Page 7 of Burying Venus

‘I enjoy reading. And I play a little on the piano,’ Aubrey said. He spoke without guile or malice, with the same candour he’d shown Dermot.

‘Is that all?’ the bishop asked. Awaiting confirmation or rebuttal and receiving neither, he went on, ‘Your brothers are accomplished swordsmen ready to defend our nation and religion. Yet your talents seem more suited to an aspiring wife, Aubrey.’

‘He likes certain types of swords,’ Tristan began, only to hiss after an abrupt thump. Presumably someone had thought to kick him from underneath the table.

‘Well, be that as it may, something must be done,’ the bishop said. There was a strange tremor to his voice and, as if every mincing pretence had been snuffed out, he continued, ‘Our island is undergoing great changes as of late, Lord Stanley. I suspect certain members of the parishes are attending our solemn rites with something like disdain. And if that were not enough, some do not attend at all.’

Lord Stanley grumbled, ‘Surely, my friend.’ It was all he condescended to say.

‘I see we are in total agreement.’ The bishop lingered on every syllable like a man beguiled by his own words. ‘Indeed, they must be brought to heel by any means necessary. My fellows have been subjected to unfortunate complaints lately regarding scarcity of land. They fail to recognise that we were assigned these positions by a higher power.’ This speech was partly interrupted by the guzzling of wine.

‘Our pleasure is theirs,’ Robert said. ‘If we enjoy a meal such as this, they must be gratified to have provided the labour. It should be their greatest ambition.’

‘Especially if they be women,’ Tristan murmured.

Here Dermot expected Tristan to be sorely reproached, yet Lord Stanley deigned say nothing at all.

‘If they do not have enough to eat due to cost, well! What do they expect us to do, join them in the fields?’ the bishop asked.

‘Indeed,’ Lord Stanley murmured, sounding unsure.

‘If their days were longer, more arduous, surely they wouldn’t think about such things,’ Robert said.

‘Smart lad,’ the bishop said. ‘Aubrey, haven’t you anything to say? You’ve hardly eaten a thing.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Aubrey said immediately. Dermot fancied he was turning taciturn, surrounded as he was by lunatics.

‘How can you be so ungrateful for what this animal has given to us?’ the bishop said.

‘It hardly had a choice in the matter,’ Aubrey said.

‘Do you imagine animals make choices, that they think at all? I dare say your father hasn’t been remiss with your education, else how would he have brought up your excellent brothers. You need to be taken in hand, to be reined in.’ For all his hatred of the man, Dermot knew he wouldn’t chastise Lord Stanley’s family had he been able to stop himself. Harsh words were always veiled between niceties.

‘I dare say I have secretaries for this nonsense. To hell with this,’ Lord Stanley managed. His chair lurched as he stood and thundered away, growing quieter with each parting thud until the door slammed shut.

‘Your Grace,’ Robert drawled, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place. ‘My father does not merit speaking to on this matter. I, however, would happily take the situation in hand. You need only speak to me.’

Dermot, caressing the vial, near dropped it onto the stair. Tristan behaving as he did was a trifling affair, but Robert’s unfilial answer might’ve cost him his life in another time. A son did not beseech like a wife or daughter; he, the heir, was an asset or a threat.

Keeping his feet near the wall, Dermot recalled Will’s advice on treading lightly and staying between heavy fixtures. His getting to the partition was a feat achieved solely through this, and he spied the family readily. They sat around the table, having thoroughly torn apart the cockentrice. The only indication something was amiss was Lord Stanley’s chair, askew as it was.

‘For a boy to speak so of his father!’ the bishop said. He dabbed a handkerchief to his lips, one intricately patterned and smeared with the piglet’s earthly remains.

Tristan’s arm went up then. Dermot, having no notion of what he was doing, watched in disbelief as Tristan crushed leftovers between his fingers and flung it at the bishop from across the table.

‘You horrid, boisterous boy!’ the bishop cried as the miserable flesh was slung across his face. He hurriedly got to his feet and dusted at his robes. ‘Let it be known that I hold considerable sway. If you intend to rule, Lord Robert, I suggest behaving amicably and not allowing your brothers to ruin your reputation. By God, what fiends you are!’

Dermot took great pains to ensure he didn’t cry out in surprise. His legs shook under the weight of the scene, heart seizing as he realised Maldred’s concoction was the likeliest culprit. Tristan might’ve enjoyed bullying maids, but even he wouldn’t have slung food at one of God’s representatives from across the dining room table.

‘You, Tristan, should be at war,’ the bishop drawled, striding over to Aubrey and giving his shoulders a firm squeeze. ‘Andyou, boy, must thank God you will not hang.’ And with that, the man fled their company as if there was not much amiss.

‘Bastard!’ Tristan called out, chicken leg hanging from his lips. He stood abruptly, great braid swinging to one side as Dermot rushed to hide behind the partition. ‘Pay him no mind. You know what they say about clergymen.’

Silence hung over them until Dermot discerned the particular way Aubrey’s chest fell, the quick breaths that came from him as he hunched over, hands clutching at his dark hair. He realised as Tristan put a hand on the boy’s shoulder that Aubrey was openly sobbing. Inching closer in disbelief, he fumbled and near tripped as if hit by the sharp lash of a whip. Aubrey’s features were at once lost to him, obscured.

Chest heaving as though to vomit, Dermot crept to the stairwell and stumbled down best he could. He’d fallen victim to a faerie’s flirtations and singlehandedly destroyed a great house when his imagination only promised an end to employment, Maldred grateful and submissive as a concubine. But the creature was mysticism incarnate, a complete unknown. As soon as Dermot made it safely to the kitchen, he spewed bile onto his own shoes at the idea of whatever he’d set in motion running wild outside the castle’s accursed walls.

Chapter Four