Page 37 of Burying Venus

‘Lord Aubrey, if you would come to me,’ Corrin said.

Such an interrogation would be no good for a delicate like Aubrey, who walked as though he too was sentenced to hang. Again that same grittiness returned to Dermot’s eyes, blackening his vision as Aubrey came into view.

‘Now, Lord Aubrey, I am led to believe you witnessed the entire affair,’ Corrin said.

Aubrey veiled his eyes behind curls. Murmuring a response Dermot couldn’t hear, he wrapped his arms around himself and said nothing more.

‘And does your memory corroborate with your brother’s? That the boy deliberately spooked your horses, spitting curses at youwith his aunt?’ Corrin said, simplifying the matter completely. It was as if a mythos was created in less than a minute.

Aubrey stuttered, setting his black eyes on Dermot. Even this was too much, making Dermot flinch back as his insides lit in searing agony.

‘I do not know,’ Aubrey said.

The crowd gasped, some holding on to companions as their bodies thrilled at the drama.

‘How can that be? Were you not there, did the events not transpire as Lord Robert said?’ Corrin blustered, becoming more agitated with each word. ‘Do you challenge his account?’

‘Whatever is the matter with you, have you taken ill?’ Amy whispered, tapping at Dermot’s shoulder as he shuddered.

‘I do not know!’ Aubrey shouted, raking fingers over skin as if to ruin himself. White tore into red as he clawed, blood beading at the surface. ‘For God’s sake, stop this!’

While to Dermot this was an unexpected protest, Thorne would see it through glass, distorted and grotesque. It would be decried as hysteria won through possession or witchcraft.

‘My word,’ Weston whispered. ‘Did Lord Robert not say his brother was prone to such behaviour? Whyever is he at trial, should he not be locked away?’

‘Under lock and key, certainly, but then…’ Thorne said, tilting his head so his curls swept against Dermot’s shoulder. Immediately the scent of lilies hit, heady like a rainy day in the garden. Dermot closed his eyes, suffocated by it.

Corrin, evidently not having expected to depart from the script he’d gone over with Robert, signalled to the judge. ‘Your Honour, something is amiss with Lord Aubrey.’

The crowd tittered amongst themselves, each one vying for the more intriguing tale. Whispers became debates, which soon devolved into shouting. Each cry rang harder than the last, that of liar, traitor, lunatic, witch.

‘Quiet,’ hissed a voice from above. Dermot did not see the judge move his lips.

‘My brothers beat the boy, the woman only cursed in her agony. They are not witches!’ Aubrey cried. With each passing moment, he became more like a desperate, yowling animal, utterly unlike Robert, who had come to them like a prince.

‘Silence!’ the prosecuting magistrate shouted, evidently none too interested in any dissenting accounts.

‘Your Honour,’ Thorne said, standing with a flourish. ‘If I may?’

‘What?’ Weston said, forgoing all politeness. ‘No, you mustn’t, sit down,’ he pleaded, though everyone would have heard.

The judge said nothing as Thorne strode out into the courtroom.

‘God spare us,’ Weston said. Such was the consequence of desire, that two young men like Thorne and Corrin could climb to the highest echelons of society through appearance alone.

‘I have participated in many witch trials,’ Thorne said, drawing a finger across the witness box. It being like a caress, Dermot’s blood simmered. ‘I have seen many a witch,’ he went on, speaking with great fervour but softness of voice. ‘This, the raking of hands across the face, the sudden stuttering, are symptoms of maleficarum. That is, to be clear, unequivocal evidence that great evil has reached in and sought to harm the family most grievously.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Corrin said. Far from the boyish confidence of before, he stood dumbfounded. The placid smile he’d worn as he played interrogator with Robert was nowhere to be found. He looked about for help but no one came to his aid.

‘He is bewitched,’ Thorne declared. With one flick of those luxurious, impossible curls, he walked to the judge, teasing his fingers across the man’s desk. ‘Lord Aubrey must be restrained,locked away. The hysteria renders him little better than an invalid. Down to his very veins, he is nothing more than a witch.’

‘Dear God!’ Amy said.

The crowd broke into raucous cries, startling even Robert. They were not the frightened little noises lords fantasied about, but exulting and powerful, young women screaming that witches had come to hex them all.

‘Mr Thorne,’ the judge managed, head going insensibly to the side. ‘Men, restrain that boy.’

‘No!’ Aubrey cried. ‘I do not lie. Please, good people, they are not witches!’