Page 49 of Burying Venus
‘Do not fear for his modesty, we will not look,’ Noelle said, lips quirking as if to suppress a smile.
Realising the practicality of her suggestion, Dermot assented. Even speaking to a woman would’ve been an ordeal for him once and, if he were one of those men prone to journalling, he would’ve dedicated a page to the event.
Exchanging glances, Amy and Noelle stood at the far corner of the room. Each woman turned her back, so all that could be seen were Noelle’s tight bun and Amy’s flowing locks. They did not so much as giggle, instead seeming solemn and sad in their black dresses.
Realising that he too was expected to avert his eyes, Dermot followed their lead, turning ever so slightly. Still he, stood deliberately at an angle, caught a glimpse of fair skin as Aubrey unbuttoned his shirt and trousers. His flesh was without malady or the suggestion of one day’s labour. In the faint light, Dermot could see nothing but the suggestion of skin, catching Aubrey from the corner of his eye as the young man clothed himself in the robe.
His chest heaved as fair skin was shrouded in black. Aubrey appeared like a creature of mourning, his delicate beauty disfigured. Whether the guards would fall for such a charade, Dermot could not safely guess.
‘We have done all we can,’ Noelle said.
‘He makes a fine girl,’ Amy murmured. She exchanged a look with Dermot before coyly looking away.
His preference had become an open secret since his supposed tryst with Thorne. It was another reason to leave, despite Robertplaying games with Will upstairs. Done in the dark and safely tucked away, it was permissible, but a working man could not endure such scrutiny.
He put a hand on Aubrey’s shoulder and said, ‘We should go.’
‘Thank you,’ Aubrey said. He made a fine young woman; modest and quiet with a slim figure. Any man would’ve supposed the garb protected a faultless virgin. How men remained sane while pursuing such formless figures, Dermot could not guess. Ever since his arrival in town, his mind had been much taken by pretty sons of bankers and merchants, their skin white and faultless, with perfumed hair and tight trousers. The lust they provoked in him, unveiled and without a chaperone, was another struggle.
‘Keep your head down,’ Noelle advised. She bade them leave, her hands gesturing to the door with grim finality. ‘You must go quickly. There will be a terrible reckoning tomorrow.’
Dermot hastened to the door, shivering all the while. The guards outside were a great obstacle but the threats beyond were graver still.
‘Go!’ Noelle whispered, peering out the door. Amy stood dutifully by her side. The women, clothed in garments far poorer than what they’d gifted Aubrey, nodded at them as they departed.
‘Come on,’ Dermot said. He dared not touch Aubrey again, even to guide him as he walked in the veil, for he was trembling like a coward. Even noting the quiver in his own voice, he rushed forward.
‘Oh!’ Aubrey gasped. The pair of them had just come from the portcullis where Robert drilled his men to release hot lead on invaders. Watching Aubrey’s tremor, Dermot lunged forward, his arm bent at an odd angle in his haste as Aubrey fell into him. Beneath the veil, Dermot observed those lips part ever so, and his own face was again afire.
‘The guards are just ahead,’ Dermot said, helping the boy to his feet and prying his hands away.
Sure enough, two men stood at the gate, chatting to one another without a care for any supposed invasion. One gestured wildly, his friend laughing all the while.
‘What’s this?’ one guard said. His laughter cut short, he turned towards them sharply. A young man, doubtless forced to the island for lack of better work.
‘I’m a servant here, I…’ Dermot began, striving to concoct some tale. Will had, he knew, women who he sometimes escorted from the castle.
‘Name?’ said the man who’d been giggling like an insipid girl. His act of standing still, lips pursed, was nothing more than pantomime.
Erring, for surely his absence was already noted, he had no desire to reveal himself. Should either man go inside to check, his execution was assured.
‘Dermot,’ he said, and upon seeing the men’s expressions unchanged, went on, ‘Hatfield. Dermot Hatfield.’
‘Who?’ said the guard, turning to his friend. ‘Are we supposed to know this man?’
‘Why…!’ said the first guard, the dual radiance of fire and moonlight giving the dimmest outline of his sharp, rugged features. ‘It’s only the fellow who buggered the witchfinder!’
As the guard pointed at him, Dermot’s face burnt with such fervour as to shame every burst of flame. Never before had he thought such a thing might be said in front of Aubrey. In his isolation and private tutelage the lordling was schooled in politeness and courtesy, never before having been exposed to such talk. Aubrey was, he thought, likely the only virgin in the castle, and he’d been kept firmly in hand until Dermot stole him away.
‘That’s obscene,’ Dermot said immediately.
The men burst into excited, rabid laughter as Dermot stood with his fists wound tightly around the hem of his shirt.
‘Obscene, so he says!’ said one guard, leaning back and laughing so Dermot could observe the quivering of his throat. ‘Never mind that. Hard enough to get a woman, it is, and he has long hair. Good for pulling, no? And who’s this?’
Striving for calm, his lips drawn in a thin, tight line that betrayed nothing, Dermot said, ‘This is… well, lads, a woman I met earlier today, truth be told.’ He could think of no better explanation. Surely it was what Noelle and Amy expected. Still, the words burned as if to sear one long line across the tip of his tongue; a serpent’s lie.
‘Lord have mercy!’ said the second guard.