and a sallow, unhealthy complexion, but his voice is cultured and holds a good measure of warmth and a trace of an apology. "He's quite mad, you see."
As if on cue, a giggle bubbles up behind Dismas. He whips around to see that the so-called Caretaker has straightened and is regarding him with the frozen grin of a skull. The Caretaker slaps a hand over his mouth, as if to cover an expression that has been permanently etched upon his face, then hurries away, leaving Dismas and the Heir alone.
Dismas uses the moment to survey his surroundings. In the main hall, a fine tablecloth is laid out on the large oak table. Atop it are plates of painted porcelain and massive silver candleholders. The cutlery is made of silver as well, and the drinking glasses are crystal. It seems like a ridiculous display of wealth in Dismas' eyes.
The lord of the Hamlet clears his throat. "I'm Morphew Dumont." There is something almost charming about the Heir's discomfort. It bolsters Dismas' own confidence.
"Dismas, but I think ya already know that."
Morphew nods, hastily, and bids Dismas to come further inside, leading him towards the table that is decked out for two. "Of course. I was… uh, told of your predicament. Please, take a seat."
Dismas sits down in an opulent chair of crimson brocade. The upholstery wants swallow him whole, but the illusion of grandeur is spoiled by the dozens of tiny moth-holes that dot the fabric.
"How are you feeling?" the other man asks hesitantly.
'Audrey was right,' Dismas thinks. He has fast grown sick of people asking him that very question.
"Alright, I guess," he answers courteously enough. "Don't remember feelin' no different."
Morphew nods, and fusses with the silken scarf tied around his neck. Dismas has trouble making out his expression in the gloom. A closer look also reveals that the initially impressive windows that line the front of the room are streaky with grime, and barely let any light through. Dead insects lie strewn about the windowsill and the main source of light is the enormous chimney behind Morphew.
Dismas regards the Heir and wonders if it is possible for a human to wilt and wither like a plant. Just as the silence between them stretches for too long, the Caretaker arrives, carrying trays laden with food.
Dismas accepts the food and declines the wine. The sour, fermented smell makes his stomach heave. During dinner, Morphew does most of the talking, and the drinking. Too much, in fact, as Dismas can tell by the feverish glassiness of the other man's eyes.
Overall, it has to be the strangest dinner that Dismas has ever partaken it. Morphew is a generous host, but to Dismas he seems to wave between his role as Dismas' employer and someone who is not quite a friend, yet longs to be one. With every glass of wine some of the lordly manner falls off Morphew, until Dismas finds himself faced with a young man who slumps in his chair and rests his feet on a free seat without any regard for the expensive, if aged upholstery.
Dismas slides uncomfortably in his seat as Morphew hints at his loneliness, cursing being stuck in the decrepit mansion with only a madman for company and the oppressive presence of the ghost of his dead grandfather. He had never been one of the adventurers, had never known the camaraderie that Dismas has enjoyed from the moment he had awoken in the sanatorium.
The highwayman feels a wave of gratitude for Audrey who has treated him like an old friend, giving Dismas a better idea of who he is, and for Margaret's open-hearted kindness, Josephine's good-natured banter, Alhazred's sharp wit and Junia's unwavering faith in the Light which has helped him believe that there might, after all, be some good in this world.
During a break between the courses, Morphew shows Dismas a painting of his grandfather, Mortimer Dumont – or as Morphew calls him – "The Bastard". Dismas might not have the full story, but it is very clear that Morphew thinks that his grandfather was responsible for most of the evil that befell the Hamlet.
Why Morphew would want the life-sized painting of a man he clearly hates to hang above the staircase is beyond Dismas. They turn their backs on the old Dumont, and towards the balcony from which they can overlook the entire Hamlet.
"Lovely view," Dismas comments, and Morphew nods, chewing on his lower lip. Despite an uneasiness building inside him, Dismas decides to take advantage of the other man's talkative mood to ask about how they had met. A highwayman and a nobleman –they are not two likely travel companions.
For some reason, Morphew seems reluctant to speak of the day he had hired Dismas and Reynauld to accompany his carriage through the Weald to a cursed village, forgotten by the rest of the world. Instead, his gaze flicks towards Dismas with ever increasing frequency. He has trouble focusing, but Dismas has to give him credit for trying.
