Chapter Eight
Hardly a few days had passed before he was accosted by Robert, his hands deep in chicken entrails.
He blearily watched as Béchard was led out and Robert took his place at Dermot’s side, promptly informing him that he had been chosen to swim the witch boy in the harbour.
Dermot had thought the boy free after his aunt’s confession, but evidently men better educated than he had decided there should be a trial.
He took courage, at least, in the thought that his countrymen would finally witness the madness brewing within.
Surely, he reasoned as he led the boy outside the castle gates, riots could not be far off.
Robert and Tristan flanked him, each striding at his side like a pair of choice concubines.
‘Fine weather,’ Robert said.
The boy had been a spitfire as he was dragged from the dungeon.
His aunt cried out meekly, fast weakening under their harsh treatment.
It had been one matter carrying Thorne in his arms, but the boy, squirming and crying for his aunt, near knocked him down the stairs.
When he came out and the two guardsmen greeted him, he thought them relatively impressed, for they did not laugh or joke about his supposed tryst with Thorne.
That such a foul rumour was hot on the tongues of servants should’ve been enough to drown him instead, but Robert, having at least heard them, seemed amused.
As soon as they came into the blistering wind, the boy became docile and quiet.
A hundred or so spectators had busied themselves finding a spot, and now they all convened outside the castle.
The pavement was overtaken by a veritable mob who dared only whisper as Robert and Tristan walked past. Some of the young women, likely daughters of bankers and merchants, murmured greetings to them.
The three of them paraded to the tune of this sorry affair, Dermot’s face red with shame.
It was Thorne who steadied him, the boy a mere weight against his chest. The witchfinder stood peering over the harbour, near teetering off the earth into the sea.
His manner of dress, juxtaposed with the fine furs of the Stanley brothers and the citizens in their Sunday best, served only to interest the spectators.
People whispered his true identity, shrouded in black as he was, pretty curls tied back and broad-brimmed hat obscuring his face.
That such a beauty could be hidden so absolutely was a great tragedy, even if the man in question was so unashamedly evil.
Weston stood apart from his companion, much taken by the onlookers. Occasionally he tipped his hat at a young woman, eyes flitting to his oblivious partner until he finally observed Dermot. ‘I have the rope here. I do hope the sorry fool hasn’t given you much trouble, my good man,’ he said.
Being addressed so brazenly in front of the crowd shamed him. The spectators, enrapt by Robert and Tristan, now set their eyes on him. Grumbling a little, he positioned the boy above the harbour, fervently hoping the wretch wasn’t in the mind to throw them both in.
‘It is a nice day, is it not, Lord Robert? Heaven smiles on us,’ Weston remarked, gesturing stupidly at the sky as if it had not been observed until that very moment.
‘Indeed,’ Robert said. ‘I said so just as we came out.’
That they were engaging in small talk disturbed Dermot the most. The boy was to be drowned, perhaps, or else paraded through the street like a triumph.
‘Put the colt down! Let’s get to the tying!’ Tristan shouted.
Dermot looked desperately to the crowd, waiting for some reaction, but they stared back as if drunk on faerie concoction themselves.
He could not make sense of it. They were so easily ruled, determined not to challenge merely on account of their blood.
Now they were to be hunted, and man stood dumber than any animal at slaughter.
Racked with horror and disdain for himself, Dermot threw the boy down as spectators gasped. But their cries were exultant rather than shocked, some urging him to do the boy some hurt. Dermot could only look down, eyes trained on stone rather than the light that so burnt his eyes.
‘I have much experience here,’ Weston said, hurling the rope about like a lunatic. He crawled to the boy and tied fingers to toes, crisscrossing them like the dolls village girls made, though such folly would be deemed naught but witchcraft now.
‘No,’ Robert said sharply, causing Dermot to turn and see his arm outstretched, barring Tristan from taking a more active role.
The boy had cloth shoved into his mouth to prevent any screaming. Dermot could not look away. That man’s body could be twisted as to appear so inhuman and grotesque was a shock even to him.
‘He is ready to go in, Lord Robert,’ Weston said, still sat on the ground.
Dermot stood shaking. His bowels became soft and moveable, the excretion pressing into him and desperate to pass.
