Page 67 of Burying Venus

The lonely group walked into the night, men and women who should’ve joined them mere cinder in the wind. Dermot felt the loss of his mother keenly, stifling his tears only because Aubrey was at his side.

‘I’ll get the potion to Robert,’ Dermot murmured. Hot shame came over him when he thought of Tristan. Awful, damnable desire struck so he hadn’t been able to cut the man clean, had instead rutted him like a dog.

‘You don’t need…’ Aubrey began, staring up at him like Tristan had.

‘I will.’ Dermot was resolute. Though he was now an orphan, he wouldn’t rob Aubrey of his older brother, nor chance looking at him only to see two dead men staring back.

They continued in the cold, dark night as the laughter of soldiers dwindled, and Dermot thought of the last great evil kept by man. Hope.

Chapter Fifteen

It was darker still when Dermot observed parliamentary stragglers on the road. They spoke the mainlander’s tongue, dressed somberly, but chatted amicably. Signalling as they approached, Dermot shouted for them to stop.

‘What’s this?’ The man who spoke sat apart from the others, face obscured by a hat, plume stretching formless into the night.

‘I’ve come to join the battle,’ Dermot said, fearing he’d be mistaken for a lunatic. ‘I’m an islander, sir, and have suffered under the Stanleys.’

The soldiers inched forward to get a glimpse of the savage, though they were quick to smile.

‘You speak the language well, but I do detect an accent. Fascinating!’ The man tapped the seat next to his own. ‘Come up then, friend. Call me Birch.’

Surprised, Dermot grasped the wood of the cart and was pulled up by those sitting at the rear.

‘We didn’t expect islanders to join. That wasn’t in the brief,’ one soldier said.

‘This is a treat for us, you see. Mr…?’ Birch began.

‘Hatfield,’ Dermot said. ‘Dermot Hatfield. The Stanleys burnt my village.’

The men said nothing, their good humour subdued. It seemed Dermot had found soldiers with hearts intact; men who also, perhaps, had done things they regretted.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Birch said. His eyes met Dermot’s with something like tenderness. ‘Too many families have been cut down by royalists. Their armies are led by lords, you see, even princes. And men such as they take pleasure where theyfind it, be it in killing or rapine. The soldiers are brutish and unthinking, following their so-called betters like dogs. They do not think of the holy book as you and I do, Mr Hatfield. Men such as they worship idols, in fact, and see their cruelties as nothing more than vices to be undone with a few psalms. But we know better.’

One of the men who’d helped Dermot onto the cart spat. ‘God rot all royalist bastards.’

Birch shook his head. ‘Forgive the language, Mr Hatfield. His own sister was murdered by that very force.’

‘God rest her soul,’ the men chimed.

‘But why would they attack a common village?’ Birch asked, eyeing Dermot. ‘What was the result? You, of course, survived, Mr Hatfield.’

‘Yes,’ Dermot managed, knowing Birch sought to pry words from his mouth. ‘But my mother was killed. I… I don’t know the reason.’ He paused, guessing every man watched him. ‘Tristan Stanley is dead. I killed him.’

The men cheered. The soldier whose sister was murdered clasped Dermot’s hand in a firm shake.

‘But he was a trained swordsman! There are three brothers, aren’t there? Robert, the bastard we’ve heard so much about, Tristan, may he burn in hell, and the last…’ Birch fumbled, sweeping his hand away in disdain. ‘I forget the little viper’s name. But no matter, Mr Hatfield. He’ll be spitted on the end of a sword soon enough.’

Dermot drew back. He thought of Amy and Noelle, at once in a terror.

‘Did Tristan scream as you killed him?’ said the soldier to his left, and Dermot marvelled he could be left so blackened that sadists would come to him for gratification.

‘All fine lords scream,’ said another. He spoke so quickly that Dermot knew he’d joined merely for a chance at murder legalised.

‘No more talk of screaming,’ Birch said. ‘The men here joined of their own accord, seeing the evils done to our nation. We are all farming stock. Yes, Mr Hatfield, even I. Our commander promotes according to skill, not status. And you, an islander here for the fight! He will be pleased when I tell him of your contribution, that the farmhands and servants here detest their masters and long for our victory. Bravo.’

The great man’s description did not disappoint; a commander destined to lead who did not discriminate. Now the king’s head was severed, and commoners were realising enslavement meant more than simple chains. Dermot shivered, enrapt and terrified.

‘By God!’ one of the soldiers cried out.