Chapter Ten #3
‘Where do you go then, what village?’ asked the cart master. He gave his horse a sound whip before the creature began to move, jolting them along uncomfortably.
‘It is to the north east, about half an hour from here. I…’ Dermot murmured, aware he prattled like a fool. ‘It is near where that witch woman came from.’
‘Good Lord!’ the merchant cried, horse well on its way. ‘Yes, I know, it was taken to print. You are going there?’
‘Yes,’ Dermot said, settling his back against sharp wood and hoping not to get splintered. Aubrey was at his side, crammed tightly between Dermot’s body and the corner of the cart. The boy’s gown could be felt against his legs, which only served to make him flush as wind thrashed against his skin.
‘I’m not from these parts, mind, so I don’t know the place properly.
Do you have business there? Your mistress certainly doesn’t lack for trinkets.
But, then, is it not a poor village?’ the merchant chattered, intermittently bringing the whip down on the horse’s back.
‘I don’t suppose… you certainly can’t be the witchfinder, can you, sir?
’ Here his voice took on a nasally quality.
Frightened, it seemed, that he had the infamous Mr Thorne as his passenger.
‘No,’ Dermot said immediately, pleased to be addressed so anyhow.
No man had ever given him such airs. ‘My wife and I are there for a family matter, the death of her brother.’ He spoke quickly, intending nothing, for it struck him they could not have a connection to the accused.
He had not meant to fantasise about Robert dying; despite many transgressions, he was still Aubrey’s kin.
It had simply been the first truth, that of Aubrey’s siblings, to bleed into his deception.
‘My condolences. My own mother passed last year,’ the cart master said. ‘I don’t think much of these witchfinders myself. But that one… word has it he’s the same as sent three-hundred souls to the grave.’
Dermot’s back pressed against a plank of wood as he flinched.
He knew Thorne was infamous, but even a seasoned soldier’s heart wasn’t so black.
For the witchfinder to be so delicate, incapable of landing a blow against another, presented a world where strength had no meaning and a man’s tongue became executioner.
He was an unnatural creature, an incubus beguiling a courtroom to do his bidding, causing soldiers who’d never before considered sodomy to drool at the mention of his name.
Dermot was incredulous he hadn’t noticed it at the time, that his unravelling at the table was not a natural act.
‘Here?’ the cart master called, gesturing to the forest. ‘The cottage has become a spectacle for some. I did pass it on my way.’
Even in the dark of the night, the path before them brought unpleasantness.
Foremost in his mind was his leaving for employment at the castle, which had been secured by his father and resulted in considerable gossip.
His childhood brought about nothing but shame, his schooling having been worse than Béchard’s shenanigans.
His peers had no ambition to speak of, owing to their poorness of living, and entertained themselves through man’s ancient pastime, the torture of the weakest. Due to his father’s foreignness and his own unique circumstance, he had been the delight of his fellows.
‘Dermot?’ Aubrey said, voice so sweet and altogether innocent that any man would’ve mistaken him for a girl.
‘Yes,’ Dermot said, cursing his memories. Now this merchant, trader in all things, knew his name. ‘This is the place. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ the cart master said. ‘Out now, the both of you. I’ve a boat in the morning.’
Lethargic and uncomfortable, Dermot stumbled down. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, uncaring for how they’d look in the light. His mother would know him well enough.
Seeing Aubrey hesitate, Dermot grasped his hips again, using the last of his strength to pull him from the cart.
The merchant, thinking them husband and wife, could say nothing in protest. How pleasant it must’ve been to exist without fear of provoking violence, simply to kiss Aubrey’s cheek and not suffer a hanging.
‘Dermot?’ Aubrey murmured. The wind was so strong that it teased his veil, revealing the beauty underneath. They stood together in the dark, the cart master having departed what must’ve been a few minutes ago.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dermot said, conscious that Aubrey endured more than he.
