Page 41 of Burying Venus

‘Must’ve cost your entire salary since the day you started, that one,’ Will said. Unused to being ignored, he went on, ‘Too good for me now, are you? You’ve abandoned your fair lord to his tower, fucked a witchfinder, and now a boy who looks more wraith than human.’

At having his supposed conquests recounted, Dermot grasped one side of the pillow and thrust it against his face so Will’s voice was muffled. Even feigning sleep, his eyes thrummed and burnt.

‘Do as you want. But don’t make us watch,’ Will said. ‘I’ve had enough of it.’

Dermot heard Will’s feet patter across the floor as he went to wash. The birds chittered outside, signalling morning come too soon. Were he still a scullion, he would’ve been up too, had he no other business to attend to that day. His invitation to the most anticipated event of the year was already secured.

His cock lay peacefully, unmoved by any sort of sordid fantasy. It had been too long since his mind was unburdened, body spent. Whether Maldred had stolen some of his essence through pleasure, he hadn’t the slightest, and he did not care as he curled up, content.

Dreams passed erratically, interspersed with Will readying himself for the day. Dermot stood watching the pyre seethe, then heard the woman and boy scream as the flames caught theirfeet. Never had he been subjected to such misery while awake, and as his feet wrapped around his blanket, it occurred vaguely that there was something amiss in his mind. At once searching for Robert, he came to Thorne instead. The man’s eyes, far from their distinct gold, glimmered blood red from the execution, and in them Dermot saw the pain of the victims reflected. The so-called witches strained at their bonds as their bodies scattered to ash, though the woman’s thumb lay twitching while her flesh was charred and dead. Witnessing this, Dermot ran to Thorne, screaming that she yet lived and the fire was to be put out, only to be met by a smile. The bastard raised a hand to him as if to caress, then snapped his fingers mere inches from Dermot’s face. Immediately he too was ignited, fire flickering from the threadbare cotton he wore, and upon the realisation he had somehow come out in his nightclothes, he was blearily looking up at Will’s face from below.

‘Do you ever intend to get up?’ Will said.

Rubbing at the crust that accumulated by his eyes, Dermot groaned.

‘Does Lord Dermot wish to sleep in? My most sincere apologies,’ Will said. He was searching for his new overcoat, a costly thing that rightly he shouldn’t have been able to afford. ‘Robert has been asking for you. Do not make him come again.’ There was a warning there, all childish jests gone. He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply, Stephen behind him.

Upon realising the time, Dermot observed his pleasure specking the sheets, wetness that was his own sweat. Flinching as he realised it was Amy’s duty to wash it, he hauled himself up, groaning at the exertion. He’d lost his virginity but sleep had been miserable and sporadic, and though he was scheduled to watch an execution, Will spared him no pity.

Not bothering to change in the washroom, he stripped nude and summarily put on his work clothes. He had no time toclean himself. Whatever was said about him, Robert offered him Aubrey, the guardsmen believed he’d partaken with Thorne, and finally he’d sated himself with Maldred. No one could think him lacking in any capacity.

Slamming the door, he rushed about in a flurry, petrified they’d already left, and that Robert would give him a thrashing once they returned. It was only on coming to the courtyard that he saw him, stood serenely beside a portrait of one of his forefathers.

‘Dermot, my boy. Wherever have you been?’ Robert said.

Treading meekly to meet him, eyes afire in the morning light, he came to stand a few steps away. Conscious of the night’s exertions etched into his flesh, for he was not unaware of the smell, he said, ‘I had to do some tasks for Chef Béchard. But I am finished now, Lord Robert.’

‘Did you now?’ Robert said, a frown playing on his lips. ‘To think, my instructions were so plain that he should not trouble you with any work. Thank you for informing me, my boy.’

Dermot blushed so that his skin matched the healthy red of Robert’s lips. He could’ve dashed his head against stone, though that would’ve led only to Thorne going on another witch hunt.

‘I’m sure you know your own colleagues and thus there is no need for any introductions. Come, Dermot, take the boy from the dungeon to the cart Mr Weston has prepared. We will then go to the town square, you and I, for the main event,’ Robert said.

Casting his eyes to the guard, Dermot gave a brief nod of assent. It was the same man who’d mocked him for carrying Thorne; the accusation hot on his tongue. Shutting his eyes to block it out, Dermot headed for the dungeon without delay. If what Maldred said was true, and he did not doubt it after their intimacy last night, no harm would come to the accused. Having Robert, Tristan, and their witchfinders corralled together made for a neat plot.

‘Been well, have you?’ the guardsman said. He was soon ahead, strides perfunctory and wide. With a brief greeting to two men Dermot had never before seen, the great metal door was flung away.

Cursing, always weary of the stairs, Dermot endeavoured to follow the bastard. Grinding his teeth so his jaw ached, he stared ahead into the darkness.

‘A nice change from the ordinary dross, isn’t it?’ the guardsman said.

Realising he had no choice but to speak, Dermot said, ‘I would rather be in the kitchen.’ He hoped their talk might end there. What, after all, did fighting men know of matters such as that.

‘Warmer, is it?’ the guardsman said. He laughed and placed his hand against stone. ‘It’s a nice diversion. An old woman to handle rather than working on the cannons, the weaponry. Utter shit. Hell, I’d rather be in the kitchen too, my friend!’ His voice was somewhat muffled by a prisoner crying out.

Turning the corner to where aunt and nephew were kept, it occurred to him that he’d never before heard talk of cannonry.

‘Of course, I reckon more than fire keeps you warm,’ the guardsman said.

Cheeks heating in the cold, Dermot tore himself away from their comradery. ‘Who says it?’ he whispered, tongue loosening in rage. Whether he could’ve won a quarrel was yet to be determined since he could not safely speak without being hanged; his greatest safety and resentment.

‘Who says it, he asks!’ the guardsman crowed. At least the prisoners could take solace in Thorne being seen as a whore; that accusation was often the trident’s second head, the first being witch. ‘Why, your walk, your eyes as you held him. Any man who’s ever had a drunken maid can attest to it. And he looks so much the part that no man with a working cock can hate you. Any one of us would’ve done the same, and I say good on you!’

Shrouded in darkness as they were, the guardsman’s hand slapped him soundly on the back. Never had he experienced such friendliness from other men, especially not under such circumstances.

‘Let’s go and get these witches, along with a nice commendation from Lord Robert,’ the guardsman said. Dermot had still not asked his name, nor did he have any intention of doing so. The bastard clasped his dumb, waiting hand so that the key could be slid into it, and the sudden clinking of metal was Dermot’s only indication that it was his turn to move.

Going straightaway to the nephew, Dermot opened his mouth and at once realised the futility of warning him. The boy seemed not long for the world anyway, curled up in the corner as he was, chains bearing no purpose now. His arms were little more than bone, perhaps having atrophied with lack of use.