"It's good to have you back," Morphew whispers, the alcohol having erased most inhibitions.
Instantly, Dismas can feel himself go hot and cold at the same time. Sweat pricks his skin between his shoulder blades and under his arms.
Dismas takes a step back. Morphew follows. "You may stay, if you wish. After dinner."
"Uh… what's for dessert?" Dismas asks, in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation somewhere, anywhere, else.
"Jelly of eel, pudding of ectoplasm," the Caretaker giggles.
Dismas whips around to find the old servant standing at the top of the stairs, watching them with his hands clasped before him, his maniac grin in place.
Morphew must be used to the man's eccentric remarks, because he only sighs before a delicate hand lands on the shoulder of an increasingly panicking Dismas. Suddenly, Morphew is too close and the delicate flush of his skin and the intensity of his gaze hint that at something that Dismas doesn't want to contemplate further.
Desperate, Dismas picks the only topic that comes to his mind. "So – I guess I like taverns, but how did ya come by a crusader? " he rattles out.
Morphew flinches, as if the highwayman had backhanded him. He stares at Dismas with a wounded look in his eyes, then turns away. "If you would excuse me," Morphew chokes out, and from one moment to the next, he storms off the balcony and back inside the mansion.
The Caretaker glowers at Dismas. The dark look makes for an expression that is as ridiculous as it is terrifying when combined with his permanent grin.
"Shouldn't ya help yer master?" Dismas asks the servant. "Wouldn't wanna have him take a tumble down the stairs an' break his neck, eh?"
The Caretaker cackles, but his eyes go wide with panic at the picture of Morphew falling to his death. With his arms stretched out before him, as if ready to catch his master should he stumble, the Caretaker takes off at a run.
Thus, Dismas finds himself standing on the balcony, alone. Suddenly, he can breathe freely again.
He recalls his dream and before he realizes that he has made up his mind, he is already swinging his leg over the balustrade. Dismas climbs over it the rest of the way, then attempts to lower himself to make the drop as short as possible.
The balcony's metal bars are slick, and too thin to hold onto properly. They slip through Dismas' hands, and a few desperate, but ultimately futile leg kicks later, he is falling. Instead of meeting the hard ground, Dismas lands in a thorny brush, suppresses a howl of pain like a kicked dog, and drags himself though the vines to freedom.
Dismas limps his way down the hill, ragged and bleeding, but determined to put as much distance between himself and that accursed mansion as possible.
It is with a sigh of relief that he pushes into Jubie's tavern.
In a nook right beside the tiled oven, Reynauld is eating his supper, alone save for the company of Mallilie the hound, who has curled up at his feet. He doesn't notice Dismas, and the highwayman tiptoes through the common room, then hastens upstairs. The crusader might have been the unknowing savior of the hour, but Dismas isn't going to clue him in.
He tries the doors until he finds one that is unlocked. To Dismas' surprise it's not unoccupied though, as he finds out after he closes the door behind him.
"Well, hello there." It's Jenny, who is watching Dismas with amused doe-like eyes. "I didn't know I was about to have company."
"Truth be told, I was just lookin' fer a room," Dismas admits, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Thought this one was free."
"Madam's making a few changes, so we're staying at the tavern rooms," Jenny explains as she rises, her thin nightshirt pooling around her ankles. "Y' know what, why not, stay here."
"If ya don't mind," Dismas answers and steps into the room.
The girl's eyes widen as the light of the lamp illuminates his face. "What happened to you?"
"I got mauled by a shrub," Dismas laments, and toes out of his boots, leaving them lying on the floor as he falls into the bed.
"Poor you," Jenny says. The bed dips lightly under her weight as she sits down next to Dismas. A heartbeat later, light fingers brush over the cuts on Dismas' temple. "How come you got attacked by that mean shrub?"
Dismas laughs, and tells her about his meeting with the Heir.
"What was the lord like?" Jenny asks in a hushed voice.
"Weird," Dismas mumbles, cracking open one eye. "Invited me to stay over at the mansion."
Jenny's eyes are huge, reflecting the light of the oil lamps. "And, did you accept?" she asks in a hushed whisper.
