Page 64 of Burying Venus

He raced against sense to the place Tristan would’ve searched first. The lone soldier he’d eyed had been visibly inebriated, and it was clear precious wine bought and saved for some occasion had been spoilt. Milk and cheese were their simple treasures, and such prizes were rare for city men who survived off beer.

Their homes were well separated, gardens being used for crops. Indulgent husbands permitted their wives to tend flowers, but everything was gone to dust. Turning from the smoke, he glimpsed the cottage that made his heart plummet and ache. His home, the place he was born, and where all who knew him thought he would die. Their ill-fitting door, the handle having to be turned in a particular way, was already flung open. Smoke flitted out so he could discern nothing. He ran anyway, not caring who might meet him.

‘Mother?’ Dermot called, not thinking to use her name. The fire must’ve been set inside, for everything was gone to flame. His eyes helplessly looked for a figure hidden amidst the smoke. It was not so late that she would’ve suffocated in bed, but still he was stopped only by fire catching on his boots as he hesitated. Muffling a cry as he fled, he stomped his feet hard against the ground.

He couldn’t guess where Breesha was. She might’ve already been dead or, worse, her body disguised by noxious smoke; her last glimpse of hope quashed as he ran like a coward from their home. He did not know what to do. Shuffling to the side, he sobbed, clutching stone like a madman. Laughter carried in the smog, tongues turned to slurring as drunken soldiers joked.

Recalling one particular place, he hurried away, clutching his collar tightly to guard against the smell. Too often had he been exposed to rancid flesh in the kitchen, stooped over some poor creature.

Arriving at the freshly dilapidated home of his former rival, he rammed his side into the door with all his might before it submitted, just like its master no doubt had to some mainlander. He had never actually been inside. The same boy who’d pushed and bullied him, making his childhood no more than a sad memory, had been trained as a blacksmith. Once, envy left him cold as his cheeks burnt with hate. He was sure there wereno gods then; the devil was at work, ensuring his favourites succeeded. Stepping into the bastard’s home, he was warm all over, and not because of the fire.

‘Made a trade for yourself,’ Dermot murmured, looking about. He cast judgement on every piece of equipment displayed, soon to be charred and scorched. Dermot imagined his rival lying beneath some eager soldier as he was done in, or worse. That was enough to heat any man’s blood. Shaking his head as torture flitted through his mind, he laid eyes on a worthy set. Certainly it was a gift from the blacksmith himself, for he doubted his old acquaintance could’ve accomplished such a thing.

The silver glimmered, patterned like the damask on the Stanleys’ wall. His reflection shone, distorted and ugly in the metal. He at once fastened the armour over his modest shirt, grasping a helmet that obscured his face so no one could discern him. At last he, somewhat in a daze, took a kitchen knife from the counter and slid it into his disguise neatly. Stepping out of the house, he spat on what was left of the floorboards. ‘Gods rot you, bastard.’

Darting bravely into the open, he stepped into the fight with nothing but a kitchen knife. Drunken soldiers sat at the village centre where women had once peddled vegetables. Looking at them, he realised every man had collected a prize, be it a choice piece of cutlery or a dead man’s last drop of wine. They made merry, dancing with one another as though attending a parish ball. Further back were the bodies, those who had rushed to defend the village. Seeing the soldiers were ignoring him, Dermot looked down to find a corpse beneath his feet, blue eyes staring imploringly back at him. Another bully who’d pestered him as a boy. That he’d somehow guessed Dermot’s peculiarity was obvious, even though Dermot hadn’t yet known himself. Blond locks, once tied back, now lay across porcelain skin. Heobserved, not without some pleasure, that the soldier who’d done it had made a messy job.

Boots moving quicker than his wits, Dermot kicked the bastard soundly in the face.

‘Have at him!’ one soldier called, raising a bottle in Dermot’s direction.

‘Gave me some trouble,’ slurred another, seemingly content to sit in the mud. ‘A fair one, isn’t he? So long as you’re standing, brother, get your knife in him. Make him not such a winsome lad.’

Thinking up some excuse, Dermot stood defenceless, the very man they’d slaughtered a village for. Their eyes watched him, each man content in drink and wearing a brave smile, so no one would’ve guessed they celebrated slaughter. Murmuring an apology, Dermot noticed Tristan sat apart from the group. He shied away.

‘And will you?’ Tristan said. He jumped to his feet and strode to Dermot as if they stood in nature, not a mass killing. His pupils were dilated; black and crazed. They had not always been so. ‘Daren’t you move, man? We’ve a fine game here.’ He laughed, spitting on the man’s corpse. ‘These traitors hid the bastard who kidnapped my little brother!’

‘May God protect him,’ one soldier said. After noticing Tristan nod, the others quickly echoed the sentiment.

‘They deserve death, no mercy at all!’ Tristan shouted. He held his hand to his chest. ‘Get that knife out and I’ll give you a good chug of wine. In fact, a whole wheel of cheese too!’

The men crowed their jealousy, working themselves into a drunken stupor of chanting. They swung their bottles, one man collapsing hard onto the ground as another hit him across the head. As Dermot finally got down, the men shouted for him to get to work and botch the fellow’s face.

‘You’re a big man,’ Tristan said, long hair flitting across Dermot’s helmet. ‘Cut him up, give him a stabbing!’

The young man’s eyes were still open, comically wide in horror. But what had the fool expected, running into battle as he doubtless had; perhaps that his foes would be like Dermot as a boy.

Dermot exulted in being the man who lived when once he’d thought of dying every day. Had he ended his life then, none of his tormentors would have mourned.

‘That’s it,’ Tristan said, seductive. ‘That’s what he gets for trying to kill us, isn’t it?’ The soldiers cried out as though they were the victims.

‘I asked where your brother was, my lord, demanded it, more like,’ said the soldier who’d urged Dermot to butcher. ‘Questioned him about Hatfield too, that filthy bugger, and he gave me a bad kick to my plums, he did. Still aching and all.’ The soldiers were in uproar, making an eager joke of their friend and the bloodied corpse.

‘Taken a liking to him, have you?’ Tristan murmured.

Terrified of being recognised, Dermot set himself to work. He grasped the knife he’d won from his rival’s home, the dear friend of their victim, and came undone. Memories struck, so stark and new they could’ve eaten him alive, as Dermot stabbed the corpse directly in the face. He stared until the men started shouting, urging him to do more.

He twisted the knife again. It was, he fancied, like working in the kitchen; the same fleshy pink inside. Dead, terrified expression fixed on him, Dermot sheathed the knife. ‘It is done.’

‘And what a sight he is!’ Tristan cried. He put his hand on Dermot’s shoulder. ‘What’s your name? Have we spoken before? You wear a nice helmet. Don’t say you found that in our stock.’

Dermot stilled. Never had Tristan spoken to him so cordially. On meeting the bastard’s eyes, he saw no evil glint within.Merely a young man that, in any other circumstance, he would’ve lusted for readily. Getting to his feet, he said, ‘No, Lord Tristan. I found it in one of the cottages.’

Tristan tilted his head like a creature bewildered. ‘Your voice… say, where are you from?’

Fumbling, Dermot said, ‘A small village, Lord Tristan, on the border.’ He hoped Tristan’s mind would find somewhere appropriate. ‘I have news of your brother and Hatfield.’ They’d come to his threadbare plan, conceived only a few minutes ago. His tongue twisted to the lie’s tune.

‘What?’ Tristan shouted, eyeing him with newfound interest. He was still drunk. ‘Why didn’t you say?! We’ve spent minutes cutting this cunt up!’