‘Did you hear the witchfinder, my boy? Throw him in as you’ve been taught. Mind not to drop him,’ Robert said. He guffawed, still unable to manage a laugh. ‘I doubt any of us will be going in after him.’
Hands desperately going to his eyes, Dermot rubbed them as if to mutilate.
True enough, Weston had shown him the steps as gentlemanly as the subject permitted, yet still he foresaw some tragedy.
His fingers could loosen. The boy would tumble away then, drowning in the harbour, never to be brought up again.
‘Are you gone deaf?’ Tristan shouted.
‘No… I…’ Dermot said. Bitter tears stung his eyes. The crowd, dumb as they were, started chanting.
Thorne turned towards him then. Those awful eyes, too yellow to be a natural green, set on him like an incubus. Innocuously, Dermot thought at first, the man ran his tongue across well-formed lips. A faint smile emerged; the evil eye brought to life.
Dermot fancied even he was immune to such an obvious attempt at seduction.
Shuddering, and all too aware of the crowd’s attention, he grabbed the boy as the cheers reached their crescendo.
Weston came to his aid, taking the boy’s back while Dermot took the legs.
Their witch lay prone, eyes tightly shut and skin whiter than Dermot had thought possible.
‘You’re a strong man,’ Weston said.
He was compelled to act with Thorne staring at him.
His legs quaked as he struggled to resist, all the while sensing that something was deeply awry.
His body had never before thrummed with the urge to move while his mind urged stillness; such was the power of Thorne’s gaze, strange and unnatural.
He could think only that if he were not made to do it, Will or Stephen would have been forced to take his place.
The rope chafed his hands as he ground his teeth.
Glancing around, he saw Robert watching with Tristan at his side, the second Stanley son near bouncing on his heels.
Weston and Thorne stood nearby, both eyeing him.
As soon as Thorne noticed he was being watched, he leaned towards Weston, no doubt whispering venom into the man’s ear.
Dermot wondered when they would realise his mother was among the accused.
Stuck in indecision, the boy soon to be drawn out as a corpse, Dermot grasped the rope and unceremoniously flung him in. The women cheered the loudest, he noticed, shrill and rapturous.
The boy hit the water hard, shouting before he was submerged.
It was likely his first time seeing the ocean.
Peasant boys stuck in rural villages did not go swimming.
They could not spare the time, marionetted between school and the fields.
This had changed recently, owing to Lord Stanley’s insistence that no man had the right to pass property to his son.
Thus they were robbed of their birthright, their means of income, and at last their lives.
‘Watch him squirm!’ Tristan said, much to the delight of spectators. Gentlemen dirtied their shoes looking over the harbour as women lifted their skirts, hollering to one another. A debate soon began on whether the boy was floating or drowned.
Heart surging in his chest, Dermot realised the boy was gone too far and would soon suffocate. He unthinkingly wound the rope, allowing him a moment to breathe.
‘He floats,’ Thorne murmured.
Weston reeled back from where he stood and gave a great shout. ‘He floats! My companion, the esteemed and famous witchfinder, says it himself! The boy is a witch!’
Dermot near dropped the rope in what would’ve been a watery execution, simpler than what was to come.
The boy had not floated. He, the man responsible for holding the thing, raised the rope to permit him a breath of air.
Were all witches condemned thus, he wondered, being made martyrs on account of simple mercy or mistake.
Weston tapped on his shoulder as the crowd shrilled. ‘He may come up now,’ he said. Dermot’s hands flexed on instinct.
‘Do you think him simple?’ Tristan asked. He spoke with the loutish arrogance of a man never taught to be quiet.
‘No, indeed. Bring the little witch up, Dermot,’ Robert said. His attention was caught by the young women, and he deigned to smile at some of the prettier ones as he surveyed them. ‘He is simply docile. A fine trait in a foreigner.’
All too aware it was he the boy depended on, Dermot pulled at the rope.
Groaning under the weight, he cast their captive to the stones without a word.
Though the weather was mild, his skin burned, and sweat poured from him like water from the boy.
His hands were great lines of white and red, gone into welts.
The rest of them stood unscathed; it was he who bore the brunt of their crime.
‘I hope court is set up,’ Thorne said, whispering. So timid was he, this witchfinder who made men do his bidding, and what was that but a sorcerer.