"Darlin', I jumped off the balcony," Dismas tells her, his voice choked with laughter that has to hold back. "Dunno 'bout the local custom, but 'm sure to say that don't count as acceptin'."
Jenny laughs, a pretty carefree sound and the tension that had filled the room for a moment evaporates with his confession.
Dismas can feel her weight shift, and small hands begin to work the tension out of his shoulders. It's nice, but he is tired. For a moment he simply enjoys the attention, before he turns his head sideways to say, "Forgive me, lovely, but I'm knackered."
She withdraws so abruptly that Dismas can feel the gust of cold air where her warmth used to be.
"What?" Dismas asks, perhaps not very tactfully.
"It's just that I used to be your favourite," the girl whispers. She looks very young and vulnerable all of a sudden.
Dismas blinks. Light in Heaven, what was it with people wanting to lay him today? "Yer still my favourite," he says, doing his best not to slur his words too much. "But for spendin' time with, not for fucking."
Her face is still unreadable, and Dismas hopes he isn't going to get himself gored by one of her stilettos. Then, Jenny bends down to lightly kiss his lacerated cheek.
"You should get some rest."
He is asleep before the amused girl can even reply.
oooo
In the morning Dismas wakes to a delicious smell. He peels his face from the pillow to find a tray laden with food right next to it. Jenny is lying on her stomach on the other half of the bed, her legs swinging in the air.
"Thanks, sweetie," Dismas says as he slowly rights himself. Jenny has brought enough for two, and they eat together and chat about nothing and everything.
"Are you coming to see the play too?" Dismas asks towards the end of breakfast.
"Sure! I even got a role," Jenny tells him. The girl is beaming, so Dismas shoots her a smile of his own when there is a knock on the door.
"Dismas? You in there?"
They both look up, and Dismas shrugs. "Yeah, who – "
The door opens a crack to reveal a familiar face.
"Had a good night?" Margaret asks, peeking into the room.
"Uh-huh," Dismas grunts while Jenny wraps herself in the blanket, apparently ready to sleep some more.
Since Dismas has been officially pronounced healthy, he can do some light training, and Margaret takes him along for target practice.
"She is cute," Margaret says in an offhand-manner as they walk over to the shooting range. "Jenny, right?"
"Yeah," Dismas mutters. "Wait, what? No, it ain't like that."
"It is alright," Margaret insists with a knowing smile.
Dismas curses. "We didn't fuck. I was drunk and fell asleep." Damn, that made it sound like he had wanted to, though.
Margaret clicks her tongue."That's not very nice, falling asleep on a lady."
"Yeah, good thing Jenny's a whore, not a lady." Dismas feels a pang of shame for doing the girl such an injustice, but Margaret rolls her eyes and doesn't press him further.
Shooting comes naturally to Dismas. He hits his targets with the same confidence and ease with which he can make a stone skip over water. It is only after the pistols are empty, that he falters. He must reload, surely. Only, he does not remember how.
Margaret shows him while she patiently explains the whole process. He learns how to hold the weapon and how to measure the black powder, then watches as Margaret loads his other pistol, much quicker and more efficient than before.
"That's a neat trick," Dismas remarks.
She nods and hands the weapon back to him. "You showed it to me."
Dismas lets her words sink in. He knows from past comments that Margaret and Linesi the arbalest considered him to be their peer when it came to marksmanship, but he has never truly thought about it. "I was good, huh?"
"You could reload your pistols blindfolded faster than anyone I've ever seen," Margaret says. "You once managed five shots off in a minute, and hit all of the targets."
Dismas whistles. He had no idea anyone could be that good, let alone that someone could be him. "Still, dunno 'bout the blindfold."
"Oh, that was because you told us you couldn't always risk fire during a nighttime ambush," Margaret explains. "And it's a skill that has served us well in the dungeons. But we were always worried one day you'd lose your fingers due to embers in the bore."
Dismas holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers as if to check for himself. "Still got all o' em.
"And make sure it stays that way," Margaret says in a stern voice, then, after many more rounds of shooting, shows him how to take care of his flintlocks by cleaning them of grime and soot.
oooo
The day of the play, the town square is transformed into a grand open-air stage. The first rows consist of broad, sturdy benches, while further behind seats are erected on a raised dais.
