Page 50 of Burying Venus

‘What, a local girl! Just what are you hiding in your trousers? How can a scullion be rutting every night and the rest of us without even one woman? Dermot, how do you do it?’ said the man who’d accused him of defiling Thorne.

‘A bit of gentleness,’ Dermot said, eyes closed in shame, ‘is the way.’

‘Well, I’ll never,’ said the man, stepping back to the wall. A tacit approval; the town wasn’t obscured now, rather it was revealed in full with hardly anyone loitering. ‘Go on then. Chaperoning her home, are you? What a gentleman.’

Shamed by the encounter, Dermot strode forward without another word, head lowered as if he himself were the girl. Mercifully, Aubrey passed by unmolested. He dared not turn around to face either fellow but, from the lack of shouting, he surmised the men had taken his advice.

‘Were you gentle with the witchfinder, Dermot?’ the second man hollered, who Dermot wrongly took for the more sensible of the two.

This set the guards to laughter, just as they’d been before Dermot and Aubrey arrived. A fine job, he thought, where two men might gossip and shrill like women all day.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dermot said as they walked haphazardly down the street. The salacious rumours would only harm him. He had not only stolen Robert’s youngest brother away, but in fleeing the castle, had proclaimed this lordling, likely of a dynasty that began with the conquest of the mainland, as his prostitute. The rumblings of himself and Thorne were worse; that he would attach himself to such a dastardly man.

The town was not well lit, owing to the Stanleys’ misspending. It was well known that the treasury’s purpose was to ensure the castle’s decoration, clothe their lords, and pass bribes between enterprising men. Grinding his teeth uncomfortably at the thought, Dermot set off in the direction of the village.

There would, he supposed, be some merchant passing to the north. Even so, he saw no one who he’d trust in aiding them. Any man out at such an hour was either a criminal or a drunkard.

‘Dermot,’ Aubrey said, shrouded in black lace. His walking in such garb was admirable. ‘Where are we going?

Dermot’s heart seized. He had taken the boy from his bedchamber with scarcely a word. Slowing so they might walk beside one another, he said, ‘You should know those guards lie.’

Shifting beneath the robe, Dermot couldn’t discern the boy’s expression. He could hardly see him at all since they walked in darkness.

A few pretty lights came from the dwindling grey houses as Dermot seethed. It seemed impossible that any other place could so blight the earth as their island. Even wandering, he would’ve ended up in a cold, watery grave mere hours after the walking had begun.

Head resolutely down, fists curled tightly at his side, so did Aubrey murmur sweetly into his ear as the roar of wheels camelike a choir from behind. It was so loud that Dermot bellowed like a man possessed, waving his hands in the air as though mad.

‘My God, man!’ the rider called, coming to a stop beside them. His cart was a rickety thing with wood strewn about and hammered poorly in. Evidently he was no man of status, which was all the better for them. ‘What are you playing at? You could’ve spooked my horse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dermot said. ‘It’s just that we’re in need of help. We must get to a village north of here. North east. Do you know it?’

The fellow peered at them from his cart. It was practically a chariot for how it could’ve aided them, the man a child of the gods in his impertinence. ‘As luck would have it, I go north east towards the harbour. But why, do you suppose, I should take two vagabonds with me? And this village! How many are there littered about? We are all in darkness.’

‘Well,’ Dermot said, at a loss. It had been a long time since he’d lain eyes on that wretched place; his childhood. To discover it again would be a task.

At a delicate jingling next to him, Dermot turned to discover the gleam of sapphire shimmering back. A choice piece, his favourite of Aubrey’s, now peddled to a tawdry merchant. Pursing his lips, Dermot could watch no more.

‘Why, this…!’ the man said, breath coming sharp, his voice hardly more than a whisper. ‘Certainly a fake! But beautifully made.’ He twisted the thing about in his hands. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get on, you devil, and help your lady up!’

After a moment of recollection, Dermot twisted around, realising it was he being spoken of. He rushed to the side, grasping Aubrey’s hips and hauling him up before scurrying in himself.

‘Where do you go then, what village?’ asked the cart master. He gave his horse a sound whip before the creature began to move, jolting them along uncomfortably.

‘It is to the north east, about half an hour from here. I…’ Dermot murmured, aware he prattled like a fool. ‘It is near where that witch woman came from.’

‘Good Lord!’ the merchant cried, horse well on its way. ‘Yes, I know, it was taken to print. You are going there?’

‘Yes,’ Dermot said, settling his back against sharp wood and hoping not to get splintered. Aubrey was at his side, crammed tightly between Dermot’s body and the corner of the cart. The boy’s gown could be felt against his legs, which only served to make him flush as wind thrashed against his skin.

‘I’m not from these parts, mind, so I don’t know the place properly. Do you have business there? Your mistress certainly doesn’t lack for trinkets. But, then, is it not a poor village?’ the merchant chattered, intermittently bringing the whip down on the horse’s back. ‘I don’t suppose… you certainly can’t be the witchfinder, can you, sir?’ Here his voice took on a nasally quality. Frightened, it seemed, that he had the infamous Mr Thorne as his passenger.

‘No,’ Dermot said immediately, pleased to be addressed so anyhow. No man had ever given him such airs. ‘My wife and I are there for a family matter, the death of her brother.’ He spoke quickly, intending nothing, for it struck him they could not have a connection to the accused. He had not meant to fantasise about Robert dying; despite many transgressions, he was still Aubrey’s kin. It had simply been the first truth, that of Aubrey’s siblings, to bleed into his deception.

‘My condolences. My own mother passed last year,’ the cart master said. ‘I don’t think much of these witchfinders myself. But that one… word has it he’s the same as sent three-hundred souls to the grave.’

Dermot’s back pressed against a plank of wood as he flinched. He knew Thorne was infamous, but even a seasoned soldier’s heart wasn’t so black. For the witchfinder to be so delicate,incapable of landing a blow against another, presented a world where strength had no meaning and a man’s tongue became executioner. He was an unnatural creature, an incubus beguiling a courtroom to do his bidding, causing soldiers who’d never before considered sodomy to drool at the mention of his name. Dermot was incredulous he hadn’t noticed it at the time, that his unravelling at the table was not a natural act.

‘Here?’ the cart master called, gesturing to the forest. ‘The cottage has become a spectacle for some. I did pass it on my way.’