Page 14 of Burying Venus

Robert nodded eagerly, stepping away from the boy. ‘I intend to write to a witchfinder abroad this very night. We cannot have this behaviour spreading, and I have never before seen a burning.’

And therein lay Robert’s intent. He, being a man of great wealth unused to suffering, expected others to provide the thrill.

‘I suppose you will have to sort it out then,’ Lord Stanley said, looking about the prison. ‘Quite damp in here, is it not? And a strain on the eyes, being so dark. Do you not think you should come back upstairs, Robert?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Robert said. ‘You may go now, father.’

Lord Stanley said something Dermot couldn’t catch before finally ambling away, unperturbed and doubtless returning to his chamber.

As soon as his father was safely gone, Robert struck the boy across the jaw. ‘The examination is complete, we need do no more. I shall pen my letter as soon as I am able. We will have a licenced fellow come examine them.’ He turned his back on the aunt’s cries. ‘You must understand, William, I am entirely capable of overseeing this myself. But law decrees we have a professional look at them, you understand, to sign the paperwork and present the case.’

Glad to be spared that nonsense, Dermot watched Will nod, contemplative and quiet. Determined not to be cajoled upstairs to watch the writing of that letter, he wagered.

‘We have done all we can,’ Robert said, running one hand over the other as if to rid himself of some filth. He left them so quickly that all Dermot saw was the great billow of his cloak, the expectation of them trailing after.

Waiting a few moments as to avoid Robert’s conversation, Dermot followed with Will behind. No prisoner cried out for aid after that performance, the dim embers of torchlight not permitting him to see anything of them but their shadows. Only the stomping of Robert’s boots on stone could be heard. By the time they reached the gale that signified land, Dermot was incredulous that he stood unscathed, then stupefied as Robert turned again to them.

‘And now I shall leave you,’ Robert said. ‘Dermot, you are quite the fine little worker. Indeed, I am surprised by my brother’s recommendation. You are far from the dunce I envisioned. Quite commendable, really.’ His eyes met Will’s then and, far from the disimpassioned drawl Dermot was treated to, his voice took on a huskier quality. ‘And your friend is such a pleasant youngman. You must accompany me again, William. Perhaps without so many prying eyes about us.’

Dermot’s disgust was scarcely contained as Will pliantly agreed the two of them must speak again, preferably without himself accompanying, and that the kitchen could do without one man for a day or so. Never during his employment had he thought Will amenable to such suggestions, that he might permit himself to be bedded by another man, and certainly not one of Lord Stanley’s sons. With the exception of Aubrey, every member of the family was treated to the roughest mockery whenever Béchard was absent. Not once had he suspected a liking between the pair.

Finally as Robert marched upstairs to write the damnable letter, Dermot cast his eyes to Will and watched that same sweet submission simmer into a dark look. Reflexively, he stepped back.

‘What have you done?’ Will said.

‘Me?’ Dermot said. Between him and Will, Maldred’s influence was forgotten, them being but poor servants tethered to whichever Stanley brother wrenched at their leash. ‘I haven’t done a thing. It was you near pulling off his breeches.’

‘How dare you,’ Will spat. ‘As if this wasn’t your fault? Lord Robert taking you hunting with him, Lord Tristan, and of course your little beau. Getting closer, you and him, his favourite?’ Dermot had never seen Will so fraught, his expression serious and without the suggestion of good humour. ‘The suggestion he made of you and Aubrey fucking in the prison?’

There was no method to explain Robert’s lunacy came from a potion delivered by a faerie boy, who coaxed it into Dermot’s hands by way of seduction. Dermot stood there stupidly, unable to articulate himself until Will became more ardent.

‘I thought it a harmless desire so long as no one saw you eyeing him in public. Something to keep you warm at night, at least. Butto actually act on it… what, how could any sane man confess to Lord Robert of wanting to sleep with his youngest brother? And for him to not hang you that instant!’ Will cried.

‘Of course I didn’t tell him that,’ Dermot hissed, recalling their stations as servants, not Robert’s most beloved hounds. ‘It was he who guessed. I do not know how, I had never before spoken to him.’

‘Never before spoken to him,’ Will imitated, using that same silly voice he was prone to in the kitchen. ‘It’s because you do leer, quite openly. And what of this strange act you’ve been putting on as of late? It’s been all the talk in the kitchen between me and Béchard.’

‘There’s hardly anyone else to speak to in the kitchen, is there? Especially when you’re bullying Stephen or devising some other misery. Don’t worry, Béchard loves his lords so much he’d grab your hair as you suck Robert’s cock and direct you on how to do it.’

All Dermot knew was the flash of skin, the slapping of flesh, as his head flung back so he could see the grey sky clear above them.

‘Fuck you,’ Will said.

Dermot did not see Will as he left, only heard the faint steps drawing away as he slowly came back to himself. His nose stung terribly, and for a moment he feared it actually broken until he grazed his fingertips to the bone and found it only bruised. Will was a smaller make than he, after all, and incapable of true damage. Yet their friendship, a constant throughout Dermot’s employment that saw him through his worst moods, was vanquished in but a day. Before Maldred’s appearance, there was but one person he spoke to kindly. Having a friend in such a perilous, lonely place had not been something to throw away.

He stormed off in the opposite direction. Will, having assumed he would actually approach Robert and speak such filth, thoughtfar less of him than he’d have supposed. Will was Béchard’s darling, after all, the son he’d never had; of course the pair spoke of him without his being there. Their words hung all about Dermot like a cacophony, hurling constant abuse as he dragged himself around a twist in the corridor. A hand grabbed him then, seemingly from nowhere, as he dimly realised this was where Béchard kept his cutlery and other such tools.

‘Will?’ Dermot started, halting only when he recognised the golden eyes of his tempter, set beneath the white-blond hair that marked the mystic creature.

‘Maldred?’ Dermot said. For a moment he supposed this, like most of his imaginings, took place from the comfort of his bed. But the earlier events of the day prevented this.

‘Dermot,’ Maldred said. He laughed and dragged Dermot into the closet, jumping forward and clashing their lips together. ‘How have you been? Oh, Dermot, what’s wrong?’ He kissed neatly down the side of his neck all the way to the collarbone, finally wrapping his arms around Dermot’s neck like a woman.

To see such beauty made flesh in daylight was astonishing. Maldred had none of the faults one would expect of man, body finely crafted as if he were marble. The world’s miasma hadn’t rotted him; he remained pristine, hands soft and uncalloused.

‘You’ve turned them into monsters,’ Dermot said, at least managing one critique before his nerves got the better of him.

‘I have done no such thing,’ Maldred protested. ‘They were already monsters. You surely know that much?’