Page 9 of Burying Venus

‘Have you ridden before? I wouldn’t think so. Yet you’re going to keep our poor brother steady?’ Tristan leaned forward, grasping the cuff of Dermot’s sleeve so they stood near touching. ‘Make sure he doesn’t fall off his horse. Or else.’ The bastard separated them and made a feint with his fist, only retreating after Dermot recoiled, jubilant and laughing. ‘Well, off with you then! Help him get on.’

Blood thrumming as Tristan leapt onto his own horse, Dermot visualised thrusting a knife into him in perfect replay. Only Aubrey, staring at him sadly, thwarted this burgeoning arousal. He made his way to the lordling, needles teasing against his skin, and caught him round the waist as to best hoist him onto the horse.

‘You’re getting on too, aren’t you?’ Tristan called.

Dermot steeled himself. Unlike Béchard and Will, he had no desire to mingle with nobility, never being the sort of instrument that loved the man pawing at his hilt.

Grasping the saddle’s edge, Dermot pushed himself up in imitation, but as he stumbled and grabbed Aubrey’s hip for support, his hands burnt with all the shock of fire. He barely caught his foot in the stirrup and latched onto the saddle, mouth agape with wonder like the savage they supposed him to be.

‘Stupid cunt,’ Tristan hissed, having lined himself up next to Robert. His braid, luscious as ink and twisting down his back, made him striking as any maiden.

‘Onward!’ Robert said. ‘We’re in for a rare hunt today, courtesy of myself and some associates. I beg of you, do not ask where we go or what we shoot. It is a surprise.’ Merely seeing him from the back, Dermot surmised his expression. One side of his mouth turned into a smirk, the other unmoving as if undergoing a fit.

Robert and Tristan urged their horses forward in unison, and Aubrey grabbed the reins and made to do the same. His long, thin fingers gave a hearty tug, though even that exertion made his palms flush.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Aubrey said, having brought the horse to trot by way of a light kick. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else when my brothers asked for a man to help me ride. They said the stableboys were too young, and Robert mentioned you might’ve learnt on account of your father. How selfish of me.’

Intending to comfort, Dermot’s mouth ran dry. Words thought of moments ago were lost to him, becoming more evasive in silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aubrey echoed, murmuring sweetly to the horse when it slowed. Such a scene should’ve brought pleasure, yet Dermot felt all the disinterest of a eunuch.

Town was pleasant enough, owing to Stanley presence. Streets were paved with fine brick as if fashioned for their use, the rest of the populace having to contend with woodlands and sludge. A veritable limbo of bankers and lawyers, the only suggestion of another class of people were the boats bobbing on the sea, Lord Stanley having deemed fish too common for his table. He dreamt of this place once, a reprieve from village life, but found only servitude. Now, as they rode, townspeople made obeisance and sent prayers for a good hunt. It was their luck that neither Robert nor Tristan dismounted and enacted some torture, their conditions being so strange and precarious.

They crossed the threshold into nature. Little remained, the Stanleys having turned much of it to farmland so men who’dsettled for centuries were usurped by mere sheep. The surviving woods, Dermot knew, would one day be wrestled for profit as well, and no longer would men look to it and dream of escape.

As soon as they quit town, a pretty voice not unlike those sea wenches reached him, melodious but altogether more tempting. If it had been Aubrey, little prince that he was, Dermot would’ve been appreciative but unsurprised. But the man whose voice might’ve bested any opera starlet was the scourge of all maids. Tristan’s voice was disarming and sweet, his lyrics sentimental, the perfect partner for the unspoilt countryside. Realising with a jolt he knew nothing about their private lives in truth, Dermot sat back, unsettled.

‘Dermot,’ Robert called. ‘I do hope you don’t intend to linger behind. I expect your full participation. And I feel I must warn you, if you hesitate in any way, I will take it as an affront to my poor brother.’

If the Stanleys were gracious masters and Tristan as amiable as his voice, they might’ve had a pleasant outing. But as they neared the forest, Dermot became all the more harried. He imagined pheasants shot from the sky, terrified beasts skewered by their swords, and this horror hung over him like a veil, obscuring all he saw and twisting it so everything was at once unbearable.

‘Ride by me,’ Robert said. He turned to watch them, impassive.

Realising Aubrey didn’t intend to move, Dermot brought his hands to the reins. He pulled at them daringly, conscious as Aubrey’s fingers grazed his own, and tried to mask his relief as the horse went where instructed. Tristan urged his own to the side, clearing a space so Dermot was trapped between them.

‘Speak of this to no one. If you do, I will know,’ Robert said.

The threat coiled around his guts and turned his bowels to water. An ordinary hunting trip required no such warning.Glimpsing Tristan from his side, he watched astounded as the bastard smiled at him.

Robert forced his horse forward with a sharp kick, Tristan immediately following. Doubtless the pair concocted some plan for the day, and Dermot dared not fall behind. Imitating Robert’s manner, trying to recall his scant training, he kicked at the animal to Aubrey’s shocked gasp.

‘What are they doing?’ Dermot said, leaning closer but not touching his charge.

‘I’m not sure,’ Aubrey said. His curls tickled against Dermot’s chin. ‘I’m scared. Please, you mustn’t think I wanted to force this on you.’ His voice took on a note of urgency.

Dermot’s mind stuttered and, unsure of what to do, he said nothing. Still contemplating his response, he rode peaceably until Robert’s head twisted like an owl sensing a rat. It was a grotesque, unnatural movement that sent bile running up Dermot’s throat; the gruel he’d prepared that morning.

‘That way, men!’ Robert called. ‘Come, follow me!’

As a man in his mid-twenties, Dermot felt more boy than man, and Aubrey was only nineteen. But Tristan, a year or two Dermot’s junior, swerved to gallop after Robert and near killed his horse in the process. They had no choice but to hurry after, Dermot’s strategy mere mimicry. It was his rare luck the horse was eager to follow its fellows and not prone to spooking or any sort of foul play.

By their very nature, hunts were devised to sate a young man’s urges. The lordling who might’ve skewered peasants could sate himself with the cries of a poor, unknowing creature. It was this Dermot feared, for he had often looked at the animals upon Béchard’s table and felt something akin to pity. Cruelty was boundless and, as a scream sounded from ahead, Dermot wrenched the reins back with a groan. Aubrey near fell into him with the force of it. Pain came soon after, an invisibleknife having wormed its way into his guts. He flinched, hands loosening, near crying out with the shock of it.

‘Mightn’t you run a bit longer, boy?’ Robert said.

Hands shaking while a mere caress set him to turmoil, Dermot turned around. His eyes, burning and sore as they were, discerned the creature in front of them well enough.

‘I can’t!’ the boy cried. For he was young, scarcely eighteen to Dermot’s thinking. And unlike earlier encounters, he was no mystical creature of the forest. He was a perfectly ordinary young man juxtaposed with Robert’s black, predatory shadow.