There had been a debate about setting up the theater in one of the fields, but in the end Pierre had thrown a tantrum on a scale that had Barristan turn all puffy and red, and stomp away. It would have been more impressive if the man-at-arms had been a taller man. The main reason they had, in the end, chosen the town square over one of the fields, was the acoustics.
"It used to be we could just borrow half a dozen tables from Jubie, and it was enough," Linesi says and points Dismas and Darell a little bit towards the left. The arbalest is now overlooking the construction in Barristan's stead and when she nods, the two men put down the bench they had been carrying. Dismas is red-faced and sweating a river despite having dressed down to a shirt and having rolled up his sleeves, while the former lumberjack, probably used to logging around large chunks of wood, isn't even out of breath.
"Aye, and Pierre was doing hand puppet plays, and telling stories back then," Junia adds as she joins them. The nun crosses her arms as she surveys all the construction work that is going on around them. "He's sure come a long way since then."
"It's made him a diva," Linesi grumbles, and the nun laughs.
Darell turns back towards the rows of seats, his hands on his hips. "Looking good, boss, what do you think?"
Linesi musters the neat rows of seats with a critical eye. Then, she nods, a smile spreading across her face. "I think we're done."
oooo
The last couple of hours before the play pass quickly. The town square is abuzz in nervous excitement as villagers are talking and laughing and milling around the stage, as if afraid that the play might begin early. Finally, the church bells announce the end of the mass – held earlier today – and quickly, the seats around the stage begin to fill. Those who did not get an outdoors seat crowd behind the windows of the tavern and brothel, and the other buildings that offer a view of the stage.
Meanwhile, the front rows are reserved for the heroes of the Hamlet, and Dismas is surprised, yet pleased to be counted amongst them. He sits down with Margaret to his right while a tall, brown skinned woman takes the seat to his left. She is garbed in colourful cloth and leather, the style of which appears both martial and comfortable. The look is softened by a few gold ornaments, but the corded muscle in her arms marks her unmistakably for a warrior.
"I don't think we've met," the woman says, regarding Dismas with curiosity.
"No, I don't think we have," Dismas agrees and holds out his hand for her to shake.
She does, but in doing so Dismas catches sight of her left arm which ends at a stump below her wrist. He knows that he doesn't succeed in hiding his expression of shock.
"Armani."
"You were part of the last expedition," Dismas blurts out, as if to make up for his staring.
Armani nods, tactfully ignoring Dismas' rude behaviour. "With Damian, Tardif and Para, yes."
"I met Para," Dismas recalls with a grimace and Armani laughs, a surprisingly deep sound for a woman.
Children with trays of snacks and drink scurry between the grownups, and Dismas buys ale for the three of them, along with some spicy meat skewers, rings of dried apple, and hazlenuts roasted in honey.
Suddenly, there is a sound like thunder and Margaret lets out an excited squeal and grips Dismas' hand.
The chatter around them dies down immediately, the jovial, relaxed atmosphere replaced by one of eager anticipation. Armani shoots Dismas a grin as the cloth begins to lift, revealing the stage and the solitary figure standing in its middle. Dexterous fingers move over the strings of a lute to coax it into a soft tune.
Pierre begins his play with the tragic story of a kingdom, where the good king was dethroned by his younger brother, who, always the second, overlooked, was now possessed of an insatiable lust for power. Even as the royal family was executed for treason, one wet nurse found the courage to smuggle the king's son, a mere babe at the time, out of the castle and to deliver it into the hands of a retinue of loyal followers. Those men and women, condemned to a life as rebel fighters, all swore fealty to the true heir. One day they would see their liege take his rightful throne, and when he did and their exile came to an end, the kingdom would know peace and prosperity one more.
The music stops for one moment, then picks up again, louder this time than before. The notes hang in the air, discordant and ominous. The music continues even as the curtain closes. When it opens a few minutes later to the cheers of the crowd, the scenery has changed. A large linen sheet that is spanned over the back of the stage shows the majestic outline of a castle, and the chair that has appeared on the stage is decorated to look like a throne.
A figure in long robes reclines in it, its features indistinguishable until it raises its head. Dismas has to chuckle when he sees who has been cast for the role of the evil monarch. It is none other than Alhazred, and it is obvious that he is enjoying every moment on stage. The scholar rests the tips of his fingers against each other, and his dark eyes are like two pits. Even Alhazred's voice seems sharper somehow, cold and cruel, and his act sends murmurs of unease and approval through the crowd.
