Page 16 of Burying Venus

‘Yes, do nothing,’ Maldred said, kissing Dermot’s cheek. ‘How can you refuse what has already been given?’

Cock already resurrected and twitching, Dermot said, ‘This is about Robert?’

‘The eldest, yes, and all of them as a whole. Let them do as they will. Say nothing against it, do not stop it,’ Maldred said.

‘But why?’ Dermot asked, at last spurring himself on enough to caress the length of the faerie. He palmed Maldred’s hips and, hearing no protest, ventured lower to give a firm squeeze. ‘You’re referring to the boy and the aunt?’

‘Do nothing,’ Maldred hissed.

He saw the whole sorry procession before his eyes. Robert inviting the witchfinder to their shores, the bastard contrivingsome method as to best rationalise fiction, and finally the actual event. Even then, surely, they would only be sentenced to prison, not an actual hanging. Such barbarism had never happened on the island, unlike the mainland.

‘I suppose that’s all I can do, even if I wanted differently,’ Dermot said. ‘But on your account, I’d do anything.’

Their lips met without Dermot having righted himself. Belatedly, he tried to return the affection, but Maldred was already off him, pulling at the door handle.

‘What are you doing?’ Dermot said. ‘You mustn’t let anyone see you. With the castle in such a state, what will they take you as?’ Certainly Robert, lecher as he was, would show more interest in Maldred than the mousy-haired wretch in the prison.

‘Dermot,’ Maldred said, turning his head imperceptibly to the side. ‘I am very much touched by your concern.’

Maldred opened the door and walked out as daringly as any young man. Though Dermot was quick to follow, the boy was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Five

To do as instructed was simple but the consequences were another matter entirely. He went about his tasks as usual, noting the subtle changes in his colleagues. Mrs Aisling sniffed the chamber pots fervently to check for any lapse in washing, and Béchard’s anger festered as the days grew shorter.

With his friend snubbing him, only Maldred’s memory kept him in check, and oftentimes Dermot fantasised about them merely conversing. All wonderment was snuffed out by the perpetual drudgery of daily life, inflicted by no one in particular. Only the sad culmination of masters who slowly but surely came to dictate the lives of the poor were his enemies, the family being so afflicted.

The preparations for the witchfinder’s arrival proved as arduous as feared. Despite Robert’s enthusiasm, only Dermot, Will, and a few maids were tasked with the décor. Will had said the castle was a hovel compared to the mainland estates, antiquated as it was, with most floors made up of only a few small rooms. Even the walls, flaking so badly the girls had to dispose of any loose pieces, were hidden behind tapestries. The Stanleys were too poor to afford more. Dermot’s hope, however faint, was that the witchfinder might be their saviour and see the absurdity of the whole business.

The night was come to them now, and Dermot was again tasked with perverting another creature for Lord Stanley’s pleasure. In a group of supposedly religious men, everyone thought themselves superior to their mystical creature, distorting nature into something more fantastical.

‘Having a good go at that dough?’ Béchard said, lingering at the edge of the kitchen and stepping forward only to shout an instruction. ‘God help the woman that gets into your sorry bed. Her breasts and arse will be redder than the meat upon the table.’

Dermot lowered his head and fondled the dough as he pleased. No matter the method, there was always some tacit instruction that eluded him. Stephen stood by his side, twisting bits of breadcrumbs and veal between his fingers with an ignorance Dermot envied and despised. It was something he often pondered in silence, the labour that saw a creature torn from the womb to fit neatly upon a plate. An abuse done to a female, that she might create bones and flesh only for the unknowable soul to become nothing but shit.

‘It needs no more of that, Dermot. Don’t you see Stephen holding his hands out to you so we can begin filling up the pie? By God, where are you? Certainly not in my kitchen!’ Béchard said.

Dermot grabbed the offering and fit it into the pie, its crust nothing more than bread and milk so that mother and child were joined in man’s sorry parody. He quietly thanked Stephen for passing the plate of mushrooms before chucking them unceremoniously into the mix.

‘No!’ Béchard cried. ‘This is to be eaten by a great family who employ you in spite of all reason. What of Lord Robert, tolerating you for his hunting trip? You should be honoured he even deigned to look at you! Have you no respect? Do you think yourself better than us because you were in his company? William, come and do the rest. Dermot, off to the side, and if you keep this up, I will be writing a letter of complaint.’

Will, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since his encounter with Robert, came to stand beside them. His look wassanguine as he grabbed the pheasant’s innards, hands wet with blood, and Dermot thought him sluggish and uneasy.

‘Do you have nothing to say about this, William?’ Béchard asked.

Will contemplated the table, which no doubt in Béchard’s love for him was read as studious rather than arrogant. ‘Dermot does everything to a purpose,’ he said slowly.

‘Is there some malady going around? I don’t believe I’ve heard you laugh as of late. Not one of the maids spurning you, is it?’ Béchard said, coming to the table himself. Such was the rarity of this that Dermot took a few careful steps back.

Fixing his precious box on the table and taking the key from his pocket, Béchard turned the lock until it came undone and the flavourings were revealed. ‘You know I do not often allow this. Will, would you scatter them on the pie?’

Will looked at Béchard from underneath the lashes that so captivated Robert. He grasped a little from each compartment, a combination unknown to Dermot, and scattered them carefully amongst the great miasma of pastry.

‘Excellent! There’s no need to mope around like Dermot, man doesn’t know herbs from his own behind,’ Béchard said. ‘Now just a smidge…’ he murmured, unwilling to assign this great task to Will. He dipped his fingers into the spice so one granule might find its way into someone’s stomach. ‘William, why don’t you do it again but in reverse?’

Taking the pheasant guts in hand and coating himself in yet more blood, Will assented, pressing them into the mix one atop the other, then scattered the mushrooms above as if arranging a display in a museum. He reached over for the gravy and dashed it between the bits of flesh and earth.

‘And that is how you do it, without me even reminding him. And Dermot, the dolt, hasn’t even bothered to roll the dough,’ Béchard said.