Page 43 of Burying Venus

It was Tristan who caught his eye then. Not for the young man’s strange beauty, for he observed that often in the past, but because his hands kept twitching. Whether it was drink or some sort of illness, Dermot had no idea.

‘Do you look forward to the day’s events, Dermot?’ Robert said.

Dermot had been watching the bleak, grey houses lining the streets, forgetting the dark eyes he knew settled on him. ‘Yes, Lord Robert,’ he said.

‘It pleases me to hear you say so. Why, were it not for my kindness, you would still be in the kitchen,’ Robert said.

It was then he recalled that it hadn’t been Béchard who forbade his duties. Robert himself had done it. And he’d spent so long cursing the chef for isolating him. Watching his so-called better, he longed for the men who’d penned those letters. Heimagined a sword severing Robert’s head from his body; another nobleman put to the grave. Every rich man’s proper place was in the ground, after all.

‘Where is Mr Thorne?’ Dermot asked, aware he was still observed.

‘Mr Thorne,’ Robert said as if to mock Dermot’s tone of voice. Doubtless he’d heard the rumours as well, being much in the company of the guardsmen as of late. ‘He is not coming. Weston has ridden ahead and will be ensuring the burning is done to a good standard. It is my understanding that Thorne is squeamish.’

The answer near set him to laughter. That a man who condemned countless others to death might cower from the grisly act itself was farcical. Never had he despised the witchfinder so much.

Shying away when he realised he was still observed, he recalled he’d heard nothing of Aubrey since the performance in the courtroom. Gathering his courage as the carriage ground to a halt, he recoiled as the doors were opened. How he must look to these people; a devil made plain in sunlight, marred by such a foreboding complexion.

‘Lord Robert,’ Dermot called, just as the man was halfway out of the carriage and onto the pavement waiting below. Through the cacophony of cheers, Dermot said, ‘Where is Aubrey?’

‘Aubrey,’ Robert sounded, as if the name was already utterly unfamiliar to him. ‘He has been confined to his room. Rest assured, my brother is well cared for despite his hysteria.’ At that, he stepped into the town square. ‘And, Dermot, keep in mind, he’s under lock and key.’

Tristan had taken to resting his head against the carriage, stooped low so that wild hair obscured his features, the shock of the wheels against the road having freed a strand or two. Hestared blearily ahead, appearing like a wisp of his former self, skin so pale as to put him back in the mind of Aubrey.

With tenderness, his heart ached at the memory of that tower. Now the third Stanley brother was imprisoned like a prince, locked away with so many guards surrounding as to make up a dragon. But no fairytale would have a mere scullion as its noble protagonist, nor turn the sky to smoke with innocents burnt.

‘Are you coming, Dermot? Mr Weston is expecting you,’ Robert said.

Knees failing him, at once weak and shaking as he was summoned, he glimpsed the men and women lining the street and then, finally, the town square itself. The benches were filled by men who sat fat and happy, wives by their side with a gaggle of well-dressed, laughing children. Grey houses were to their left, columns holding up balconies with shuddering knuckles made of stone.

Fumbling towards Weston, he heard a young girl ask her mother what manner of man he was, only for the woman to reply that he was some sort of beast. Curling his fists, he despised the people looking on. They all thought he was doing some dastardly deed while they sat in anticipation of it. Only then did it occur to him, belatedly, that their ride had gone on for longer than usual.

Heart battering through hot flesh, he came to stand next to Weston with tears in his eyes. Hands lurching forward as if to grab hold of the witchfinder, he at once steadied himself and put both firmly at his side, shivering.

‘I see you are well. The day is upon us at last. Thank God, as Mr Thorne would say. Both witches are already tied to the pyre, as you’ve no doubt observed, by some of the men just before you arrived. Now all we require is a man such as yourself to light the thing. I’ll be off just to the side, should you require my assistance,’ Weston said, clapping a hand over Dermot’s shoulder. A country gentleman, he called himself, so there wasno need to earn money through these schemes. It seemed he simply enjoyed it.

Refusal on his tongue, he wondered where he might flee. Aubrey was a prisoner, Maldred an absolute unknown, and his childhood village doubtless to be a hunting ground soon enough. There was nowhere.

He brought the torch Weston passed him, a piece of wood already lit, to the sad pile that would be the undoing of aunt and nephew. They were both tied to a makeshift log that looked to have been felled for the purpose. It occurred to him the carriage must’ve been driven around town, for how else could such a thing be accomplished so quickly.

The blaze fluttered at him, a myriad of red and orange. Dermot jerked back, astonished, flinging it into the wood pile out of instinct. Chest heaving, he did not know whether to curse Maldred or pray to him. The crowd began hollering, Weston shouting instructions he could not discern.

Enduring servitude in his twenties brought about an absolute disdain for religion. It gave men like Robert leave to lord over him without consequence. Yet, as fire spluttered and simmered, embers bounding up at him with a hiss, his lips murmured the first prayer he’d ever uttered.

‘She burns!’ Weston shouted. As if it were not patently obvious.

‘Not my nephew, no!’ the aunt screamed.

Dermot twitched and cast his eyes to the wood. They had not spared enough coin for another pyre, and being peasants they were deemed unworthy of dignity. The nephew was tied to the other side, their forms bound so closely that their hands, if permitted another inch, would’ve been able to touch.

At the woman’s cries, a few in the crowd began imitating her earnest pleas for help. This only shamed Dermot more, for some of them were islanders themselves.

‘And have you, Dermot, perhaps considered finding a witchfinder and apprenticing yourself?’ Weston asked, startling Dermot from his thoughts.

Stomach turning to bile, Dermot strove to look elsewhere and made his first mistake. He glimpsed the aunt. She was not high up like he imagined, though her head had reeled back in anguish so all he could perceive was her heaving chest. The smoke was too pervasive, smell pungent and totally unlike the kitchen, scented as it was with human flesh.

The crowd behaved as though possessed. Some jumped in anticipation, others mimicked the screams of the accused. A few small children began to cry, though this was swiftly remedied by their mothers. The laughter did not abate. With each small cruelty, the people grew bolder, so when the screams reached their crescendo, they were matched by screeching thrill.

‘Maldred, why do you not…’ Dermot started, cursing himself when he observed Weston peering over his shoulder.