The king announces his plans to marry his daughter to some lord of great political importance. Of course, a royal marriage requires a proper banquet, and thus the king sends out envoys far and wide to carry the message of the betrothal. But unbeknownst to him, his two closest confidantes are traitors who covet the kingdom for themselves.
Thus, they have come up with a devious plan to murder their liege.
For that very purpose they hired Danneville, the greatest court jester of all times. But Danneville is not just a musician and a comedian – he is as quick with his dirk as he is with a joke – for he is also a master assassin.
A lucky turn of fate forces Danneville, en route to the king's court, to seek shelter from a terrible storm. Thus, he stumbles into the rebel village, where the food and wine that his hosts offer him loosens his tongue enough for him to mention the king's invitation. The moment Danneville lays down to rest, he is taken prisoner with one of the rebels to impersonate him.
That man happens to be Pierre, who is not just the narrator of his play, but also assumes the role of the hero, a quick witted, if somewhat clumsy and naïve member of the group of rebels.
Pierre travels to the king's court, tasked with finding a way to open the castle's secret passage that the wet nurse had used on the night she had fled with the infant regent. It would allow the rebel forces to take the castle in a storm, without risking open battle.
But trouble begins the moment Pierre, disguised as Danneville the court jester, sets foot in the keep. Of course, Pierre has no idea that he has been hired to assassinate the king, but he manages not to break cover even as the two traitorous lords corner him. Yet clueless Pierre side-steps all their innuendo with clever remarks and distractions, aided by no small amount by lady luck.
Even his audience with the king is a success, and as Pierre teaches the crowd the lyrics to his songs, and in no time at all, the viewers happily chime in. Now Dismas knows why the jester insisted upon setting up the stage right in the middle of the town, where even the last rows can hear his voice, loud and clear.
Then, the princess enters the stage. Dismas barely recognizes Audrey beneath a wig a lot of make-up, and dressed in a skirt instead of her usual eccentric mix of leather and lace. All pity he might have felt for the character who is about to be forced into a marriage evaporates when they learn that the princess is no less cunning and cruel than her father. Used to pulling the strings in the back, Audrey's performance gives Dismas the chills, and he can tell that his friend is right in her element.
Josephine has a role as the princesses' servant, a witch whose evil eye can hypnotize anyone who gazes into it and a snap of her fingers makes any man lose his free will.
As the fake Danneville falls under the witches' spell everything seemed lost and Pierre has the audience gasping, at the edge of their seats, as he proclaims he will now announce his undying love for the princess to the king, and convince him to let her marry him, or die trying.
He storms off the stage, and then another roll of drums announces a break.
There is a collective groan from the audience, but the mood soon lightens as people stand up to stretch their backs and to get their mugs refilled.
Margaret decides that she needs to head somewhere, and pulls Dismas along, leaving Armani with a pile of snacks that the Eastern woman decimates with an expression of bliss. Margaret leads Dismas behind the stage, where tents have been erected to give the actors a place to spend the time when they're not on stage and to keep away the curious onlookers.
Dismas, following Margaret's lead, ducks into one of the tents. Its interior is a simple rug, a table and a couple of chairs. Audrey relaxes in one of the chairs. She has discarded her wig and Dismas can see that she is flushed under all the heavy makeup.
"You were amazing!" Margaret croons, handing her lover a cup of water that Audrey accepts with a grateful expression, draining it in a single go while Cat, one of the brothel girls, busies herself fixing Audrey's makeup, which has begun to run at the hairline.
"How do you like the play so far?" Audrey asks.
"It's great!" Dismas exclaims with a laugh, and he doesn't have to lie one bit. The play has just the right amount of comedy and suspense, and the songs are simple enough for the audience to sing or whistle along to. The tent fills out as the actors file in, Alhazred and Josephine, and various others. They talk about Pierre's close calls, and laugh at the best jokes until Audrey leans close to Dismas, her words for his ears alone.
"Say, have you talked to Rey yet?"
"Who?"
Audrey looks at him askew. "You know, Reynauld."
