Page 38 of Burying Venus

This impassioned display served only to turn the crowd further against him. What could it be, they murmured to one another, but witchcraft. The nobility did not shout so, they appeared like statues to the people, idols to be worshipped, showing their anger only in private.

Men who had so far done nothing but stand by the door rushed forward, pushing Aubrey to his knees. Dermot’s vision blackened, eyes stinging, but he could not avert them fast enough to miss one bastard hauling Aubrey over his shoulder. The crowd cheered as their lord was carried to the edge of the courtroom and again thrown to his knees, a rope securing his hands with a sharp tug.

‘No,’ Dermot murmured, agonising as he imagined even a mere bruise on that skin. He fixed his head firmly into his hands, pulling back when he realised that these fools might take him for a witch.

Robert hit Tristan hard on the leg when he stumbled forward to intervene, forcing him back down. Dermot watched in disbelief as Tristan shivered, lips tremulous, as if natural affection for his youngest brother momentarily broke the spell. And while Robert sat smiling beside him, Tristan’s hands clutched the side of his chair in obvious pain.

Thorne’s golden eyes swept the courtroom.

‘Witch,’ Dermot muttered, much disturbed by this growing suspicion.

‘How can it be?’ Amy asked, ignorant. ‘Aubrey is the sweetest boy. He’s never troubled anyone. A witch!’

Aubrey was not the witch. Pulling his hair back, Thorne abandoned the old fool he’d been playing with in favour of the centre of the courtroom. Without his cloak, his clothes clung to him attractively, near causing Dermot to forget the idea he’d had but moments before. That Weston, so-called witchfinder, had hanged dozens of women and made the true sorcerer his pet.

‘It does not please me to apprehend Lord Aubrey. But let this be a lesson, no one is safe from a witch’s wiles,’ Thorne said, banishing Corrin to the periphery. Again he fixed his golden, unnatural eyes on everyone in attendance before finally coming to the little bench. ‘Dermot. Come here.’

Dermot edged backwards. Even as the crowd tittered, he did not move until Amy slapped his arm.

‘Do you not know you have been called?’ Amy said, hitting him again.

Gritting his teeth, Dermot stood and walked as steadily as he was able. The shame of the ordeal turned his face hot, heating it so thoroughly as to leave the rest of him dissonant in cold. It was worse knowing all could see his shame, face red and body white, a veritable monster. He fixed himself into that tight box with his head down, humiliated and unable to look at Thorne.

‘State your full name,’ Thorne said.

‘Dermot Hatfield,’ Dermot said, his father’s surname jarring on his tongue. He heard someone laugh.

‘What is your profession?’ Thorne asked.

Cheeks burning, Dermot said, ‘I work in the kitchen.’ It was ridiculous that a man’s profession should be so tied to his soul as to warrant mention in court, blackening his testimony.

‘Yes? And what is your exact title?’ Thorne needled.

‘I am a scullion,’ Dermot said finally. He heard a few women giggle and closed his eyes. They, of course, would be forced into employment soon enough. There was nothing a man in power wouldn’t do to secure more tax.

‘And what duties do you perform?’ Thorne said.

‘I assist Chef Béchard in the preparation of meals. I clean and do a number of other small tasks, whatever is required at the time,’ Dermot said.

‘And what is your understanding of the events as they transpired? Did the boy leap out with the intention of startling the horses, his aunt cursing Lord Robert, the two of them performing some evil maleficarum?’ Thorne said.

Startled at their shifting from kitchen work to the matter at hand, Dermot shuddered, his hands clutching the wood of the witness box. He cast his eyes between Robert and Aubrey, one staring as to bore holes into his head and the other blind as justice herself.

‘I…’ Dermot stuttered, looking everywhere but Thorne. He gulped as Robert’s lip quirked, raising one dark brow in his direction. Shrinking back, Dermot stood defeated, having lost the fight at birth. ‘It is all right. That is exactly what happened.’

‘Fie!’ a woman screamed.

Dermot’s back caught against the wood, its jagged edge piercing his skin. He’d thought it to be the aunt but, turning his gaze to the crowd, he found his own mother. She stood with her black hair in a great frizz, dressed haphazardly in some kitchen frock, appearing like a wraith. He hadn’t seen her since starting employment, not having secured any time off excepting religious days.

‘Evil lies! Nasty ingrate!’ she called out. Hardly able to be heard over the chorus of curses, she said, ‘Never did I think I’d see the day. I come from a village near to this woman’s cottage,and we all trade with each other, vegetables and the like and other goods. Her nephew, a wilful boy, true, has played many a time with village children. They’re a good family, not witches, and you’re all demons and liars!’

‘And who is this?’ Thorne said, forgoing their interrogation so he could set his blazing eyes onto another. Released at last, Dermot breathed freely, recoiling from his hold on him.

‘A better woman than the lot of you!’ she howled.

This, coming from a woman in her late forties about the size of two ladies threaded together, was cause for much merriment. Young women murmured to one another, prouder than any emperor as they contrived to be heard above the spectacle despite their pretence of modesty. They quickly fell to derision of her looks while the men looked on, perturbed.

Thorne stood playing with his hair, vainer than any of the women. No wonder he hanged the old and ugly first. ‘Your Honour, if you would.’