Chapter Six
It was as if he had died and descended to hell.
The family crowded the courtyard, leaving him no room to escape, surrounded as he was.
Hearing the witchfinder’s prattle, the gentleman being both a mainlander and a southerner, made him want to hide in Béchard’s storage room and never come out again.
Every man in attendance was a foreigner, and it grated.
‘This gale! Have you ever experienced anything like it? I can hardly see! How is a man supposed to conduct business, his hair blowing onto his face?’ the fop cried, curtained by his own billowing locks.
To Dermot’s great surprise, the witchfinder had reason for his vanity.
A brunette with luscious hair and bouncing curls that would’ve been deemed artificial on a woman, so long as to reach his waist. He pulled those same strands with long, practised fingers, every inch of him waifish, though he was a tall man.
Having parted his hair, Dermot saw his long, thin face, characterised by high cheekbones and well-defined, pouting lips.
Appreciatively, Dermot committed every inch of him to memory for later until he was met by the witchfinder’s piercing golden eyes. He shied away, disturbed.
The witchfinder’s partner was of another make entirely. An older, portly gentleman who wore his ridiculous hat with severity. His outfit was black and plain, matching the young man who marched a few paces ahead.
‘My sons are eager to meet you,’ Lord Stanley murmured, seeming to ignore the young man and go straight for the older.
‘You are mistaken, Lord Stanley. My partner is the witchfinder you sent for. I am but his faithful assistant,’ the gentleman said.
He spoke in the affected manner typical of the upper-class.
Keen eyes falling on them as if in scrutiny, he at last glimpsed Dermot raking his eyes over the young man, and an outrage so unmistakable afflicted him that Dermot stepped back until he was obscured behind Robert.
‘What…’ Lord Stanley said. He was uncomprehending, lost in some trance he couldn’t quite escape from.
‘Indeed! I welcome you to our island and my family’s home. Was the journey fair?’ Robert said, practically pouncing on them. He offered his hand to the witchfinder, making the young man flinch as he was all but crushed in Robert’s firm grip.
‘Quite long, in fact. I have travelled by boat before but this is our first overseas expedition together. We are eager to get to work,’ the older gentleman said, eyes flitting to Dermot with a frown.
‘Mr…’ Robert said, trailing off.
The witchfinder sneered and looked to his companion, who gave a brief nod. ‘Thorne,’ he said.
‘And the crossing?’ Robert said.
Thorne stared at Robert, eerie and expressionless. For a man in his twenties, he hadn’t one wrinkle to show for it, and his skin was pale and faultless. ‘Tolerable,’ he said finally, fixing those strange eyes on the stone beneath their feet.
‘Well,’ Robert said, for even a man so well-trained in courtesy couldn’t feign interest when met by such aloofness. ‘The servants have prepared a veritable feast in preparation for your coming. We do, after all, intend to lavish our thanks on our most esteemed guests.’
‘That is much too kind,’ the older man said. Still no one thought to ask his name.
‘I was remiss earlier. Do pardon me. I am Lord Robert, eldest son of Lord Stanley, and beside me are my dear brothers,’ Robert said, gaze fixed on Thorne despite the man’s tepid introduction.
Thorne frowned at Robert, looking to both Tristan and Aubrey in turn before again casting his eyes to stone. ‘A pleasure,’ he murmured.
‘And I am John,’ Thorne’s assistant said and, at a slight tilt of the head from his companion, said again, ‘Weston. John Weston.’
‘Indeed!’ Robert said. His voice, usually reserved for cruelty and vice, strained at these niceties like a discordant string. He moved seamlessly towards the castle, indicating the rest of them to do the same.
Dermot, trying to keep from Aubrey, went instead to Thorne.
Their witchfinder was a dark beauty, clad in black with a cloak draped over one shoulder that lingered attractively at the edge of his trousers.
What made him yet more beguiling was an error on the part of his tailor, trousers being tight enough to reveal a particularly pert bottom.
Dermot could not avert his eyes as the witchfinder moved, hypnotised by the billowing of the cloak, the soft sway of his hips.
His mind went at once to some imagining, that of himself as the inquisitor and Thorne bound and at his mercy.
Were he at liberty, he’d have gone straightaway to the nearest privy to stroke his prick raw.
‘Have you had many women?’ Tristan said. That spurred Thorne to turn from examining the carpets to look at Tristan, who, between scarcely concealed laughter, said, ‘They’re usually women, aren’t they? And you interrogate them?’