For all his efforts to free them, they stood outside what rightly should’ve been called the underworld, brimming with souls wandering to-and-fro without destination.
Their education left them ill-equipped to question the intense labour that made up their days.
‘Don’t apologise,’ Aubrey said. ‘It’s not as though I wanted to stay.’
He could not safely discern Aubrey’s expression, but his words were enough. The company of the jailer, his own brother, must’ve been a worse torment than this.
‘I will take you to my home,’ Dermot said. Never had he imagined such words gracing his lips, a pretty young man being in his company. But no great lust spurred him. Robert’s pursuit was as inevitable as daybreak, and the rest of the castle would follow as swiftly as the dirt beneath his heel.
Dermot strained to move his body. Tall and cumbersome as he was, he did not have the strength to enter.
Aubrey was all that urged him forward; the aristocrat stolen from his own bed.
Perhaps he would’ve faced the elements alone and borne the consequences, but he would not have Aubrey catching chill.
The road itself was muddy. Dermot’s insides twisted, each miserable fleshy piece of him coiling together as he discerned footprints.
He simply wanted to see his mother and flee, but with that came the inevitably of discovery.
The phantoms of his childhood lurked here still, the boys who tormented him so.
Never would he forget their sharp eyes, nor the smirks upon their lips.
Drawing closer, daring not look at the direction he’d taken with the hunting party, Dermot startled at what must’ve been the beating of rainwater upon a leaf.
His shoes squelched in a blend of water, mud, and filth as he hurried forward.
Even the trees he imagined recognising him, having been separated for so long.
‘Which is your mother’s?’ Aubrey said.
He needed no direction. Their dwellings, if they could be given so lofty a title, were strewn about without much forethought.
Made for friends and neighbours, homes were sturdy enough to weather most storms, though their rooves were made of straw and the walls of simple stone.
With what little resources they had, the results were better than homes in town intended to accommodate workers.
His mother’s house was of a sturdier make due to his father’s concern for them in winter.
Even the boys who teased him had been too cowed to throw muck at it, owing to the fable of Dermot’s father, a mainlander who might one day return to collect his son. This, of course, had not transpired.
‘Here,’ Dermot said. He yearned to wrap his arms around Aubrey as though they were truly espoused, that his mother might readily accept he had won a diamond while the rest of the men contented themselves with lesser prizes.
There was no telling what she might say to them now, especially after the performance in the courtroom.
He didn’t dare knock on the door, instead going to the window. This was situated in the room reserved for his mother, having been commissioned by his father. They were the only family with a window of proper glass.
He tapped on it for a moment before his knuckles rapped with more force. He did not know what his mother would think, but this meeting, perhaps their last, was something he owed her.
Darting back to where Aubrey stood, he eyed the door with apprehension. He did not wish for a lecture, to be treated like a man newly come of age. When footsteps thundered closer, he instinctively leaned towards the boy, brushing their fingers together.
As the locks his father installed unbolted, only the sharp spasming of his chest could be felt. His heart twisted and unfurled in tandem with every beat, palms sweating as he made a grab for Aubrey’s hand to feel cool flesh against his own.
‘Dermot!’ Breesha said, shouting before sense calmed her. ‘What on earth are you doing? Get inside, and who’s this?’
Daring say nothing until they were safely indoors, Dermot squoze Aubrey’s hand and led him into their home. The pleasant chill was too soothing to part with.
‘Mother,’ Dermot began, the door having shut soundly behind them. Breesha had run to place a candle on the mantlepiece. This task was all that she did with care; fearful of a fire.
‘You’ve nerve saying that! Where was love for your neighbours when you sent poor Aunt Kinnish to her grave?
No, don’t think I’m ignorant of that! And poor little Colyn as well.
I don’t suppose you remember seeing him as a babe, that you held him in your own arms.’ Breesha’s black, coarse hair fanned about her in wisps.
She was a woman of great size and strength.
Much had been said about their family, his mother being of such a make and disposition, and himself having no father.