Page 66 of Burying Venus
Tristan’s dark eyes went wide. Red, hot blood poured down, dripping onto the dirt below. Dermot merely lay there, knife secure, until Tristan’s head drooped and fell from his grasp, so twenty or so years of rearing became nothing but a lifeless husk.
Realising he held a corpse, Dermot fumbled until he himself was submerged in filth, struck dumb by Tristan’s unmovingform. Only belatedly, sat wet and cold on coarse ground, did he feel glass press against him like a thought come too late. Fand’s potion gone to waste.
He stared, watching as Tristan’s beautiful hair sunk into muck. The bastard had been alive moments ago. It had not been like lighting the pyre; hundreds of beady, hateful eyes on him as Lord Robert issued commands. Now, his pleasure was undeniable.
Rising was more difficult than the kill itself. He stood incredulous, fit to watch Tristan decompose. At least the bastard died whole, even if his neck hung in a peculiar manner; a sharp tug might’ve secured the head. The beasts Dermot mutilated for Lord Stanley’s table did not have that luxury.
Hearing the distinct sound of merrymaking in the distance, Dermot lumbered further into the forest. He knew Tristan hadn’t been about to cry Robert’s name; instead the two of them had the same thought on their tongue. They both sought news of someone they loved, and Tristan had died thinking Aubrey’s fate had been worse. Dermot couldn’t understand why he’d done it. Only then did he think to remove the armour, which came off like shedding a vice. He continued walking, searching black smog until at last his eyes lighted on another living creature’s shape.
‘Dermot!’ Aubrey cried. ‘Are you alright? Did you find your mother?’
Dermot broke. Stupidly, unwaveringly, he’d expected her to be in the forest, nestled in some fairytale refuge. Now he stood alone, though Aubrey was near, for he could tell no one living what he’d done.
Aubrey embraced him. Times now forsaken had been ground to dust to form one complete effigy, beautiful as any Venus.
‘Dermot,’ someone interjected, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Turning towards the voice, he saw Lora, the woman he’d attended school with. In her arms, mercifully and miraculously, was her son. Behind her, a few stragglers stood, including a middle-aged woman Dermot recognised as the blacksmith’s mother. Aleyn was not in attendance.
‘It happened so quickly. Your mother was an angel, you know. She rushed me out of my cottage and got my little boy into my arms, then directed me towards the forest,’ Lora said.
‘And your husband?’ Dermot asked.
‘Gone to the fight,’ Lora said. Her breath was haggard but she spoke quietly, presumably for her son’s sake.
‘Much has happened since you left,’ said one man, so old Dermot was incredulous he’d reached the forest.
‘Parliamentary forces have landed on our shores. The castle is under siege,’ Lora said. Her lips quirked in bitter humour. ‘If only they’d gotten here a few days earlier.’
Dermot’s mind, stupefied by grief, came to life. He would’ve embraced Lora, had it not been for the child.
‘All of us are saved,’ Dermot said.
‘Not just yet,’ Lora said. ‘Every attempt at negotiation has been rejected by Robert. He’s got a force holed in there.’
‘But you’ll get him! Won’t you, Dermot?’ Lora’s son said. ‘That’s what Aleyn promised.’
The words, outrageous and appalling, struck like a chord. Dermot said, ‘I will. In my mother’s name, in all our names, I’ll kill the bastard myself.’
The crowd stood exultant, except for Lora and Aubrey.
‘Haven’t we had enough fighting?’ Lora asked. She left him, returning to the other survivors.
Dermot stood in silence until Aubrey finally said, ‘Blood is all over your shirt, Dermot.’
Cringing, Dermot stepped back. Aubrey was beautiful and dark like Tristan, but with eyes so guileless Dermot could neverspeak the truth and know peace. ‘The whole village is nothing but fire now.’
‘Oh, Dermot!’ Aubrey cried. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Knowing his words were not simple condolences, Dermot smiled. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’ He dared not imagine what the remaining villagers thought.
‘Will you truly return to the castle? Why did you rescue me, if you didn’t intend to stay together?’ A faint blush dusted across Aubrey’s white cheeks as Dermot stammered.
‘We’ll stay out of sight and make our way to the next village,’ Lora said. ‘We’ll protect ourselves, as well as Aubrey. You have our word.’ A note of agreement sounded. ‘Brendan lives there now, working as a blacksmith. His mother has assured us we can stay with him, and then perhaps we can see the end of this war.’
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Dermot near stomped his feet on the ground as Maldred had. How he’d relished the bastard’s end. His mother had died rescuing their neighbours, but Brendan, that devil, lived.
‘I will come some of the way, but after that I’m off to help retake the castle,’ Dermot said. For it had been theirs once, long before the Stanleys came.