Thorne’s shapely lips drew into a pout. Dermot feared he would spill as he walked, so captivated was he by this puritan.
‘Of course. If we did not and went instead by baseless assumption, we would be violating the principles a witchfinder adheres to,’ Thorne said. This, Dermot guessed, might’ve been the truth, for it was the most he’d said since meeting them.
Tristan’s hands traced his braid as if in contemplation. ‘Principles? What do you mean? A country girl wandering alone, is that not suspicious?’
‘Not particularly. You will find the majority of these cases stem from a grandmother, for instance. How else are the children supposed to learn, should they not come from a family of those who are likeminded,’ Thorne said.
He spoke softly, and Dermot strained to hear him, fascinated by how he inched away from Tristan.
At this, Tristan muttered under his breath and spoke no more. His fantasies must’ve been doused as his comely young maiden morphed into an old woman. But Dermot was even more heated; shy and quiet, Thorne was certainly his preference.
‘Oh my,’ John Weston said. ‘What a feast, Lord Stanley. I don’t quite know what to do with it.’
Dermot knew precisely what he wanted the simpering buffoon to do. The man already suspected him, clearly, and whether it was Dermot’s lack of status that perturbed him or his keen eye on Thorne, he wasn’t certain, but evidently he was disliked.
‘My son…’ Lord Stanley called meekly.
‘Let us sit. Weston, Thorne, you are my guests of honour. I must request you sit directly opposite me so I can observe your reactions as my most trusted manservant relays the events of the day to you,’ Robert said, striding into the room and taking the seat nearest the head of the table, where Lord Stanley was still obliged to sit. ‘Come!’
Weston signalled for his partner to follow and reserved his place opposite Robert. If he noticed Robert’s frown, he wisely ignored it.
‘This seat is for Dermot,’ Robert said as Tristan threw the chair a foot from the table. ‘He is to tell the tale. How can we expect him to shout from across the room?’
Tristan looked askance at both Robert and Dermot.
‘He is but a servant! Where am I supposed to sit, right of Aubrey as if I am the youngest? Or should I take mother’s chair?
’ Lady Stanley had died a few years before, and still Lord Stanley refused to remarry.
It was perhaps the man’s only admirable quality.
‘Why not, if that is what you wish. Come, Dermot, having the lunch you prepared will be a rare treat. I imagine you survive mostly off scraps,’ Robert said, gesturing to the chair beside him with a few pats as though Dermot were a particularly stupid dog.
Dermot moved as steadily as he could, mindful the group’s attention rested solely on him, edging past Tristan as the bastard threw his hands into the air and took his mother’s place.
The chairs were plump with feathers and set in rosewood, etched with what looked to be wings at their back.
Dermot took his place dutifully, only realising afterwards that he was sitting in the place reserved for Robert’s bride.
‘A servant,’ Weston said disdainfully, not deigning even to look at him.
Dermot recognised Aubrey settle next to him. The mere suggestion of black curls in his vision stung like vinegar, and his fists clenched uncomfortably.
‘What is on the plate at the centre?’ Thorne said.
‘I have never in my life seen such a wanton display of extravagance, no, dare I say gluttony. Must I be called on to witness such a thing?’ As his voice rang out, Dermot noted the peculiarity of his accent.
His tone rose and fell as if in imitation of a man often heard but of so different a background any repetition rendered him but a performer.
Worse, there was a certain quality making his preaching useless; a chime that caused Dermot’s interest to stir again.
‘Our guests only wish to welcome us…’ Weston managed.
‘No!’ Thorne said, startling even Dermot.
‘It is, dare I say, a papist display. I cannot, will not, eat this. Haven’t I always said a man needs but some potatoes and his fair share of meat?
And I mean what is properly prepared in slices, not whole on the table.
’ His pretty fingers danced across his chest to the plain cross secured by a thin silver chain.
Robert was as surprised as Dermot had ever seen.
His jaw was firmly set, and he shifted a little in his chair.
‘I see. I can assure you my family is not inclined that way. My apologies if I have somehow suggested otherwise. We do, of course, have vegetables. But as for any sort of meat, our cook would have to start again, which would I’m afraid take us past dinner. ’
That Robert had any knowledge of the kitchen at all brought him but some peace of mind.
‘Please sit down,’ Weston said, very much like a long-suffering mother.
Watching Robert hesitate, Dermot said, ‘We have some beef left from yesterday, I believe.’