Page 44 of Burying Venus

‘Maldred, is it?’ Weston said. ‘A pretty name. Unusual, yes, but perhaps quite fetching on the right sort of young man.’

A stray tear lingered above his lip, his nose twitching involuntarily as the full stench reached him. It was too much like a pig on the roast. Clutching his collar tighter, he stepped back and fell into Weston. The man’s bumbling hands hardly stopped him, the stronger man, from hitting the ground.

‘Dear me. Perhaps you are too excited. This is, after all, your first burning,’ Weston said, steadying him before moving swiftly to the side, ensuring he could not in good conscience offer any further assistance.

Helplessly putting one foot forward as to not fall head first onto the floor, Dermot’s eyes opened as if to a theatre, the curtains drawn back at last. The aunt no longer moved, her body limp and stooped over as far as the rope would permit, spittle oozing from her mouth. The nephew he could not discern, theboy being on the opposite side of the pyre, and for that at least he was thankful as he leaned over and retched. The bile that spewed out of him and onto the pavement’s fissures made him heave again. All that stopped him from collapsing was the stark reminder Robert watched, and no doubt his keen, reptilian gaze would find Dermot on the floor.

‘Are you feeling alright, man? Is it the smell? Here, take my handkerchief. I’m more than used to it by now,’ Weston chatted, coolly grasping Dermot’s hand and laying down the fabric. ‘I scent it every day with Matth… that is, Mr Thorne’s, fragrance.’

Utterly at a loss, Dermot breathed deep. Mr Thorne, that loathsome devil, veiled in his mist of divine deception. He tore himself away at once, eyes burning as he again glimpsed the pyre, now shrouded by smoke so black he had to inch away in fear for his own life. He could only hope aunt and nephew, either gone from this world or left insensible, were finally at peace.

‘Thorne is the witch,’ Dermot murmured, incensed.

With pleasure, he watched Weston’s brows raise as the man coloured and choked out a few words. He was unable to offer any rebuttal, for it was true.

‘Condemned to the fire where they belong. It cannot do to have my people suffer,’ Robert said. Dermot knew him at once. That great declaration, the booming voice that at once set him to terror.

Weston fixed his hands on Dermot’s shoulders and firmly steered him towards Robert. He was shaking and could not feign indifference as a stronger man might. When his eyes met Robert’s, he flinched away.

‘Masterfully done, Lord Robert. Indeed, I have never before seen such an efficient burning, and many have I attended,’ Weston said. His benign, inoffensive little voice wore at Dermot like thread. ‘And I will be able to take the bodies for my own investigations, as we have discussed? You mustn’t think mepeculiar, Dermot. I have a great interest in the sciences, as you well know.’

That aunt and nephew would be desecrated even in death made his mask slip. Closing his eyes, he knew he would weep that night. When the consequences of serving Robert were worse than leaving him, he could not rightly remain. There was no justification for committing the same sin twice.

‘Oh? I had forgotten,’ Robert said. ‘It spares my men the trouble of burying them. Why debase the land with such people, after all.’

In Dermot’s nightmares, both aunt and nephew ceased to exist after the fire. He thought they would simply turn to cinders. But, on listening to Weston continue, Dermot’s eyes bulged and he whirled around, heaving a second time. What came out of him was little more than water, but it was the act itself that horrified. The crowd shrieked. His body had come undone on Robert’s gleaming black boots.

‘Dear me,’ Weston said again.

‘Dermot,’ Robert hissed. His teeth ground together like a wolf straining to bite. ‘I dare say I am no longer hungry!’

That, at least, was a relief. Even the crowd might’ve turned against Robert if they’d seen him eating next to the pyre. But Dermot clutched his stomach all the harder at the realisation he’d be confined in the carriage. Body curling in on itself as he tried to appear smaller, he watched Robert’s dark eyes for some sign and found nothing.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Robert said, stepping away from Dermot’s vomit. ‘Two vile witches felled with the help of our infamous witchfinders. A round of applause for Mr Weston.’ He held out his hand and shook Weston’s for but a moment. ‘As I depart, recall that you must keep a watchful eye over your own communities. If such evil can reach our peaceful island, we mustremain vigilant, lest it happen again.’ He strode back to the carriage to cheers from the braying mob.

Fretful, Dermot remained standing until Weston clasped his sleeve and gave him a tug, leaving him stumbling towards the carriage. He was at once downcast upon hearing murmurs from some women nearby, ceaseless in their accusations. While men made war and then peace, women’s tongues lashed forever.

Standing to the side and bowing his head low as Tristan joined them, Dermot finally climbed up and watched as Weston hurried away. The door was summarily slammed shut, leaving them in darkness.

‘An interesting day, to be sure,’ Robert said. Despite the gloominess of their surroundings, Dermot felt the weight of his gaze. ‘Are you quite well, Dermot?’

It was Robert’s tone of voice that made him quiver. That slow, rich enunciation that had never before been pointed at him.

‘Yes, Lord Robert,’ Dermot said, stifling the prattle that was bound to come should he come up with some excuse. ‘It was the smell. My apologies, Lord Robert. I disgraced myself.’

‘Disgraced yourself!’ Robert laughed. ‘A scullion, disgracing himself. Have you ever heard the like, brother?’

Tristan, who was veiled in the darkness of the furthest corner, stared blankly. There was a wildness about him Dermot had never before observed. His irises could scarcely be seen, such was the whiteness of his eyes; the mad look of a beast untamed. Even his braid was loose, black ink spilling on his lap.

‘It…’ Tristan said, lacking his usual candour. ‘Fucking disgusting.’

‘Indeed,’ Robert said, seeming oblivious to his brother’s unusual countenance. ‘That I should bring you with me, a trusted servant, only for you to behave thus. You have not disgraced yourself, Dermot, for such a thing would be impossible. You have disgraced me, your master.’

Dermot shifted uncomfortably. Robert had favoured him since their strange meeting in the kitchen. It had been Béchard that endured his attitude, then Will. Now aunt and nephew lay dead, their bodies never to find ground, for they had been put into the hands of another monster. Robert, he knew, saw nothing but capital and resource, and Dermot was but a mere fleck of dust in both.

‘Have you nothing to say for yourself? The smell, well! How long have you been in my kitchen? For a foul, ugly man such as yourself to feign faintness like a woman. I am quite astounded,’ Robert said.

It occurred to him at once that Robert’s sudden interest in his employment might be the rope that hanged him. Already with a mother accused, their village being the closest to the hut where aunt and nephew had lived.