Page 20 of Burying Venus
‘No, you will not! Damn it all. Men coming over from the mainland, decorated professionals. I will not have fucking Stephen bring the food up. Why, William?! I myself will go, and Dermot as well,’ Béchard said, rushing to grab the pie, his most prized possession since that morning. ‘I may as well be in hell,’ he said, already going upstairs.
Dermot pursed his lips and took the next dish. It was plain vegetables, his preference, which at least wouldn’t send him into another terror.
‘Do you need anything?’ Stephen said as Dermot was going up.
‘Fuck off,’ Will hissed. ‘I’m going in Béchard’s place to check on our visitors.’ He stomped away like a child in the midst of a tantrum.
Not the yielding young man of Robert’s imaginings, that was for sure, nor his own. Following Béchard upstairs with a grimace and a practised walk, he feared the chef would stumble and fall, sending them both spiralling downstairs. To Dermot’s recollection, Béchard had never made the trip.
‘Can’t understand why they didn’t have it in this room,’ Béchard said, when they were safely up. With its absurd tapestries and ancient décor, the dining room of course appealed to the fool.
‘If there’s anyone in there, stay quiet. Do not say an absolute fucking word,’ Béchard grumbled, hurrying them through the halls, sparse and lined with thousands of stones. ‘I had hoped to see the bloody fellow. Witchfinder! What a profession. I dare say I’d make a good one.’
That was undeniable. After every misery done to him in the kitchen, Dermot easily envisioned Béchard setting hundreds of souls alight.
‘Oh! Lord Robert. I hadn’t expected…’ Béchard said, strong voice diminishing so he could’ve been a mere scullion himself.
‘No, indeed. Quite alright. And you have brought Dermot as well. It saves one of my men the trip down,’ Robert said. He cast his dark eyes over them like Medusa, leaving them stupefied. ‘Wherever is William?’
‘William?’ Béchard echoed. Dermot had the pleasure of watching him from the corner of his eye. His mouth slid open like one of the fish he enjoyed decapitating, gawping stupidly.
‘Yes, William. I have as of late enjoyed the pleasure of his company. Where is he?’ Robert asked. He noticed the monstrosity in Béchard’s hands and smiled.
‘William is not here. I have sent him on an errand. Actually, he is my finest worker. I can’t often spare him,’ Béchard said. Dermot did not know if he discerned Robert’s true intent, the suggestiveness in his voice, but his body thrilled at seeing his tormentor so beaten.
‘You must spare him, for I certainly will not,’ Robert said.
That struck Béchard like a firm punch to the jaw. Fingers gripping the dish, he hesitated before finally laying the pie at the centre of the table. His crude features and bald head made a mass of wrinkles, appearing uglier than Dermot had ever seen. ‘I will leave Dermot with you, whatever you want with him.’
Dermot set down his platter, a burgeoning respect for Robert afflicting him.
‘It is a shame, my boy. I know you aided us in capturing the pair, and in fact I do have use for you tonight, but a man has certain needs. I hoped to sate them before dinner,’ Robert said.
Therein lay the answer to Will’s offence. No wonder Dermot’s teasing offended him, he’d likely been doing precisely that since Robert was poisoned.
‘My lord?’ Dermot said, fairly nauseous.
‘I had no time to mention it earlier. As you were there, I find it imperative you describe some of what you saw to my guest, the esteemed witchfinder. I cannot be expected to give this lengthy account while enjoying my dinner,’ Robert said.
‘As you say, Lord Robert,’ Dermot said. He was horrified at not relieving himself beforehand, bowels churning as they were. The prospect of meeting the witchfinder was to him hellish, as was any time spent in the company of Robert or Tristan. He would be the only local in attendance, excepting those being discussed who were securely chained in the dungeon.
Robert looked as if he were about to say more but Tristan chose that moment to rush in. ‘He’s here! The carriage is coming in now,’ he hissed, sparing them but a moment before he again sprinted away. His hair was neater than Dermot ever recalled seeing, likely the work of some poor maid. It seemed the prospect of a witchfinder excited him more than every ambassador, clergyman, and dignitary they’d hosted.
‘Well, we’d best be getting on,’ Robert said. He stepped out of the dining room. Dermot followed him so far as the masters’ staircase, which no servant was permitted to use.
‘Lord Robert,’ Dermot said. ‘Am I to go with you, or will you call me into the dining room to give the account?’
Robert turned to him with a smile. ‘No, indeed. Follow me. I want you by my side.’
At this strange declaration, Dermot was both horrified and intrigued. There was nothing to prompt Robert to treat him so well, unless he was so deranged as to actually imagine him bedding Aubrey. It was, he thought, a ruse, though to what purpose he couldn’t guess. Cheeks hot with shame, he lingered behind Robert like a woman. All men were equal, he knew, they were just not born so.
Chapter Six
It was as if he had died and descended to hell. The family crowded the courtyard, leaving him no room to escape, surrounded as he was. Hearing the witchfinder’s prattle, the gentleman being both a mainlander and a southerner, made him want to hide in Béchard’s storage room and never come out again. Every man in attendance was a foreigner, and it grated.
‘This gale! Have you ever experienced anything like it? I can hardly see! How is a man supposed to conduct business, his hair blowing onto his face?’ the fop cried, curtained by his own billowing locks.
To Dermot’s great surprise, the witchfinder had reason for his vanity. A brunette with luscious hair and bouncing curls that would’ve been deemed artificial on a woman, so long as to reach his waist. He pulled those same strands with long, practised fingers, every inch of him waifish, though he was a tall man. Having parted his hair, Dermot saw his long, thin face, characterised by high cheekbones and well-defined, pouting lips. Appreciatively, Dermot committed every inch of him to memory for later until he was met by the witchfinder’s piercing golden eyes. He shied away, disturbed.