"Why would I want to talk to him?" Dismas asks, aghast. He has more sense than to tangle with a religious fanatic.
Audrey sighs, and for the first time since Dismas has known her, she looks nervous. "Walk with me?" It seems that she is trying to spare him the embarrassment of having his personal relations explained in front of the others. He will have to remember to do something real nice for Audrey.
When they're outside, a sigh of relief escapes Audrey at the fresh evening breeze. "Look. He has asked about you," she begins as they take a stroll with no particular destination in mind.
Reynauld. They were still talking about the crusader, right? Audrey must have seen the disbelief in his mien, because she rests a hand on Dismas' shoulder.
"He…cares about you."
"I don't think he likes me all that much," Dismas stammers.
Audrey groans. "Dismas." The exasperation is so thick in her voice it makes Dismas physically uncomfortable. He draws up his shoulders, hiding in the thick fur of his coat. He had noticed his friend's ribbing, the occasional innuendo thrown his way, and he had ignored all of it. Now, a part of his mind is screaming that he is not ready to have that kind of talk.
"He didn't try to see me," Dismas points out and even to his own ears he sounds like a petulant child searching for an excuse to avoid a detested task. But there is truth in his words. Reynauld had pretty much ignored him so far.
"He didn't?" Audrey appears to be surprised by the news. "I thought he'd –, well. Since you were… friends."
"We were friends?" Dismas repeats.
Audrey lays a single finger on her chin as she tilts her head. "Mhm, I'm not so sure about that."
"So he cares about me, but we ain't friends?" Dismas says, more confused than ever.
"You argued often," Audrey says by way of explanation.
"Light help me, woman, if ya don't speak straight I'm gonna have to take ya to Para to get yer head checked," Dismas growls, heedless that it was his own head that decided to chuck all his memory right out.
They have walked a small circle, returning to the actor's tent.
"You'll just have to figure it out for yourself," Audrey answers with determination. She worries her lip, then turns to take Dismas' hands in her own. "Look, I know he's not easy to be around, but…you did have a way of getting through to him when we couldn't. Just talk to him, if only to spare me having him visit every other night to– "
She breaks off, and before Dismas can react in any other way than to stare at her in shock, she announces that she needs to get ready for the stage. The tent flap closes in Dismas' face, who staggers back to his seat with Audrey's words still rattling around his skull.
"Is everything alright?" Magaret asks him, as the chipper redhead sits down beside him again.
"Sure," Dismas answers, still pondering everything he has learned when Margaret suddenly calls out,
"Look who's here!" The redhead gets up and waves. "Hey! Hey, Rey!"
Dismas will be damned sooner than believe that this is circumstance, but before he can shush Margaret, the crusader's head turns towards them. He's easy to make out in the crowd, towering over most of the villagers and Dismas' heart skips a couple of beats as the man's eyes focus on them. He slumps in his seat as the crusader pauses, then heads their way.
"Bonjour Rey," Margaret greets the crusader with a smile that the man returns weakly. It seems genuine, but it doesn't reach his eyes. As if smiling is a reflexive response remembers, but doesn't understand.
"Why don't you sit with us?" Margaret offers and scoots over, pulling Dismas along so that there is just enough space for the large man to squeeze himself in next to Dismas.
It is then that Reynauld appears to notice the highwayman, and his eyes grow wide, a crease appearing between his brows. There are dark bruises under the warrior's eyes, and both his beard and hair have a overgrown, unkempt look to them that Dismas had never noticed before. Then again, they had never been this close.
Dismas cannot help but notice how his heartbeat picks up at the attention of the crusader.
"If I may?" Reynauld asks, and his voice is softer than Dismas had imagined it. He realizes this is the first time he has heard the other man speak other than to yell instructions at the recruits.
"Dismas wanted you to join us," Margaret continues says, her tone sincere and innocent, as she leans forward to look at them both.
A blatant lie, but Dismas doesn't correct her when he sees the surprise in Reynauld's face. A moment later, the crusader's features soften into a genuine expression of joy and the feeling in Dismas' chest intensifies tenfold which is strange, because there is nothing menacing about Reynauld's smile, quite to the contrary.
"Dismas – "
There is a hint of memory there, like a lingering aftertaste, a whiff of perfume long after the person has departed. Part of it feels like fear and Dismas can make no sense of his own feelings.
