Page 27 of Burying Venus
‘She goes quicker than the so-called witchfinder. But then, he looked more maid than she!’ one of the guards shouted. He could not tell which one, and soon enough their cackling was smothered by the descent.
‘Are you quite alright there, Dermot? You are going down rather slowly,’ Amy said.
Huffing a little, Dermot rushed away quicker than she could follow. He deserved a few extra pence for this great undertaking but knew Robert would never deign give it, heaping tasks on him as he did. He ran his hand along stone and felt its sharp edge, breath halting as he heard Thorne in the distance, melodic and sweet.
‘Where are we going?’ Amy said. It was she who urged him hurry, now she near clung to him in the dark.
Dermot walked away, ignoring her. There was a certain humidity to the dungeon that disturbed him, and he wondered if those in warmer climates enjoyed it, the sun on their heads as they endured none of the miseries of an island. A skeletal man murmured to him as he passed, and Dermot said nothing.
Shrieks not unlike a banshee struck him then, and Amy fell into his back when he wavered. Robert’s shadow came into view, blackening their path, and still cries rendered hoarse and brittle from old age echoed in Dermot’s mind.
‘She is lucky her nephew is so plain,’ Robert said, smiling as though they shared the same joke. He pushed the boy forward, and such was his strength that the wretch tumbled down, knees striking the stone with a meek whine.
‘No!’ shrilled the aunt.
It was then Dermot saw her. She could not lunge forward to protect her nephew, bound to the wall with her wrists chained in such a way they might snap with the slightest movement. Her skin was no longer white, clouded by veins of blue and green. She looked ready to collapse, suspended just high enough to keep her from standing, mouth fixed in a permanent cry. She screamed again and writhed as her nephew’s collar was yanked, Robert dragging him out of sight.
‘Is this the girl?’ Weston shouted.
Struck by the whole scene, Dermot said, ‘Who else would she be?’
Weston pursed his lips and glared at him, having the gall to tut like a schoolmaster.
Dermot made no reply as he led Amy in, eyeing Thorne all the while. Weston could not stop him undressing his partner with a mere glance, and he wanted the bastard to feel the weight of hislust. They were, after all, petty torturers, and any discomfort he could give them was a pleasure.
‘What’s he doing with my little boy?’ the woman cried. Just then, Robert strolled back into the room.
‘Nothing, I assure you. Merely chaining him up, as a man must with witches such as yourselves,’ Robert said. That he went so far as to string the boy up himself was a surprise, but on reflection he must have got some joy from it.
‘Quite impressive, Lord Robert,’ Weston said, lowering his head in a respectful nod. ‘I have never before seen a man of your station take such an interest in the finding of witches. It is most becoming.’
‘Indeed?’ Robert said. He walked over to the woman, glanced at the tools laid neatly on the table, and turned to Thorne. ‘I suppose you are in want of more like myself, now having to contend with those select gentlemen.’
Thorne’s hands wound through his locks at once, saying nothing, looking as if he were being hanged himself. His eyes, green as a field on a rare summer’s day and flecked with gold, fixed on nothing in particular. Struck dumb, Dermot licked his lips.
‘The actual finding is to begin,’ Weston boomed.
‘Miss…?’ Thorne trailed off. He stepped forward and clutched at the edge of the table, angling himself forward so the tools were obscured.
Dermot felt Amy tug at his sleeve yet could offer no assistance. Certainly no one ever came to his aid.
‘Amy Ward,’ Amy said eventually, coming to stand at Dermot’s side.
‘Miss Ward, come, take this. I will explain the procedure thoroughly to you as I have done with other women. You need not worry.’ The witchfinder’s left hand surged forward while his right gripped the table, nails digging deep as if to leavepermanent marks. His hands trembled as he gave the weapon, more needle than knife, to Amy.
‘Now,’ Thorne began, ‘the purpose is to prick the mark. It is an indomitable thing impenetrable by weapon.’ Dermot stood enrapt, senseless but for the needle still twirling in Amy’s fingers that provided but some lucidity. ‘It is essential that you hold it steady as not to cause unnecessary pain. And prick but the moles, not the woman’s actual skin, with a firm hand. The more precise you are, the sooner the thing can end.’
‘There is no bloody mark! You’ve got your beliefs, I’ve got mine,’ the woman cried out.
Robert’s boots thundered against stone as he made his way across the room and slapped her. The sound reverberated in the dank quiet of the dungeon. Even Thorne jumped at it, faltering back to Weston’s side with one pretty hand against his face.
‘You cannot,’ Thorne murmured, safely nestled against the wall. ‘That is an act of torture. We are men of faith, it is strictly forbidden…’
Dermot watched Robert’s lips quirk, obscured though they were in darkness. He had, it seemed, taken great pleasure in the brief humiliation of an elderly woman. He bowed his head to Thorne, though his eyes flitted knowingly between him and Weston. ‘My apologies. It is just that I cannot bear any reference to these people’s ideas. Talk of goblins, faeries! It is irreligious. Idolatry, if you will, Mr Thorne.’ He stepped back. ‘Miss Ward, I do not have all night. There are missives I must pen when I return to my chamber.’
Amy quivered before the shadowy figures, the needle luminous under torchlight. She did not move, and Thorne was forced to break away from Weston’s grip to meet her.
‘Miss Ward, please, this is not needless cruelty. You are performing an act of the almighty.’ He gestured to the woman so Dermot again noted the elegance of his fingers, shocking in theirpallor, long like that of a pianist. He was so struck by this as to miss the next part of his sentence in its entirety. Thorne’s voice became little more than a sweet hymn that turned the mind to paste.