Page 31 of Burying Venus

His head heated as though suspended just inches from a fire, capillaries bursting until he knew nothing but the steady thrumming of blood. He soldiered on through a cacophony of laughter and filthy quips. Will knew, but Dermot had told no one else. Either his old friend’s tongue had grown loose, or the men had guessed it.

‘Dermot!’ Amy called, rushing to his side. Her cheeks flushed prettily. ‘Be careful with him.’

Certain he looked the part of a demon, Dermot flinched. ‘It is not true,’ he said.

‘No! I meant only… you know who he is? Has Will told you, else Robert mentioned it?’

‘Who he is?’ Dermot echoed. Blearily, he stared down at Thorne, observing only the long eyelashes that spoke of delicate beauty, the darkness he so admired in Aubrey with none of the sting.

‘You men,’ Amy said. ‘Noelle says you live in another world. The witchfinder… that is, you shouldn’t feel safe around him just because you’re a man. You must know men have been hanged too. And he doesn’t stop even at men of the church. He’ll accuse anyone so long as it lines his pockets.’

Unwittingly, Dermot gripped Thorne’s thigh, well-bitten nails grazing skin. He stood idly as Amy leaned towards him, close as propriety would allow, and murmured a name into his ear.

Staggering backwards as though struck, Dermot opened his mouth to reply but could say nothing. Nodding wordlessly to her, he moved as quickly as he was able until he reached the room belonging to their guests. Fumbling a little with Thorneclutched against him like a bride, Dermot turned the handle, managing to cradle the witchfinder to his knee as he did so. Walking into the room, eager reveries gone from him like a brief summer, he threw the man onto the bed and, turning to leave, rushed back to him upon remembering his dishevelled state. Running stray curls through his fingers until they lay unmatted on the pillow, he took care to fix Thorne’s clothes into a presentable state. A chill ran through him as he cursed. He wished only to lay hands on that porcelain neck until it lay red with welts, paralysed as Thorne squirmed beneath him. Breathless with disbelief, Dermot made a run for the door. The guardsmen’s voices rang in his ears, accusations languishing in the air. They would go unsubstantiated. His own mother had been named, now he learnt the tempter he’d dreamt of bedding was a practised murderer of man and woman both. Cold stone pressed against his neck as he stood against the wall. He had but one thought; to get rid of the bastard before the stool was kicked out from under him too.

Chapter Eight

Hardly a few days had passed before he was accosted by Robert, his hands deep in chicken entrails. He blearily watched as Béchard was led out and Robert took his place at Dermot’s side, promptly informing him that he had been chosen to swim the witch boy in the harbour. Dermot had thought the boy free after his aunt’s confession, but evidently men better educated than he had decided there should be a trial. He took courage, at least, in the thought that his countrymen would finally witness the madness brewing within. Surely, he reasoned as he led the boy outside the castle gates, riots could not be far off. Robert and Tristan flanked him, each striding at his side like a pair of choice concubines.

‘Fine weather,’ Robert said.

The boy had been a spitfire as he was dragged from the dungeon. His aunt cried out meekly, fast weakening under their harsh treatment. It had been one matter carrying Thorne in his arms, but the boy, squirming and crying for his aunt, near knocked him down the stairs. When he came out and the two guardsmen greeted him, he thought them relatively impressed, for they did not laugh or joke about his supposed tryst with Thorne. That such a foul rumour was hot on the tongues of servants should’ve been enough to drown him instead, but Robert, having at least heard them, seemed amused.

As soon as they came into the blistering wind, the boy became docile and quiet. A hundred or so spectators had busied themselves finding a spot, and now they all convened outside the castle. The pavement was overtaken by a veritable mob who dared only whisper as Robert and Tristan walked past. Some ofthe young women, likely daughters of bankers and merchants, murmured greetings to them. The three of them paraded to the tune of this sorry affair, Dermot’s face red with shame.

It was Thorne who steadied him, the boy a mere weight against his chest. The witchfinder stood peering over the harbour, near teetering off the earth into the sea. His manner of dress, juxtaposed with the fine furs of the Stanley brothers and the citizens in their Sunday best, served only to interest the spectators. People whispered his true identity, shrouded in black as he was, pretty curls tied back and broad-brimmed hat obscuring his face. That such a beauty could be hidden so absolutely was a great tragedy, even if the man in question was so unashamedly evil.

Weston stood apart from his companion, much taken by the onlookers. Occasionally he tipped his hat at a young woman, eyes flitting to his oblivious partner until he finally observed Dermot. ‘I have the rope here. I do hope the sorry fool hasn’t given you much trouble, my good man,’ he said.

Being addressed so brazenly in front of the crowd shamed him. The spectators, enrapt by Robert and Tristan, now set their eyes on him. Grumbling a little, he positioned the boy above the harbour, fervently hoping the wretch wasn’t in the mind to throw them both in.

‘It is a nice day, is it not, Lord Robert? Heaven smiles on us,’ Weston remarked, gesturing stupidly at the sky as if it had not been observed until that very moment.

‘Indeed,’ Robert said. ‘I said so just as we came out.’

That they were engaging in small talk disturbed Dermot the most. The boy was to be drowned, perhaps, or else paraded through the street like a triumph.

‘Put the colt down! Let’s get to the tying!’ Tristan shouted.

Dermot looked desperately to the crowd, waiting for some reaction, but they stared back as if drunk on faerie concoctionthemselves. He could not make sense of it. They were so easily ruled, determined not to challenge merely on account of their blood. Now they were to be hunted, and man stood dumber than any animal at slaughter.

Racked with horror and disdain for himself, Dermot threw the boy down as spectators gasped. But their cries were exultant rather than shocked, some urging him to do the boy some hurt. Dermot could only look down, eyes trained on stone rather than the light that so burnt his eyes.

‘I have much experience here,’ Weston said, hurling the rope about like a lunatic. He crawled to the boy and tied fingers to toes, crisscrossing them like the dolls village girls made, though such folly would be deemed naught but witchcraft now.

‘No,’ Robert said sharply, causing Dermot to turn and see his arm outstretched, barring Tristan from taking a more active role.

The boy had cloth shoved into his mouth to prevent any screaming. Dermot could not look away. That man’s body could be twisted as to appear so inhuman and grotesque was a shock even to him.

‘He is ready to go in, Lord Robert,’ Weston said, still sat on the ground.

Dermot stood shaking. His bowels became soft and moveable, the excretion pressing into him and desperate to pass.

‘Did you hear the witchfinder, my boy? Throw him in as you’ve been taught. Mind not to drop him,’ Robert said. He guffawed, still unable to manage a laugh. ‘I doubt any of us will be going in after him.’

Hands desperately going to his eyes, Dermot rubbed them as if to mutilate. True enough, Weston had shown him the steps as gentlemanly as the subject permitted, yet still he foresaw some tragedy. His fingers could loosen. The boy would tumble away then, drowning in the harbour, never to be brought up again.

‘Are you gone deaf?’ Tristan shouted.