Page 19 of Burying Venus

‘Stop, please!’ Stephen said, possessing none of that understanding.

‘Fine, were it you, and for all I know that was your intention. Enough of playing at Aubrey, come to fancy a bigger man, had you?’ Will laughed. He gave Stephen a hard shove and sent him into the wall. He’d managed to enthral them with that same sweetness he protested against, rendering everyone besotted and stupid.

‘Me?’ Dermot returned, paying Stephen’s pleas no mind. ‘Everything you’ve had is because of your looks. I’d wager you seduced the man who got you into service. All the maids do your bidding, Mrs Aisling’s kind to you, and for all I know Béchard’s heart seizes when you bat your eyes at him too. From the way you’re brushing Robert’s boots, I’d say you fancy giving them the same licking as you do with his prick.’

There was no great battle of wits to be had. Will screamed and flew at him with his fists. A better man might’ve grabbed him around the waist and pulled that frantic tempest into a kiss, but Dermot was assuredly not Robert Stanley. He swerved back so sharply he nearly escaped time itself, instinctively raising his foot a few inches off the ground and causing Will to trip, his head striking the stone with a thump.

Needles prickling his skin, Dermot threw himself down next to Will, Stephen having come to his aid also. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I really didn’t mean to do it. You came at me!’ Hand having gone to Will’s back, he inched away when Will jerked up. ‘I only wanted to mend things with you. Please, are you fine?’

‘Dermot!’ Will screamed. ‘You wretch, you meant to do it! Just because you’re the bigger man, you think you can lord over me. Go about your schemes, mutter under your breath, leave the rest of us to clean up your damnable mess. Béchard’s right about you, he really is.’

‘Is this about what Dermot put in the food?’ Stephen said immediately.

Will seemed not to hear this, so often did they ignore Stephen, but his expression changed with realisation. Blue eyes gleaming, he looked to his victim as if they were the closest of confidants. ‘What was that?’

‘No!’ Dermot cried, too late.

‘When the bishop came, I saw Dermot putting some sort of strange water in the food. I remember it because it smelt funny,’ Stephen said, blithely unaware of what he said.

Contrary to Stephen’s want of friendship, Will turned on Dermot immediately. Down as they were, he crawled forward until their faces were pressed against each other, grinding his teeth. ‘Don’t,’ he said, drawing closer. If Béchard came to check their progress, he’d think them down on the floor in some sort of embrace. ‘You tried to poison them.’

‘No, not at all!’ Dermot said. ‘That was not my intention. I did not do it! We’ve been friends for so long, how could you believe him?’

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ Will said. His breath cooled Dermot’s flustered cheeks.

‘Believe me!’ Dermot said, taking his friend’s hands in his own. ‘I did not poison anyone.’

Sensing Dermot’s hot flesh against him, Will flinched and pulled away, which Dermot allowed. While having Will beneath him had once been an eager fantasy, he hadn’t entertained the idea for some time. It was clear his feelings weren’t returned.

Saying nothing, Will crawled back to Robert’s boots with a sniff. His cloth swept over the leather with practised precision. Reluctantly, Dermot returned to Tristan’s boots as well, examining them for a moment and deeming them fit enough for the man.

Dermot got to his feet and left the two of them alone. Béchard was a veritable devil, and Will may well have been the incubus whispering in his ear. If Will were to suggest it, Béchard would believe it, and Dermot would swiftly be hanged in the town square to the cheers of mainlanders and natives alike.

‘Ah, Dermot, where is William? Don’t tell me you were the first to finish cleaning?’ Béchard said, eyeing him from above a fine selection of knives. ‘Sure you did a thorough job, are you?’

Doing his best to remain steady, Dermot nodded and went to where the pie sat, waiting for orders.

‘I had wanted William to do it but we’re bloody short of time. Lord Stanley hasn’t told me when the men are to arrive and, as a chef, prudence is prized over indecision. The two of us can do it, your thick head be damned,’ Béchard said. He grabbed the dismembered corpse of some pheasant, already neatly torn apart. ‘Well, Dermot, there are holes in the pie to fit the head and wings. Hurry up, would you?’

With Béchard observing, Dermot’s fingers curled around the creature’s head. Its eyes were still open, black gaze unknowable. He urged it almost tenderly into the pie, making Béchard curse and grab the wings himself, hurling them inside with a great crunch while Dermot flinched.

‘By God, William! Where were you, my boy? Don’t you know I’ve had this great bastard near ruin my pie?’ Béchard said, signalling Will over. ‘The two of you best take things up now. I’m off to check the progress of our visitors.’

Dermot stood off to the side. He needn’t have been there at all. He was locked in a nightmare; childhood come runningback to him. It was there shots sounded overhead in the cottage where he resided with his mother, a settlement not too far from town. Men from the mainland came like devils sent to torment the living, having arrived to hunt the natural animals that lived in the forest nearby, intent on bullying local girls before they bloodied the sky. In his child’s recollection, hundreds of pheasants came down on them like rain, a punishment from God. Corpses littered modest gardens villagers kept for vegetable growing, and in his naivety he had been intent on saving every animal still living, bullet through the heart or no. In this task he always failed, coming with hands bloody into the arms of his mother. She could not rightly have said a word to these men. One complaint would’ve lit a thousand torches, caused their women undue suffering, and led to more violence between their peoples. It had been her only solution to keep him inside after an incident too many.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Will said, and this alone tore Dermot from a fantasy in which he, now a grown man, was chopping off a hunter’s head with the intent of slinging it on a pole.

‘What was that, William?’ Béchard called, near out the door.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Will repeated. Firm but with eyes downcast.

Béchard came back in with none of the rage that would’ve ensued had Dermot expressed such a thought. ‘Why not? It’s not that sorry bastard, is it?’ he said, gesturing to where Dermot stood casting a shadow over the pie.

‘No,’ Will said. ‘I don’t want to go. I can’t. Please, let Stephen go. I won’t.’

‘Want, can’t, won’t? These words I’d expect from Dermot, never you, William! He’s not gotten you into the herbs he’s been chewing, has he? I swear I’ll rattle his brains for it. They’re a few dishes, not a thing you can’t carry!’ Béchard shouted.

‘I’ll go,’ Stephen said, happily enough, until one stern look from Béchard forbade whatever he was to say next.