Page 12 of Burying Venus
‘He’s hardly a boy,’ Robert said. ‘My brother’s favourite, in fact, and a steadfast servant of mine. I fear he has been wasted in the kitchen when he could’ve been assisting us on the hunt.’
Every wrong done to Dermot over the years culminated on Béchard’s face. The man’s mouth hung open in disbelief, going to wipe the sweat from his brow as he stared.
‘No one wishes to see the inside of your mouth. Go, fetch my father as soon as you can. Bring him to the dungeons. Yes, indeed, you understand me,’ Robert said, gesturing at Béchard as if to swat a particularly irritating insect. ‘But leave the blond here. We have use for him.’
Béchard looked askance at the pair of them, doubtless thinking some great evil had been sent as an insult to his kitchen. ‘Lord Robert, please, I can’t spare William,’ he said. His voice quivered in protest, French accent becoming all the more prominent. When Will moved forward, Béchard pulled him back.
Will murmured something before freeing himself and strolling over to meet them. His lips quirked in a smile as he greeted Robert with a bow, muscles lax and unafraid.
‘A fine young man,’ Robert said. Relatively innocuously, Dermot thought, before he saw Robert rake his eyes up and down Will.
‘I grow tired of this,’ Tristan said. ‘Get the hag and let’s take them to the dungeons. You, Dermot, have him.’
Dutifully, Dermot took Tristan’s place as the boy was thrown at him with a rough shove, nearly sending him to the ground. Heart surging, afraid the boy might attempt a public escape, he clasped his wrists with as much force as decency allowed.
‘Get the woman off the horse. Take her, as your friend did the boy,’ Robert said. A faint smile etched itself on his face as he watched Will work.
Dermot’s heart ached for his friend as he hauled the woman off and loosely restrained her. Will, usually so audacious, cast his eyes resolutely to the ground as Robert stared.
‘Excuse me, I have no interest in watching a boy and a hag festering in the dungeons. I’ve better things to do,’ Tristan said, laughing and racing off in the manner of a young boy, were it not for the braid swinging behind him. It was a great irony that Tristan, terror of all maids and peasant women, looked much like a maiden himself. Only slightly taller than Aubrey, with narrow shoulders and an attractive form.
Dermot pushed the boy forward with little feeling. His legs ached terribly from the exertion as well as his unpractised posture on the horse. Will stumbled along after him, near dragging the woman.
‘Are you coming, little brother?’ Robert asked. ‘We will have to go down a flight of stairs, and the dungeons are quite dark. Do you think yourself up to the task?’ Here he paused and, even with his back turned, Dermot discerned the voyeuristic glee in his voice. ‘You and your big friend could sneak off after, I suppose. I don’t imagine we would see or hear you.’
Aubrey’s breath hitched. ‘I think I ought to go back to my room,’ he said. Dermot heard those pretty heels rush away, thankful he would not be made to endure whatever fantasies Robert was nursing.
‘Perhaps for the best,’ Robert said, his boots signalling his approach as he cut in front of Dermot and Will, presumably to avoid being seen walking behind two servants. ‘It will be quite miserable down there. Am I to understand you have not visited the dungeons before?’
To carry on such a conversation while Dermot and Will pushed along two captives, the woman near catatonic and the boy seeming mere seconds away from an accident, was absurd.Though Dermot was thankful he had a companion through Will’s unfortunate luck.
‘No, Lord Stanley, I have not been to the prison,’ Will said. He glanced at Dermot from under his lashes and gave a sly look, one Dermot took to mean some joke between them, until he saw Will’s lips twist into a very obvious frown.
‘Indeed?’ Robert said. ‘You need not address me so, one would think you spoke to my father. Dermot calls me Lord Robert, but you, William, may use my Christian name.’
Without meaning to, Dermot clutched the boy’s hands tighter. That did not bode well. He glimpsed Will again, noting the pallor of his skin, the way his hair came to obscure his eyes.
‘I have not been down before either,’ Dermot said quickly, turning the boy as they twisted around one of the castle’s narrow turns.
They were nearing the prison now. Two guards stood beside the black chasm, a fixture into the castle’s surface. They bowed in great obstinance to Robert, Dermot fancying they’d prostrate themselves if asked. How could men look towards Jerusalem, he wondered, the land that lived in their minds between masses of text, and do anything but despair that they were still in Egypt.
‘Lord Robert!’ one murmured. Dermot recalled him well, for behind this meek mask of a man lay a brute who enjoyed bullying the lower staff.
‘Remove the barrier, if you please. We are taking these prisoners to the dungeon,’ Robert said.
The guards looked between them, each one mirroring the other in his confusion. ‘We’ll take them down for you, Lord Robert,’ one said, followed by a little assent from his partner.
‘We have no use for you,’ Robert said.
One of the guards groaned at this while his friend hurried to the opening, snatching the key from the other’s belt. Bulbous fingers wound around the lock until it finally clinked and couldbe pulled to the ground with both men’s efforts. The two remained kneeling, staring up at Robert like a maiden on her wedding night as he stood beside them, motioning for Dermot to enter first.
Most likely the bastard was worried about them taking a tumble and sending him falling to his death, never mind the poor sod who tripped in the first place. He meant to linger behind Will as well, and there was naught Dermot could say against it, though at least the darkness and precocious nature of the stairs prevented any flirtation.
Pushing the boy forward, he observed the plunge so that nausea overtook him, seeping bile into his throat. The danger of vomiting in front of Robert was enough to steel him and propel their captive forward. He heard Will fall in line behind him and kept urging the boy forward, clinging to him since he could not grasp the rail well enough to steady himself.
The damp nature of the prison surprised him, it being strangely humid and wet. It was almost like another country, one without the blistering cold and wind, though having only the flame for light and warmth. Evidently the same fool who’d fashioned the castle designed the place, the stairs being just as winding as above, and far worse due to the sheer blithe thoughtlessness of the architect. A foreigner with a wealthy father, Dermot imagined, whose lack of talent hadn’t prevented his rise. If a man or two were to fall and die, what did it matter so long as the bastard could continue his hobby another day; this wretched creator he despised more than even Robert.
Hearing Will gasp and utter some profanity, Dermot dared not look behind, fearing he’d push the boy down and try his best to reach the wall in case of some accident. It would not do for him to be the only survivor; Robert would surely have hanged him before the day was out.