Chapter Nine #3
Pulling the boy up, he realised his own meanness.
The little witch whimpered and muttered garbled words he was too frightened to say.
Dermot could only clasp his shoulders and puppeteer him as Robert did them all, such was the man’s reach that he could control everyone under his employment at the same time.
‘Bloody hell, he looks as bad as her. Have you ever seen such a creature in all your life? God rot all ugly women, and if we have to burn them, I say I’ll light the pyre myself!’ The bastard laughed heartily, seizing the woman and pushing her to the stairs.
Urging the boy on, he at last discerned what was being said. Traitor, repeated continuously as they walked. Steeling himself against the hurt, Dermot hoped he would not have to carry him up as he had done with Thorne.
‘Bastard, traitor,’ the boy said as they turned a corner. Words not meant for Dermot, the sorry tool made to carry out the task, enduring it all in Robert’s stead.
As they came to the stairs, Dermot gave the boy a push that near floored him. Realising the boy couldn’t properly manoeuvre himself, he put both hands on either side of him. It was a great joke to make men half decayed and starved climb so many steps.
‘My aunt knows your mother, says she’s a slut for mainlanders, that you’re half yourself. That’s what all the village says,’ the boy said.
Speaking in their native language, the guardsman couldn’t understand a word.
Dermot recalled the harsh treatment from his peers, giving a great huff of breath as the memory struck.
The boy was bound for the pyre with Dermot as his deliverer, anyhow.
There would be no kindness between them.
But he agonised over those village snakes, whispering poison all the way to the capital.
As a child he’d dreamt of going to the mainland with his father to be amongst people who, to him, would be his saviours.
Of course, his father had never come back, and he was left with naught but bitterness from both sides.
‘Dermot!’ the guardsman called as he hauled the boy up. ‘What bile comes from that witch? Is he cursing us?’
Every other guard immediately took notice. They crowded around him, shouting in one great chorus.
‘He says only that he is hungry,’ Dermot murmured, unwilling to cause more strife and afraid they might grab hold of the boy and beat him to death before he could be delivered to the carriage.
‘Hungry! The bread not good enough for you, lad?’ said the guardsman, hefting the great burden of the dungeon hole’s cover.
‘All wet, was it? We did piss on it, after all.’ They burst into a volley of laughter, slapping one another on the shoulder and making gestures so obscene Dermot averted his eyes.
‘Lord Robert is waiting,’ Dermot said to his companion, who was just then spitting on the ground. Only this gentle coaxing quietened the men.
They went straightaway to the courtyard, where only guards remained. Never before had he witnessed such an influx of men, nor seen them without a card or dice when the family was absent. It was only then he recalled the strange tale of preparing the cannons.
‘What is going on? Why are there so many guardsmen, is there some danger?’ Dermot said, giving the boy another shove when he lingered too long on one foot.
‘Yes! Do you see there?’ the man replied, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he pointed to a hole in the great gate, the hefty portcullises on either side capable of piercing a man’s guts.
‘We have been instructed that, should any intruder pass by here, we are to shower hot lead down on him. If our arrows do not get him first, of course!’
‘Who would intrude?’ Dermot said immediately. Never before had he heard of such punishment, and he was petrified by the cruelties that had been so easily conceived.
‘Those men who fight for the country, rather than the king,’ the guardsman said. ‘Lord Robert has received a message or two from them and fears the worst.’
Dermot’s hands loosened due to the shock, and a sharp elbow to the ribs was his answer.
He strove to contain the boy as he sighted crowds straining to get a closer look at the witches.
If one of his countrymen had so much as put a hand on the rails on any other day, he’d have received an arrow through the heart for his trouble.
Nevertheless, he was delighted. The very idea of Robert being cowed and threatened was akin to sex. Trained men coming in droves would make quick work of their sorry castle. If they managed to slay Robert, Dermot might convert to the idea of some higher power.
‘Over there!’ the guardsman said, giving the sorry fabric of Dermot’s shirt a tug as they came out to the harbour.
The carriage was waiting but, realising Robert wouldn’t put prisoners into such a fine vehicle, Dermot glimpsed another with a cage fixed to it.
It had been neatly attached as if to transport animals.