Before he can say anything, the drums roll again.
"We should - ," Reynauld gestures at the benches.
"Yeah," Dismas agrees, swallowing past a dry throat.
They sit down, close enough that their sides touch. Dismas imagines that he can feel a shiver pass through Reynauld's broad frame, but the crusader doesn't move away.
The play continues.
Pierre manages to free himself from the curse the princess' witch has laid on him, then bests the king's champion in a tournament for which he is even knighted.
Ultimately, he succeeds in finding the hidden passage and leads the rebels to victory.
Once the last songs are sung, the audience erupts in thunderous cheers and applause that continue for what feels like an eternity. When they finally die down, Dismas is surprised to see that the moon and stars are in the sky. He'd been so engrossed in the play that he had missed the sun setting.
But while they had enjoyed the play, others had not been idle. Pierre announces that bonfires will be lit in the fields, even as braziers are kindled in the town square. A euphoric, festive mood lies in the air, and no one feels like heading back home yet.
"Wanna go sit 'round one of 'em bonfires?" Dismas nervously asks the man next to him. He is surprised to see the crusader rub his palms together, slowly but incessantly.
Reynauld nods, but doesn't follow Dismas. "Go on ahead, I'll be with you in a moment."
Dismas joins Audrey, Margaret and a few others around one of the many bonfires that have been lit in the practice fields in the meantime. There are wooden footstools and piles of straw to sit on, and the villagers' kids dart from one fire to the other, trying to sell the last of their roasted hazelnuts, or some spiced bread dough, or sausages for skewers.
Audrey is visibly exhausted, and falls asleep with her head in Margaret's lap.
There is no sight of Reynauld.
Wavering between disappointment and relief, Dismas enjoys the hypnotic calm of the fire, watching it burn and listening to the conversations around him until the stars begin to flicker and pale.
Dismas doesn't wait up on the other man.
He reaches the end of the town square before he recalls that he got kicked out of the sanatorium. He stands in the shadow of the stone buildings, undecided as what to do now. He could head to the tavern. The crown windows glow golden in the night, and laughter and voices spill into the street. Dismas keeps walking.
The entrance to the church is dark and silent, but the gloom is not oppressive. Rather, it brings to mind a comforting blanket and the thick curtain keeps the nippiness of the night at bay. Dismas walks through the heavy cloth to find the inside illuminated by the candle altar. In all the times he had visited the church, he has never seen all the candles extinguished.
Whoever lights them is diligent in their duty and Dismas adds one little light to the flickering tapestry of fire before he sinks down onto a high-backed pew. Today has been exciting and exhausting in equal measure.
He intends to say a quick prayer to thank the Light, but while the first Verse of the prayer comes easily, Dismas finds it increasingly hard to concentrate on what follows. He shakes his head, but his thoughts have drifted off. Instead of the holy words, his mind is now filled with jolly songs, colourful costumes and a sad pair of brown eyes that regard him with breathtaking intensity.
Dismas shakes his head and starts anew. This time he gets but two stanzas further than on his first attempt. The highwayman yawns. The Light from the candle altar blinds him. Dismas closes his eyes. Just for a moment, just to help him concentrate…
He can see Pierre, playing his lute on the stage. There is Audrey in her makeup and costume, but she's standing in the Heir's mansion. Clearer than all, he can see Reynauld's battle-weary face before his inner eyelid.
oooo
The next thing that Dismas knows, there is a seagull pecking at his knee. He tries to shoo it away, but the bloody hellbird won't let him sleep.
"Dismas," the bird speaks in a voice much too deep for its scrawny neck.
Dismas wants to tell it to fuck off, but there is something stuck in his throat and he coughs, coming to ungraciously. His neck is stiff from having fallen asleep with it at a weird angle against the hard wood of the pew. He hopes he hasn't drooled in his sleep. He quickly wipes a rough palm over his mouth just in case.
"Wha– ?" He blinks at the shape before him, and then stares, wide-eyed.
Reynauld's hand is still resting on Dismas' knee as the crusader crouches in front of him.
AN: I only sporadiacally visit anymore. If you're enjoying the story, please come visit me at AO3 (Archiveofourown)