Page 68 of Burying Venus

Dermot turned to see the castle illuminated against perfect dark. Fingers catching on splintered wood, he watched in disbelief as it was enveloped in crimson. Fire ruptured; a force that would fell heaven. Men cheered at the bombardment as citizens ran screaming past them. The town named for its castle had been mutilated, their stronghold put to the flame.

‘Lord Robert might’ve just been killed by a great boulder falling on top of him, and all of his devils too!’ said one soldier.

A woman with a bundle of cloth clutched to her bosom raced down the path. The child’s wailing carried back to them in the wind.

‘What was that?’ Dermot said. He still watched the castle, even as smog stung his eyes.

‘What, the trebuchet?’ the man who’d fantasised about Robert’s death said.

‘Look at the fellow’s face. He’s never seen one before, thinks God himself struck the place!’ The group laughed readily athis expense, patting their friends on the knee or shoulder and leaving Dermot untouched.

Dermot watched the town from the cart as if casting judgement. Men and women ran, some with silks draped over them as their more earnest neighbours carried children; a flurry of terrorised faces he could not name. People he might’ve met in town, like the pretty sons of bankers he’d made eyes at. What had become of them, he thought, watching as fire caught townhouses. Royalist sympathisers, it would be said, with their fine treasures.

He'd come to another Sodom gone to the torch.

‘Here we are!’ Birch crowed, gesturing to the men besieging the castle. ‘And there’s the Colonel. Go over there and introduce yourself, Dermot. In fact, it would be my great pleasure to go with you!’

Dermot was urged out of the cart the same way he’d been ushered in. He was on his feet at once, hustled to the Colonel by Birch, who clasped their hands together in greeting. The Colonel stared mildly at him, dressed like the puritan soldier he was.

‘This is Dermot Hatfield, Colonel,’ Birch said. ‘In an act of righteous anger, he, an islander, slew Tristan, Lord Stanley’s middle son.’

‘Truly?’ said the Colonel. ‘In which case, sir, I congratulate you heartily. What a jewel you are amongst your peers, who must take great courage in your being here.’ His voice steadily rose so all men took notice.

Looking beyond the pandemonium his entrance brought, Dermot observed the siege. Soldiers stood in droves so the men he’d ridden with could not be found. A battering ram sat at the epicentre of their burgeoning assault, a wooden roof fastened to hide whatever lay inside. Wheels shrieked with motion as the men rocked it back and forth, the door shuddering in reply.

‘Yes, sir,’ Dermot murmured.

‘Your manners are not altogether bad. Look here, this islander has killed Lord Tristan!’ The Colonel forced their hands together, urging them up in a show of victory.

Even as the men struggled to begin their assault, they cheered, their palms calloused and bleeding.

‘Get this man some armour and a proper sword. God as my witness, we deal with these loathsome beasts tonight. You would not believe the replies I’ve had to my letters, Mr Hatfield. The devil himself could’ve written them.’ The Colonel gestured and straightaway a boy was running to collect Dermot’s equipment.

‘I would. I was once employed here as a scullion,’ Dermot said.

The Colonel took his measure again, interest revived. ‘Do you mean that, Mr Hatfield?’

Knowing he’d spoken out of turn, Dermot said nothing. Birch had said promotions were given freely, but every man in attendance was defined by rank. People saw little difference between the man who prepared their food and the creature that was already mutilated on the table.

The boy returned, throwing the equipment onto the ground, leaving Dermot to put it on in front of the soldiers. The Colonel affected not to notice as he contemplated the straps, only nodding in brief approval once everything was equipped, a fine sword sheathed at Dermot’s belt.

Finally, he was taken by the arm in a parody of the promenade as men choked on their own breath above the battering ram.

‘This man is a fine example for all of you. Dermot Hatfield worked as a scullion in this very castle and, being so disgusted by his masters, fled to defend his village from attack, killing Tristan Stanley in the process. Now he comes to our aid, fighting against the place he was subjugated and oppressed in.’ The Colonel’s arm crept behind Dermot’s back, hand eventually settling on his shoulder.

He'd not spoken more than a few sentences but had already been fashioned into neat propaganda; the barbarian eager for another leash. He stood bewildered, cutting an unimpressive figure. The men went back to their work immediately, doubtless with harsh words singed into their tongues.

‘Well, Mr Hatfield, join the men at the gate. But be careful with the battering ram,’ the Colonel said. He returned to Birch, the two of them sequestering themselves to the side where bread had been brought for their pleasure.

Dazed, Dermot fumbled over to men groaning their agony, each having chosen a place at the ram. Grasping the handle, he surged forward in time with them. Soon they were all sweating and singing their exhaustion in tandem.

‘You’ve been here before?’ one soldier said, laughing. ‘A shame you didn’t bring your keys, Mr Hatfield!’

The door smashed apart, near collapsing as the Colonel and Birch rushed to congratulate them. Cannons were brought forward, muskets handed out, and ladders held perilously between men.

‘The king has been executed. The royalists have already lost! Now we defeat the leeches, men. No longer will Lord Stanley profit from tyranny, ruling over his own little island while we govern the mainland. But the devils will fight hard, make no mistake,’ the Colonel said.

Cannons went through without direction, the men having either attended sieges before or benefiting from prior instruction. Every man moved with enviable resoluteness, even as shouts came from the castle; Robert’s men awake and barking for their master. Soldiers nodded at him with muskets in their arms, serious as they rushed through the entrance, commands shouted between them. Dermot envied them, to have found camaraderie and honour while he’d languished in the kitchen.