‘What is this?’ Dermot said, watching as the guardsman unlatched the hatch and threw the old woman in.
‘If I were a witch, I’d turn the two of you into toads, and then I’d squash you!’ the boy cried out in his native tongue. Recalling what the boy said about his mother, Dermot threw him in likewise, having no qualms in this harsh treatment while he was observed.
The guardsman clicked the lock that signalled their imprisonment, and it was poignant to see the hypocrisy so plain.
Two poor villagers sat caged while their own people gawked, undefiant.
This ensured their destruction, not the coming of the Stanleys, but their own meek nature.
Both master and slave were at fault when a people could rise above in protest but did not.
‘Dermot! My dear boy, did you think you weren’t coming? Sit with us in the carriage,’ Robert said.
The guardsman already saluted Robert and left, leaving Dermot stood alone on the pavement.
His heart dropped to his bowels as he stepped up into the carriage, a sleek thing of gleaming black with wheels of gold, and he pushed forward until he was safely nestled within.
The seating matched the exterior so that they were in darkness.
Sitting himself down, he set his eyes on his two captors. Robert, outfitted so finely one might think he was attending his own wedding, and Tristan, usually unkempt but now wearing a neat cloak of black with a silver chain around his neck, pretty as any maiden.
‘It is finally time. And what luck, there is no rain today,’ Robert was saying, fingers curling as he examined his nails. ‘Did you have trouble delivering our two witches, Dermot?’
‘No,’ Dermot said immediately, wary of Robert inflicting more misery on the pair. ‘None at all, Lord Robert.’
Anxiety burgeoned in his chest, and Dermot could hardly remain still.
Fists continuously unfurling, he scraped fingers across the palms of his hands.
It could not be, he thought, that two people would be tied to the stake and burnt today.
No sane man would do such a thing, but then, this was not the work of man.
Shuddering, he could only hope that Maldred had some plan to set this right.
The coachman shouted and a whip lashed through the air, followed by the horse’s answering neigh. The contraption jolted then, causing Dermot to lurch forward almost into Robert’s lap. It was only belated instinct that made him pull back.
It was Tristan who caught his eye then. Not for the young man’s strange beauty, for he observed that often in the past, but because his hands kept twitching. Whether it was drink or some sort of illness, Dermot had no idea.
‘Do you look forward to the day’s events, Dermot?’ Robert said.
Dermot had been watching the bleak, grey houses lining the streets, forgetting the dark eyes he knew settled on him. ‘Yes, Lord Robert,’ he said.
‘It pleases me to hear you say so. Why, were it not for my kindness, you would still be in the kitchen,’ Robert said.
It was then he recalled that it hadn’t been Béchard who forbade his duties.
Robert himself had done it. And he’d spent so long cursing the chef for isolating him.
Watching his so-called better, he longed for the men who’d penned those letters.
He imagined a sword severing Robert’s head from his body; another nobleman put to the grave.
Every rich man’s proper place was in the ground, after all.
‘Where is Mr Thorne?’ Dermot asked, aware he was still observed.
‘Mr Thorne,’ Robert said as if to mock Dermot’s tone of voice.
Doubtless he’d heard the rumours as well, being much in the company of the guardsmen as of late.
‘He is not coming. Weston has ridden ahead and will be ensuring the burning is done to a good standard. It is my understanding that Thorne is squeamish.’
The answer near set him to laughter. That a man who condemned countless others to death might cower from the grisly act itself was farcical. Never had he despised the witchfinder so much.
Shying away when he realised he was still observed, he recalled he’d heard nothing of Aubrey since the performance in the courtroom.
Gathering his courage as the carriage ground to a halt, he recoiled as the doors were opened.
How he must look to these people; a devil made plain in sunlight, marred by such a foreboding complexion.
‘Lord Robert,’ Dermot called, just as the man was halfway out of the carriage and onto the pavement waiting below. Through the cacophony of cheers, Dermot said, ‘Where is Aubrey?’
‘Aubrey,’ Robert sounded, as if the name was already utterly unfamiliar to him. ‘He has been confined to his room. Rest assured, my brother is well cared for despite his hysteria.’ At that, he stepped into the town square. ‘And, Dermot, keep in mind, he’s under lock and key.’