Page 32 of Burying Venus

‘No… I…’ Dermot said. Bitter tears stung his eyes. The crowd, dumb as they were, started chanting.

Thorne turned towards him then. Those awful eyes, too yellow to be a natural green, set on him like an incubus. Innocuously, Dermot thought at first, the man ran his tongue across well-formed lips. A faint smile emerged; the evil eye brought to life.

Dermot fancied even he was immune to such an obvious attempt at seduction. Shuddering, and all too aware of the crowd’s attention, he grabbed the boy as the cheers reached their crescendo. Weston came to his aid, taking the boy’s back while Dermot took the legs. Their witch lay prone, eyes tightly shut and skin whiter than Dermot had thought possible.

‘You’re a strong man,’ Weston said.

He was compelled to act with Thorne staring at him. His legs quaked as he struggled to resist, all the while sensing that something was deeply awry. His body had never before thrummed with the urge to move while his mind urged stillness; such was the power of Thorne’s gaze, strange and unnatural. He could think only that if he were not made to do it, Will or Stephen would have been forced to take his place.

The rope chafed his hands as he ground his teeth. Glancing around, he saw Robert watching with Tristan at his side, the second Stanley son near bouncing on his heels. Weston and Thorne stood nearby, both eyeing him. As soon as Thorne noticed he was being watched, he leaned towards Weston, no doubt whispering venom into the man’s ear. Dermot wondered when they would realise his mother was among the accused.

Stuck in indecision, the boy soon to be drawn out as a corpse, Dermot grasped the rope and unceremoniously flung him in. The women cheered the loudest, he noticed, shrill and rapturous.

The boy hit the water hard, shouting before he was submerged. It was likely his first time seeing the ocean. Peasant boys stuck in rural villages did not go swimming. They could not spare the time, marionetted between school and the fields. This had changed recently, owing to Lord Stanley’s insistence that no man had the right to pass property to his son. Thus they were robbed of their birthright, their means of income, and at last their lives.

‘Watch him squirm!’ Tristan said, much to the delight of spectators. Gentlemen dirtied their shoes looking over the harbour as women lifted their skirts, hollering to one another. A debate soon began on whether the boy was floating or drowned.

Heart surging in his chest, Dermot realised the boy was gone too far and would soon suffocate. He unthinkingly wound the rope, allowing him a moment to breathe.

‘He floats,’ Thorne murmured.

Weston reeled back from where he stood and gave a great shout. ‘He floats! My companion, the esteemed and famous witchfinder, says it himself! The boy is a witch!’

Dermot near dropped the rope in what would’ve been a watery execution, simpler than what was to come. The boy had not floated. He, the man responsible for holding the thing, raised the rope to permit him a breath of air. Were all witches condemned thus, he wondered, being made martyrs on account of simple mercy or mistake.

Weston tapped on his shoulder as the crowd shrilled. ‘He may come up now,’ he said. Dermot’s hands flexed on instinct.

‘Do you think him simple?’ Tristan asked. He spoke with the loutish arrogance of a man never taught to be quiet.

‘No, indeed. Bring the little witch up, Dermot,’ Robert said. His attention was caught by the young women, and he deigned to smile at some of the prettier ones as he surveyed them. ‘He is simply docile. A fine trait in a foreigner.’

All too aware it was he the boy depended on, Dermot pulled at the rope. Groaning under the weight, he cast their captive to the stones without a word. Though the weather was mild, his skin burned, and sweat poured from him like water from the boy. His hands were great lines of white and red, gone into welts. The rest of them stood unscathed; it was he who bore the brunt of their crime.

‘I hope court is set up,’ Thorne said, whispering. So timid was he, this witchfinder who made men do his bidding, and what was that but a sorcerer.

‘It is, I expect. But first, I’ve arranged a luncheon outside the castle for us to enjoy,’ Robert said. He set off then, assuming they would follow. Women cried out as he passed, and though he waved politely, it only made them more amorous. Tristan walked at his side, braid bouncing, making Dermot’s fists curl with want of dominion.

As soon as he observed the guardsmen, the same men who mocked him for carrying Thorne, Dermot raced to walk behind Robert. Weston and Thorne lingered off to the side, whispering to one another.

‘Lord Robert!’ the guards called in unison, bowing so low Dermot wanted nothing more than to snap them in half.

‘The boy to court, lads,’ Robert said.

‘I want to see him hang now,’ Tristan called, boundless in exuberance. Great mat of hair beating against his back as he moved, Dermot thought what it would be like to take him, to watch that hair move in tandem with his cock. What was there to be done with a young man of such vigour but make him docile; a fantasy to warm at night.

As soon as they went in and Dermot saw the gardens transformed, he marvelled at Béchard’s keeping it from him. Tables were set out, and not once had he been summoned to help. Will and Stephen must’ve managed it themselves. He hadno great love for his position but their secrecy rattled him. Every day he endured tyranny at Béchard’s hands, and now he was struck from the duty roster as simple as that.

Everything but the utensils, fine silver doubtless kept for generations, made the Stanleys’ lack of funds obvious. Dermot stood amazed as he spied Lord Stanley, red wine dribbling from his mouth as he stared into the distance, and thought Weston and Thorne did a fine job at affecting not to notice.

‘A brief interlude for us all, my friends,’ Robert said, sitting next to his father. He inclined his head towards Dermot as if observing the shrubbery. ‘If you could go to the kitchen, my boy, and ask William to bring out the food.’

Nodding his submission, Dermot marched away with purpose. Being presided over by Béchard was a terror, and though he took no pleasure in Robert’s goodwill, it was the insult done to the chef that warmed him most.

Observing the gardens as he fled, Dermot marvelled Robert brought the witchfinders there at all. It was but a passageway around the castle, ruined since Lady Stanley died, none of the men much interested in keeping it. Moss grew everywhere, fit to engulf the castle with negligence. He was glad when he came to the courtyard at last.

‘You!’ Béchard hissed, Dermot having flung the door open to stunned silence. ‘You’ve been absent for so long, I’d forgotten your blasted face. Ugly bugger.’

Dermot said, ‘Robert wants Will to serve the food.’